Shattered Glass(116)

“You’re telling me,” I muttered. “Two weeks ago I was straight.” And at the height of my career. I put the spreadsheets side by side and began comparing the data.

“Is that when you decorated the house?”

My head rose and then turned to the agent. He was smiling but pretending to read. “It would be unprofessional and inappropriate to say ‘fuck you’,” I deadpanned.

“Not to mention sexually harassing.”

Since he didn’t look up, my stare went unnoticed. “Everyone’s a fucking wit lately.” I turned my attention back to the files.

Nothing on Asa’s Playground mentioned. Was I reaching? I scrolled down the list again, slower this time.

“You’re missing some numbers there,” Cordova said, peering over at my screen.

“What?”

“Scroll up a few lines. Stop.” He pointed at my screen.

I hadn’t been checking the spreadsheet line numbers, just the names. I worked backward, up the list stopping at line one thirty-nine. The next number up was one twenty-seven. “Shit.” Were those missing when I first saw the file? I gave myself a mental pat on the back for printing out the original files. Setting the laptop aside, I lifted the tarp and began searching for the papers. They weren’t there.

Maybe Cai had moved them? Or Rosa. I scoured the living room for them. Checked my office. Nothing.

Maybe Dave had taken them home to review.

And not told you about it yesterday when you mentioned them?





Oh, Yay. Peter Pissed at Someone Else For a Change

I grabbed my coffee cup and went to think in the kitchen. What was I going to do? What could I do? What should I do? Confront him? Give him time to hide the evidence? This is Dave, you’re talking about.

What did I know, anyway? Nothing for certain. Barn lager wasn’t even a common saying in Swedish. Otherwise there would have been references of the phrase all over the web. Marta would not use incorrect Swedish for her company. Would she?

Anyone could have moved the papers.

So what if Dave knew Alvarado. I knew him, too. And I wasn’t involved with his laundering.

And yesterday? He had just been nervous. Dave had been nervous about standing next to the homo who slept with a witness and whose career was only missing the final knock of the gavel before it ended.

Normally I wouldn’t question my instincts. I was good at what I did: piecing information together and seeing the error in an equation.

You’re just wrong this time.

The address was downtown—the 16th street mall, just where Peter and Darryl remembered.

Barnlager.com.

The missing pages. Dave had them in his hands. You left him here alone.

Dave has your laptop password from the fantasy football league.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

No fucking way was I turning him in. It was a selfish thought, but I couldn’t get past the fact that Dave was my last ally. My only remaining friend. The one person I could call family.

I was pacing a stripe into the kitchen floor when Darryl walked in.

“Oh, God. Please tell me you two aren’t still fighting,” he moaned. His eyes were half-masted and crusty with sleep. That didn’t stop his mocking voice. “I love you. No you don’t. I don’t love you. Yes you do. Wah wah wah. Some of us wanted to sleep!”

I wasn’t rising to the bait. Instead, I changed the subject. “You slept with Rosafa in tighty-whities and a tank top?”

“I think her virtue is safe with me.” He lifted his pink blindfold off his neck and used it as a headband. “Thank fuck there’s coffee. Who’s the stud on the sofa? I vaguely recall him as I stumbled to bed last night.”

“FBI. Rosa’s personal guard,” I said distractedly. Why hadn’t I picked up the phone already?

If Dave admitted to laundering? Trafficking? Murder? What then?

“What are you worked up about?” I followed Darryl’s sneer to my fingers drumming on the countertop.

“Nothing.”

“Why does Rosa have a security detail?” Darryl asked. I watched as he poured the last of the brown liquid into his cup. My own mug sat half-empty and mourning. “I thought she wasn’t in witness protection anymore.”

It was a valid question, but other things were on my mind. “How the fuck should I know? Ask her.”

“All right, dickwad. I will.”

The doorbell rang. Agent Cordova stood and peeked in through the archway to the kitchen. “That’s probably my partner Agent McCleary. Would you mind if I answered your door?”

“Go for it.” I wasn’t paying attention. I didn’t care who came and went in the house.

Darryl runway-walked back to the bedroom without spilling a drop of his coffee, all while somehow managing to ogle Cordova’s butt. Waterboarding wouldn’t have made me admit I was watching Darryl’s ass as he left.