Chapter 5
Jansen Mortimer’s week just kept getting deeper into hell.
He’d almost bailed on the party, but then his car had shit the bed, and he’d needed to get that stupid penguin statue so he could sell it and pay for repairs.
He didn’t even care what the thing was really worth—he’d trade it for the parts and labor required to get his crapwagon running again.
And he’d gotten his hands on the penguin, too. Got it out of the case and under his arm, but everything was slippery because of the sprinklers, and then that plainclothes lady cop had tackled him. The penguin—which wasn’t supposed to be that fragile, was it?—had broken.
So had, he was pretty sure, his right arm.
When he’d hit the floor, he’d landed weird on his elbow, and something had moved in a way it definitely shouldn’t have.
Something had crunched. Then there’d been so fucking much pain, which had only gotten worse when the pigs had cuffed him roughly.
At least the sprinklers had soaked him from head to toe, so no one had actually seen the tears streaming down his face.
Though the screams probably gave him away.
Manliest moment of his life, right there. Fuck.
Now he was in this jail cell where he’d been all goddamned night.
They’d tried to grill him, but he’d refused to say anything except “I need a hospital,” “I’m not talking without a lawyer,” and “I’m not talking until I’m in a hospital with my lawyer.
” He’d been so done with their bullshit and in so much pain, he’d actually started singing those answers in varying keys and melodies.
Eventually, they’d gotten tired of him, booked him, tossed him in here, and that was all she wrote.
He’d told four different people that he needed to have a doctor look at his arm. He’d begged the last one. “Look at the way it’s swollen! Can I at least go get it X-rayed to make sure it’s not broken?” Because he was pretty sure it was broken.
The response to that had been that if he left this jail, it would be to go to Rikers, where he would “forget all about how bad your arm hurts.”
He’d stopped asking after that. It hurt like a motherfucker, but he’d been to Rikers Island twice before and he wasn’t going back. Nooo way. His best hope was that when he finally got to see his lawyer, she’d raise hell and get him to a hospital.
Lying on the hard cot, he stared up at the dingy beige ceiling.
He was cradling his arm across his stomach, but it didn’t help much.
Between the cold and the pain, he hadn’t slept at all.
The noise (metal, concrete, and angry men didn’t exactly create white noise) hadn’t helped, and now he was on the brink of hallucinating.
Maybe if I pass out, they’ll send me to a hospital?
Or they’ll let me die. Yeah. They’ll probably let me die.
Everyone in his circle knew people who’d died in jail cells because the cops and guards just didn’t care. A broken arm wasn’t life-threatening, but if they let it get infected or something…
Jansen exhaled and closed his eyes.
Should’ve just done a GoFundMe to pay for the car.
The lock on his door clanged so loud it sent bolts of pain through his exhausted, throbbing head. As he forced his eyelids apart, the door swung open, and a barrel-chested guard stepped in.
“Get up, Mortimer. Your attorney’s waiting.”
Thank fuck.
With a tired, pained groan, Jansen rolled to his feet, carefully protecting his arm as he moved.
As soon as he was upright, he was so dizzy he had to sit down again.
Christ, when was the last time he’d eaten?
Not that he thought he’d be able to eat now; anything he forced down was coming right back up with reinforcements.
“C’mon.” The guard grabbed his upper arm. “Let’s go.” He hauled Jansen back to his feet, and the pain shooting through Jansen’s arm almost made him puke.
“Fuck! My arm!”
“Yeah, yeah. Hands behind your back.”
“Behind my—” Jansen stared plaintively at the guard, then nodded down at his arm, which was black and blue and swollen. “Dude. Really?”
“You want to see your attorney or not?”
“I do, but I can’t move my arm.”
“You moved it enough to get in here last night.” The guard manhandled Jansen around. “You can move it again now.”
He yanked Jansen’s good arm back, causing him to lose his grip on the injured one. Jansen cried out, not the least bit ashamed by how pathetic he sounded. “Fuck!”
“Uh, Max?” Another guard appeared in the doorway. “Let’s not get the city sued again, all right?” He gestured at Jansen. “He’s not a violent suspect. Just cuff him in the front.”
The guard named Max grunted his displeasure but did what he was told. It still hurt—the cuff barely made it around Jansen’s puffy wrist—but it was better than trying to put his hands behind his back.
Then he was frog-marched down a few beige-painted hallways, past what seemed like dozens of cells just like his.
