Nurse Jackson interrupted Peter this time. “Here you are,” she announced, handing me a pair of green scrubs, slippers stacked on top. The cost of both combined could be around $.50, but I had a feeling my bill would move the decimal two places to the right. Good thing cops had decent health insurance. Which only served to remind me, I was probably going to be out of work longer than the week’s suspension.
“How long did he say for these stitches?”
“Seven-to-ten days,” Peter and Nurse Jackson said simultaneously.
Shit.
“No showers for 48 hours, officer,” the nurse added as I toed off my bloody sneakers. “Unless you can tape a plastic watertight seal over the stitches.” The clunk of my sneakers hitting the ground was like a cue at the end of a joke.
A trail of darkened blood caked my ass from cheek to foot, and soot speckled like mold across the rest of my body. The only clean spaces were where the cat claws had ravaged it and the attendants had cleaned around each gash. I leveraged to get a better view. The doctor had warned me to be careful while I was numb, but I hadn’t expected to only feel the slight tug of flesh as I sat up, gingerly leaning to one side. Looking down at my filthy legs and chest, I could only imagine the fun of sponge baths.
“We’ll help him,” Peter assured Nurse Jackson, smirking at me when I raised brows at him.
“He’s lucky to have a brother like you,” she said with a gentle hand on Peter’s shoulder. I choked out a noise that sounded remotely like Jeffrey the Tailor.
“Yes, ma’am.” Peter grinned.
Little shit.
“You’re ready to go, officer. An orderly will be by in a few minutes to wheel you outside. Oh, and before I forget, there’s another officer here to take your statement.”
“Thanks,” I said, thinking decidedly non-brotherly thoughts about Peter.
The nurse exited, leaving the curtains trembling in her wake.
“Who’s ‘we’, Peter? Because that better be me and you, and not me, you and Darryl. Or me, you and Rosa. Or me, you and anyone. If I wanted that many people to see my ass, I’d become a wh— stripper.”
At the correction of my language, Peter’s smile became one of those moments that threatened to stop my heart.
“Turn around so I can get dressed,” I said, twirling a finger at the ground.
“No.”
“No?”
“You’re going to need help.”
He was right, but I was still suspicious. I was right to be. The scrubs took longer than necessary to put on, mostly because Peter kept breathing onto my skin when he had to lean forward to tug up my pants or when he assisted in lifting my hips. At one point I would have sworn to almighty God that he blew into my ear. I nearly fell off the table.
Fucker.
I had to meet the officer taking my statement with a raging boner. And wearing scrubs.
With no underwear.
When I was stopped by an officer Briggs, I succinctly told him the story from when I entered the building until the ambulance took me away. I made sure to mention the strong odor of turpentine, which I was certain had something to do with my dizziness. Peter waited for a few minutes, listening in stoic silence, then exited to retrieve the Jag. Neither of us told the officer that Peter was the homeowner. Maybe he just wanted to get home. Or maybe he didn’t care about Joe’s house. Or maybe neither of us trusted the police not to arrest him.
Briggs asked a few pertinent questions, fishing for information that I had anything to do with the fire. Satisfied with my responses, he left me his card and then left me longing for my badge and gun as he radioed in. I wheeled past him, feeling a little sorry for myself.
Hump Day Goes Down in Flames
Standing outside the hospital doors, waiting for Peter to pull my car around—the car no one but me was supposed to drive—I filled in the time by calling Luis. It was better than thinking about someone else handling my baby and one true love, Arturo.
“Happy Hump Day, Luis.” I grinned. His slow sigh was music to my ears.
“The whore staying with you?”
“Peter,” I corrected defensively. “His name is Peter.”
“Is Peter staying with you?”
“Not even a, ‘Happy Hump Day’?”
“Can it, Glass. This is important.”
Luis’s tone narrowed my eyes at the ambulance bay, my smile twitching downward. “Yeah, he’s staying with me. What’s up?”
“Was he there last night?”
