ONE #2
Now, if I didn’t watch so much TV, real life wouldn’t be so disappointing.
As it was, I was expecting the interrogation room from Law his pale, muscular, tatted-up, sort of Eastern European-looking partner; and the two others who looked like poster boys for the Marine Corps—all of them were nicer than Detective Kage.
I wanted anyone else but him in the room with me, even though, again, stunning man.
Even his eyes, this perfect blend of blue and gray, were mesmerizing.
“Mr. Keyes, you—”
“What kind of gun is that?” I asked, pointing to his holster.
“What?”
How was he not hearing me? “What kind of gun is that?”
“Why?”
I shrugged. “I was just wondering.”
“It’s a Glock twenty-two.”
“Okay.” I yawned before letting out a deep sigh. That exchange had maybe killed a second and a half. What was next on the agenda?
“Tell me about yourself, Mr. Keyes.”
I looked back at him. “Whaddya wanna know?”
“Where are you from?”
“Kentucky,” I said flatly, because I usually said LA or Miami just to make it sound more glamorous, but I figured he was looking for the truth, being a police officer and all.
“How long have you been in Chicago?”
“I moved here when I was seventeen.”
“You run away from home?”
“Nope. I graduated from high school when I was seventeen. See, my birthday’s in January, so I started school at four instead of—”
“Can we move on?”
Rude much?
“Well?” he barked at me.
“Rude much?” I said it out loud that time instead of just thinking it in my head.
“Sorry. Go on.”
“Never mind,” I snapped at him. I hated getting caught rambling on to people who didn’t give a crap. It was mortifying.
“Just talk already. Sorry for interrupting.”
He wasn’t sorry one bit, but I figured if I was waiting for actual sincerity, I’d be waiting for the Rapture. I was better off just letting it go. What did it matter to me whether he cared or didn’t?
“Okay, so I got here and got a job, and I’ve been here ever since.”
“Uh-huh. So, what, your family’s still there in Kentucky?”
“No,” I breathed out. “There was only my grandmother, and she died when I was ten.”
“Where are your folks?”
“I have no idea.”
“You have no idea where your father is?”
He said it like he didn’t believe it.
“No. I don’t even know who he is. It doesn’t even say on my birth certificate, and my mother left when I was, like, three months old or something. Her name was—is Mandy, but that’s all I can tell you. She never came back, so I’ve never met her.”
“I see. So you were raised by your grandmother, and when she died, what?”
“I went into foster care.”
He looked straight at me. “Any horror stories?”
“No. I was lucky. I lived in a group home from the time I was ten to the time I graduated from high school.”
“You close to any of those people?”
“No. Why?”
“Why not?”
“I dunno. You’re acting like I have a character deficit or something.”
“Am I?”
“It was implied,” I assured him.
He grunted.
“It was a group home, Detective. It wasn’t the whole mother/father deal. It was like a dorm. I wasn’t close to anyone. They couldn’t have cared less if I was there or not.”
“Did that bother you?”
The way he was scowling at me, brows furrowed, his slate-blue eyes dark, I was not inclined to answer any more questions, no matter how alluring I found him. “Listen, I don’t need some bullshit psych eval here, all right? It was what it was; it doesn’t matter.”
He nodded. “So you graduated, and then what?”
“I bought a bus ticket from Lexington, Kentucky to Chicago, Illinois.”
“And so you got here, and then what happened?”
“Why is any of this important?”
“I just need some background, Mr. Keyes, if you don’t mind.”
Did I mind? “Okay, so I got here, had a lot of jobs the first year, then got the job I have now. I worked all through college, and when I was done, I decided to stay instead of doing something else.”
“And where do you work?”
“I work at Harcourt, Brown, and Cogan,” I stated proudly.
“From your tone, I’m assuming I’m supposed to know what that is.”
I felt myself bristle, and I knew I was the one scowling now.
“What’s with the look?”
“Are you kidding?”
“No, I’m not kidding.”
“You’re serious?”
“I just said I was.”
“Huh.”
“That sounded really fuckin’ patronizing.”
“Did it?”
“What is whatever you said?”
“Harcourt, Brown, and Cogan…is the premier architectural firm in the city.”
“Uh-huh.”
“My boss, Dane Harcourt, he’s the main architect. Miles Brown does interior design, and Sherman Cogan is the landscape architect.”
“What does main architect mean?”
“He designs residences.”
He stared at me for a long minute. “Does he?”
“Yes. He’s very famous.”
“If he’s so famous, why haven’t I ever heard of him?”
I scoffed. “I bet the people you haven’t heard of could fill a book, Detective.”
“You’re a punk, you know that?”
I smiled at him. “Particularly nice comeback, Detective.”
“So that’s it? No family, just you?”
“Just me.”
“This’ll be easy, then.”
“What will?”
“Making you disappear.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Protective custody, witness protection… Are you starting to get it?” he said, tapping his temple like I should have been paying attention.
I shook my head. “Just tell me when I can go home.”
His eyes narrowed to slits. “Are you stupid?”
I just waited, staring at him.
“Speak,” he growled at me.
“You have terrible communication skills. Are you aware?”
He ignored me. “Mr. Keyes, you are never going home again. You are going into the witness protection program. Federal marshals will be here in the morning to transport you to—”
“Yeah, right.” I got up. I was tired of being treated like I’d done something wrong. “I’m going now. I’m beat, and I gotta be at work in the morning.”
“Mr. Keyes, people want to kill you. Do you understand that? Brian Minor is very well connected and—”
“Leaving now,” I announced as I headed for the door.
“Mr. Keyes, you are going into protective custody.”
“Uh-huh,” I placated him, stopping at the door only as long as it took to open it and go through. I had tested to see if it was locked earlier. At the end of the hall, Brian was being walked to wherever he was being taken by two uniformed police officers.
“Jory!” he yelled at me. “You’re a dead man! Do you understand me? Dead!”
I smirked at him and flipped him off. He yanked free and came charging down the hall toward me.
I had no idea what he thought he was going to do to me, handcuffed like he was, but he came anyway.
He’d always been so big and brutish—one of those bull-in-a-china-shop kind of guys.
A lot of big men were still fluid when they moved, like their size was perfect for them, but Brian had always seemed unaware of how strong he was or the confines of his own shoulders and legs.
Plodding like an animal was what had forever come to mind.
So when he got to me, I crouched and swept my leg underneath him.
He went down hard, face-planting into the tile floor at my feet.
I stood there a second and then very theatrically stepped over him.
“You sonofabitch!” he shrieked at me.
“Go to hell, Brian,” I snapped irritably.
“Jory!” he screamed at me before he was buried under five officers. “I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you, you fuckin’ faggot! You hear me?! Jory! You goddamn cocksucker!”
“Really? That’s all you’ve got?” I groaned, turning to walk away from him. “And that whole faggot crap is so ninth grade. Who even uses that word anymore?”
“Jory!” he screamed after me.
“People with pickup trucks and gun racks, that’s who,” I answered my own question, my laughter sounding a little unhinged. I was ready to pass out.
“Jory!” His voice had lost some of its power, but he was still shrieking. I headed toward the stairs.
“Mr. Keyes!”