They turned him down another hallway that was so normal—cheap linoleum floors, generic posters and safety information on bare brick walls—it was jarring after almost twenty-four hours of beige, beige, beige.
At one of many doors, they stopped, opened it, pushed him inside, and—
Oh, for shit’s sake. Really? Really? He was already neck deep in a bullshit carnival of fuckery, and now he had to meet with him?
As the guards uncuffed him, Jansen opened his mouth to announce that, uh, no, that was not his attorney, but the man in the tailored suit spoke over him.
“Thank you, gentlemen. It’s about damned time.
” He shoved a card into Jansen’s good hand, then did a double take.
Glaring at the guards, he pointed at the bruised arm.
“What the fuck is this? Can you not see that this man’s arm is broken?
What the actual fuck?” He flailed a hand at the door.
“Go get him some paramedics, get me a supervisor, and while you’re at it, call the city’s attorney, because New York is about to be hit with the mother of all multimillion dollar lawsuits.
What is wrong with you piss-poor excuses for people? ”
He kept screaming at the guards, who were slack-jawed and wide-eyed as if they had no idea what to make of the attorney losing his shit at them.
Taking advantage of everyone else’s distraction. Jansen discreetly looked down at the card. It was an attorney’s business card, but on the back, someone—likely the man in front of him—had handwritten:
Play along. Don’t be a dumbass.
He almost snorted. Yeah, that was on-brand. Cole Dalton didn’t suffer fools, was anything but a team player, and would absolutely walk out if Jansen didn’t toe this bizarre line.
Then again, Jansen could tell the guards that Cole had been at the party, too, and that he was probably a suspect in numerous high-profile thefts. Then Cole could stay in a beige-coated cell, where he’d be apoplectic over being forced into thin, scratchy scrubs.
He was, however, currently reaming out the guards over the state of Jansen’s arm, and the guards seemed to be trying to calm him down and assure him they’d get the paramedics right away. So… fine. Maybe Jansen could cut Cole a little slack. Today. Just this once. For a minute.
As the guards backed out of the room, Cole barked, “There’d better be EMTs knocking on this door within ten goddamned minutes, or so help me—”
“You got it, sir. We’re calling them right now.”
“I should hope so.” Cole slammed the door in their faces, which Jansen had to admit was satisfying even though he still thought Cole was a douche.
If… maybe less of a douche than two minutes ago.
The douche in question faced him. “We don’t have a lot of time, so let’s get down to business, shall we?”
Before Jansen could answer, Cole reached into the pocket of his suit and produced a vape pen, which he handed over. Jansen stared at it for a moment.
Cole huffed sharply. “If you don’t want it, just say—”
“I didn’t say that.” Jansen snatched the vape pen away. It had a cartridge locked and loaded already, too. And it was even spearmint, Jansen’s favorite.
He was already going to owe Cole a hell of a lot for this, and the vape pen and spearmint cartridge were only adding to that debt, but whatever. He hadn’t had a vape since before the party and he’d had a rough fucking night.
Just put it on my tab, he thought as he put the pen in his mouth.
“Let’s sit down.” Cole moved to one of the chairs in the room and sat. He gestured at the other.
Jansen was wary, but he accepted the seat. His whole body was sore from getting tackled and then not sleeping, so this felt a lot better than standing. It even seemed to make his arm hurt infinitesimally less.
This wasn’t an interrogation room like the cop shows always showed. No two-way mirror. No table between them. Fairly comfortable swivel chairs. He didn’t see any cameras, but that didn’t mean they were unmonitored.
As he blew out a cloud of vapor, Jansen eyed Cole. “So what the fuck do you want?”
Cole blinked, then laughed. “I’ve got someone coming to look at that arm, and you’re going to get spicy with me? All right, then.”
Jansen kept his glare fixed on the rich fuckwad.
“You wouldn’t be here, and you wouldn’t be asking anyone to do shit about my arm, unless you wanted something.
So let’s just cut to the chase and get to the part where you tell me what you want.
” He smirked. “Or did you just want to bend my ear about cubism?”
The groan and the eyeroll were even more satisfying than when Cole had slammed the door in the faces of the guards. He fixed his glare on Jansen and hardened his voice. “Listen, if you want to stay here and let your arm hurt while you wait for your rescheduled arraignment…”
Jansen’s smirk dropped. “What do you mean, ‘rescheduled’? I thought it was this afternoon.”
“It was.” Cole grinned. “But your attorney requested a delay because, gosh, somehow everyone at the firm is unavailable today. Besides me, anyway.”