“Yeah, all night until I left at five-thirty-ish this morning. Going to tell me what this is about?”
“There as in, you saw him, or there as in he was around?”
“First time you’ve questioned my honesty, Luis,” I said quietly. My Jag pulled up, and I held a finger up for Peter to wait, turning my back on the car.
“Not questioning your truthfulness,” Luis said after a few seconds. “Your judgment, but not your honesty, Glass. Now did you see him or not?”
“Give me a time frame.”
“Three to three thirty.”
“He came up to bed at twenty after three,” I said, squinting in remembrance. “And he was still there when I woke up again at four, and after I took a shower. I’m guessing his brother and Darryl will vouch for him before that.”
“A murder suspect and another whore?” Luis huffed. “What about the other one? Darryl.”
“Ask the two cars of feds outside my house if either of them left. Black SUVs, no shame and no technique.”
“You’re under surveillance?”
“Their witness is under surveillance,” I said. “Protection most likely. Now will you tell me what happened.”
“The diner’s toast. Five injured. Fire started in the kitchen. Alarms were disabled.”
I silently tumbled this information around. “Ask me why I called you, Luis,” I said, pondering how I was going to tell Peter this news.
“Your place in flames?”
“Joe’s house,” I corrected his guess, and then told him what happened.
“Fire alarms disabled there, too?” he asked.
“Until you mentioned it, I didn’t even think about it, but, yeah.”
“Same doer. He hits the diner first, house next.”
“Couldn’t get to my house past the feds,” I speculated.
“Or didn’t know they were all there.”
“Or that,” I agreed. “But the feds weren’t trying to hide their presence. Maybe the fire starter wasn’t after the kids. Maybe the doer was after someone else. Any of the injured names released to the press?”
“Not yet.”
“Maybe our fire starter was after something else?”
Luis grunted. “Get that kid here to look over the evidence.”
Looking down at the disaster that was me, I sighed. “Give us fifteen minutes.”
Driving While Intoxicated
Sliding into the passenger seat was an adjustment in attitude. Immediately, I went for the steering wheel and bit back a curse when my hands came up empty.
“Buckle up,” Peter ordered. He waited to pull out until I had complied.
“Head to the station downtown. The big building on 14th.”
“Police plaza?” He frowned and swerved off the road, parking the car near a stop sign. “You need to take a shower and get into bed.”
“You can get me into bed later. Right now, we need to look over that evidence box.”
“You want Darryl there, too? He looked through most of the stuff.”
“Is he at home?”
Peter’s smile killed me. “Yes. He’s home.”
“Was he last night?”
“Sure.” Peter answered. “I carried him to bed before coming up to you. Why?”
“He was drunk?”
“Asleep. He takes Ambien and Benadryl because of his weird shifts at the club. Doubled the dose last night because he hadn’t slept since Cai got arrested.” Peter tapped the steering wheel. It was so like what
I did when my mind was buzzing, I had to check his face. A miniscule wrinkling of his lips as they pressed white was my only clue that he was puzzling things together. “Why? Did someone get murdered?”
“Why would you say that?”
“Don’t do your fucking interrogation thing on me.”
“I wasn’t.” Yes, I was. “The diner’s gone.”
“Another fire?” His fingers gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles blanched.
“I’m sorry.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
“Yes. We need to drive. Now, Peter.”
“Fine. To the restaurant.”
“No. We get Darryl and then to the police station. You both need to interview with Luis and stay out of the way of the cops at the scene.”
“My friends are there.” It was the second time I’d heard a tremble in his voice.
“Peter, you can’t help them. All you’ll accomplish is getting in the way, or getting questioned under suspicion of arson for the insurance.”
“I was with you.”
“Darryl wasn’t, and I didn’t see you for part of the evening.”
“He needs a lawyer.” The white knuckle grip threatened to break his fingers, I put a hand over his, gently prying them away.
