Shattered Glass(33)

“Did it even take convincing to represent him, Dad, or did he just have to mention I was on the case?” I sat down across from Desmond Glass, propping up an elbow and dropping a cheek onto my fist.

“My client mentioned you were working the case. It had no bearing on the agreement to handle it. And you will address me as Mr. Glass in these proceedings.”

“Did my father neglect to tell you that he hasn’t seen me in four years and barely spoke to me before that?” I asked Alvarado. “That $1500 an hour for Desmond Glass and there was no advantage for you, was there? He doesn’t know me at all, Prick. Oh, I meant Prisc.” No, I didn’t.

“You may direct your questions to me,” Desmond Glass said, crossing his legs and resting his hands on his knee.

“Good. I wanted to tell you something really important, anyway. I was going to call, but it’s so much better in person. Your son, Mr. Glass, is a big homo.” My father’s back straightened. His eyes narrowed, and his mouth pinched closed so tightly I thought maybe he’d eaten his lips.

Now that was freeing, while also being useful. My father was speechless.

Luis took a seat next to me, flopping down some evidence files, and began rubbing the center of his forehead with his fingers. “Dios, mio,” he sighed.

While my father tried to control his hyperventilating, I tried to get a read on Alvarado. He was sitting back in his chair, tapping the ends of the arms while focusing flat brown eyes on me.

I didn’t see it. He and Peter. Peter must be right about my being superficial, because no matter how many ways I twisted it or how many angles I approached it from, Peter and Alvarado just wouldn’t come together in my head.

“This meeting is a courtesy, detectives, between the district attorney and my client. We have nothing further to discuss with you.” Good old Desmond—who now refused to acknowledge my existence in the room—directed his comment to Luis. That was okay. Something was whirring around in my brain, and I needed to continue my analysis of Alvarado to figure it out.

Alvarado wasn’t unattractive, I decided. Older than me by quite a few years. Was that Peter’s type? Big, tattooed Latin guys with cruel eyes and a tiny mouth? The exact opposite of me? Or maybe he had various types? Or he lied about finding me attractive? So which was it: Had he been lying about this guy, or lying about me?

Observing Alvarado, I noticed similarities between him and Peter. Wife beater t-shirt, baggy jeans, lots of ink, wide gauges in his ears. But Alvarado had a good thirty-to-thirty-five pounds of muscle on me. I’d guess steroids, since I couldn’t imagine he’d take the time to actually work out that much. He was a shortcut kinda guy. Which also didn’t mesh with how I viewed Peter.

Peter seemed careful—considerate in his actions. If Peter was with Alvarado, it wasn’t for any romantic reasons. All that guff about being sixteen and enamored? It was crap. Something else was up. Peter was trying to lead us off Alvarado. But why?

Alvarado slowly brought out a piece of gum and folded it in his mouth. I watched him chew, growing more unsure with every second. “You and Peter were never together,” I bluffed. His chewing halted briefly. I didn’t even need the flicker of fear in his eyes. I already knew. Peter had lied. Alvarado was exactly who we thought he was: a scumbag human trafficker with a penchant for young boys. I stood up and gathered the files. “No deals. Our informant wasn’t lying,” I said to Luis. Time to bluff some more, because I still didn’t think Terrelle Gaines had anything to do with Alvarado. If that was the case, then we needed to know where our informant had gotten his information.

My partner, familiar with my interviewing techniques, followed me to the door.

“Man, Terrelle don’t know shit. You think I would trust that pendejo to be all up in my business?”

“Quiet,” my father said, laying a hand on his client’s arm.

“Gee, Luis, that pendejo who didn’t know shit? He sure led us to a lot of evidence.”

“Items we found in your home.” Luis opened a file and began laying pictures on the table. “Passports, receipts for warehouses under the name Sambucho, Inc, a company registered under your conveniently missing wife Leila, where fourteen people who matched those passports were working as illegal day laborers. Papers that led us to Inez Castillo, Abelinda Villanueva and Guadalupe Portilla, picked up last night and this morning. Each identifies your client as the person who sold them as domestics to three wealthy couples.”

Desmond Glass didn’t even blink at the charges. He simply stared at the mirrored partition as if he knew the DA was behind it. Which he was. “Mr. Alvarado performed a misguided goodwill gesture by helping some of his fellow countrymen retain work in the US without green cards. Those three women are seeking asylum by accusing my client, and in the case of Miss Villanueva, we are prepared to offer proof that prior to coming to the US, she worked in a brothel in her hometown of Tanque. Further, he maintains his innocence with regard to how they crossed the border, but he is willing to give more information on the person responsible, as well as the locations of the children of some of those families. In return, my client requests immunity and witness protection under the purview of the FBI.” My father checked his watch. “Should the DA care to make an appearance, we could move toward that goal.”