“I can’t live without cookies.” Peter offers that crooked grin of his and pushes off his car.
“It has been close to two weeks since the shooting. He’ll have to have bought food somewhere.”
Peter shakes his head. “If the guy is holding out in one of those houses, he could have picked one that was stocked. And if the guy is an evil mastermind, he’s not going to come out for food. He would have had it stashed before he went to the concert and revealed himself.”
We talk more, and finally get in the car again, driving up and down the highway. We talk, but it leads to nothing and it’s way past twilight. Peter slams his palms on the steering wheel and swears. There’s that Ferro temper. It’s hard to picture Peter being the guy he used to be, polar opposite of what he is now. It makes me wonder if Sean has a chance to pull his life together too.
I finally blurt out, “I can call him.”
“Who? Marty Masterson?”
“Are you stuck in teacher mode or something? Marty Masterson.” I mimic him and smile. Teasing Peter is fun. “The guy was my friend. We don’t have to use his last name.”
“There’s no way he has his phone on him.” Peter shakes his head as he drives. The water passes swiftly beneath us as we pass over the bridge.
“But I bet he has his phone forwarding to somewhere. If I call him from my phone, he’ll answer. I can find out if he has Sean.” I glance over at Peter. “What other choices do we have?”
“Where’s your phone?”
“Trystan hid it.”
Peter glances at me. “I don’t want Scott involved in this and you know if we call him, there’s no way to get rid of him.”
“I know.” I feel horrible about it, but I need the phone. “The other option is to take the job with Black and see what shakes out. If this is leverage, they have me either way.”
“You really think they’re in this together?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t see it, but you’ve spent more time around them than me. I say we try to call Marty first.”
“Let’s do it.”
Chapter 12
Tracking down Trystan isn’t hard. He’s with Jon at the club. When we get there, Trystan lets us in and waits. He acts like it’s totally normal for Peter to be here, driving me around. It’s possible that he’s mad at me, but I can’t tell. Trystan is hard to read when he’s upset. He’s so used to putting on a public mask that it hardly ever comes off. Either way, he’s got to be wondering why Peter is with me.
Peter is tense, though he tries to hide it, and Trystan is lounging in a chair like we’re on a cruise. Peter didn’t tell Trystan much, but he already figured it out. Some of the tabloids claim he’s not that bright, but Trystan hides his intelligence. It’s a card he’ll play last, when everything else has failed. In the meantime, very few people know him at all.
“So what’s the plan? Are you seriously going to let her walk into wherever they’re keeping Sean? If Black’s in on it—”
I stop and stare at him, trying to remember if I ever said her name. I can’t remember mentioning it, so how does he know her name? “Trystan!” I scold; I'm suddenly concerned Black’s reach is further than I dreamed. “Tell me you didn’t!”
“I don’t need hookers, Call Girl.”
Rolling my eyes, I place my hands on my hips and give him the evil eye. “I know you don’t need them, but did you use her services? For anything?”
He looks away and my stomach drops into my shoes. Mouth gaping, Peter intercedes. “Trystan lives here, and if he called for a high-dollar call girl, there is no one else. He would have contacted Black. The reason isn’t important right now. When’s the last time you used her services?” Peter tries to gloss over it, but I can’t stand it.
Trystan tries to get up and walk away without answering, but I catch him by the wrist. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Does it matter?” His gaze is hiding something, humiliation perhaps? His hair falls forward and Trystan leaves it covering his dark eyes.
“Yes, it matters. You’re another connection back to that awful woman. Did she tell you to buddy up to me? Tell me, Trystan, does she have your balls in a glass jar along with the balls of every other man on Long Island?” I’m in his face, hissing the words. Trystan doesn’t walk away or deny it. Instead he just stands there watching me, waiting for me to give up on him. It’s infuriating. “Stop it!” My hand swings and the slap connects with his cheek. I tremble for a second and watch him. He doesn’t fight back, which kills me.