“Peter, you need a lawyer.” The way I was positioned, angled off my stitches, prohibited leaning across, but I wanted to grab him and shake him senseless. “Get out so I can drive.”
“You can’t sit properly,” he argued.
“Then get moving.” He pulled onto the road and took my hand.
I picked up the phone, intoxicated by the way his hand stayed in mine, shifted gears and returned to lace our fingers together. As awkward as it was to speak into the cell and hold his hand, I refused to move it after I’d dialed.
My Father, The Philandering Asshole
I didn’t miss the way Peter looked at me when I asked to speak to Desmond Glass.
“Whom shall I say is calling,” Nina, my father’s assistant with bigger boobs than brains, asked.
“Who shall I say is calling,” I corrected spitefully.
“That’s what I asked,” she replied, wheezing her squeaky voice into my ear.
Oh, Lord.
“Nina, tell my fucking father I’m on the fucking phone or I’ll fucking wring your fucking gold-digging neck.” The fact that she had slept with me behind my father’s back may have played a part in my assholeness.
Unsurprisingly, she hung up on me. “Cheating, conniving, dumb, stupid, bitch!”
I took a deep breath and redialed. “You need a lesson about how to treat women,” Peter said.
“Nina, please put my father on the phone.” I smiled at Peter with teeth clenched so tight, plaque could crumble off.
“I’ll see if he’s in.”
I knew damn well he was in, I could hear his cigar humidifier. Which meant the cow was in his office. Most likely under his desk giving him a blow job. This bothered me why? I wouldn’t have recognize my mother if she gave me a blow job. Why should I care if my father banged his dumb secretary?
“It’s your son,” Nina whispered loud enough to shatter glass.
“Austin?” My father said into the receiver. Not ‘son’. Not ‘boy’ as his father referred to me. Just Austin, the client. I heard papers shuffling and a thump. What I imagined was dipshit Nina bumping her head as she tried to stand under the desk. I wished it had been her skull cracking against my father’s nuts.
“You have more than one son?” The silence and measured breath wasn’t something I thought about at the time. Later I’d put it together. But now, I was too focused on Peter’s hand in mine, his thumb tracing circles over my skin. “Your clients are about to be interrogated downtown.”
“Are they in custody?”
“No. They’re coming in voluntarily, at my request.”
“I’ll need a few hours to wrap things up here.”
“You mean unwrap Nina’s mouth from your cock,” I snapped.
“Don’t be crass, boy.” Ah, there it was. The earth was back in its orbit now. I bit back an automatic apology.
Even after all these years bile rose up at the mere thought of apologizing to my father. “Meet us at the downtown station in two hours.”
“Very well. Have them call the office immediately.” He hung up without so much as a goodbye.
“Asshole,” I muttered and laid my cell on the dashboard.
It didn’t take long to reach the house. Seconds after I hung up, Peter hit the brakes at the mouth of the alley. “I should warn you, there’s reporters everywhere.”
Fuck.
“They better not be in my fucking parking spot.”
He drove on, flipping the visor down as various types of cameras and video equipment were shoved near the windows.
“Detective, is Nikolaj Stakosha innocent?”
“Detective Glass, has he told you how he murdered Nikki the Nail?”
The shouts were muffled through the glass. I ignored them and gently grabbed Peter’s arm as he crawled the car past them. “Listen, don’t respond to any of them. Not ‘no comment’. Not ‘yes’, not ‘no’. Don’t even move your head in affirmation or denial.”
He turned the car off and looked around, then calmly met my eyes. “Okay.”
“Whatever they ask, you don’t say a word. Whatever I say, you don’t repeat, don’t agree or disagree, just walk past them. Some of the more unscrupulous reporters will not hesitate to edit your nod or comment, attaching it to a different question.”
“Okay.”
“Keep your eyes on the ground.”
“Okay,” he sighed.
When we climbed out of the car, we were swarmed. I pushed Peter ahead of me as questions accompanied the jam of microphones and cameras at our mouths.
The last thing I needed was to alienate the press. With my job on shaky ground and my fellow officers cursing my face, I wanted allies, not enemies. So, although I wanted to scream at them to get off my lawn, waving a cane and smacking my lips; as coolly as possible, I closed the gate behind us.
At least with the press here, an arsonist wouldn’t have a chance at my house.
Would It Be Okay If I Stomped My Foot Until Someone Let Me Fucking Shower?
My living room smelled of herbs and garlic. A lot of garlic. The aroma was overwhelming all other senses. It didn’t help that it was nearly noon and I had only eaten that cinnamon roll hours earlier. The way my stomach rumbled in appreciation said it was more interested in food than the rest of me was. What I wanted was a shower and a change of clothes. Green scrubs were comfortable until you started smelling cinnamon and male sweat, and then they were just an embarrassing show of your manhood.
“Is it true?” Cai asked, chewing his lip and then his thumbnail.
Rosafa exited the kitchen, a kerchief tied to her hair, clothes covering all her skin. No wonder sweat beaded the exposed parts of her face. With so much going on, I forgot to ask her about Muslim propriety. Too late now. “It is all on fire?”
“We can talk more later. Right now we have to get downtown. Cai, I’m sorry but the cat will have to wait. It escaped and is probably at the pound.”
“Are you okay?” He asked, wide grey eyes taking in my appearance.
“Yeah, kid.” I grinned at him, watching the relief roll out of his shoulders with a breathy laugh.
“I go get the cat,” Rosafa offered. “There is casserole here. You need to eat.”
“I will, when I get back,” I promised. “Really we’ll talk and eat when we get back. Both of you need to stay inside. Don’t talk to the press and don’t let anyone but the police or fire department inside the house.”
“Cai, I’ll get Begone,” Peter said, ruffling his brother’s hair as I had wanted to do hours ago. “Do what he says.”
“Where’s Darryl?”
Peter turned from the kitchen and looked around, as if my question had just reminded him that our party was missing one person. “
Probably still sleeping.”
“No, he went to the hospital,” Rosa informed us. “He said your friend is hurt.”
“It’s Tilda, Rabbit. Darryl saw her on the news,” Cai pointed at my muted TV as all of our heads swiveled to the screen. The news had changed, obviously, but tickers paraded at the bottom announcing the injury count had risen from five to seven. Peter immediately picked up his phone to start texting.
“I need to shower. Badly. Tell Darryl to get here,” I ordered and climbed the stairs, suddenly aware of the sharp pain in my ass, and not at all from what a few days ago I’d assumed would be its cause.
Peter’s Trick
Because of the wounds, I had washed my hair in the sink and was now sponging off the dirt away from the shower’s spray, turning off the water between rinses. Peter’s conversation filled in the quiet spaces.
“Flowers… Tilda loves daffodils… No one else we know?…We can come get you… We don’t have the money to—… He said we could stay here… I don’t know how long. Days maybe? Enough time to get some cash together… Insurance is going to whoever got hurt, Dare. Just set up another gig.”
Doubtful Peter knew that I could hear him speaking on the phone through the bathroom door. Or maybe he didn’t care. But the conversation was battering my already bruised spirit, and I wished I weren’t hearing it.
“Then set up a private one if Kevin thinks it’s too soon. We need the cash!” His whispered hiss slid under the door and sucked the air from the room. My forehead pressed against the tile.
The sponge in my hand released a gush of water meant for a final rinse, but in the heated squeeze of my fist, it drained out unused. I drowned out the rest of the conversation by keeping the shower at full blast and standing out of the jets as I sponged myself clean.
Once finished, I toweled off and harkened back to my discussion with Peter at the hospital. I was trying to find the place where I had incorrectly concluded Peter and I had reached an understanding about us. How could I have been so wrong?
It also reminded me about what he was going to say. Maybe the clue to what had been going on in his head was in the statement the nurse had interrupted: “We could try—”
Shattered Glass Page 25
