“You think he was coerced.”
Trey turned his face to the window. “I think I understand why he would not want the police involved again. After I reread the transcripts, reread Price’s reports…” He took a long time getting to the next part. “I think I agree with him.”
I tried not to sound as flabbergasted as I felt. “Really?”
“Really. Price’s OPS investigation is ongoing because there are still…problems.”
“Dirty cop problems. Even in the cops who are supposed to be watching the cops.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it, shook his head. He couldn’t even say the words. He’d been kidnapped and beaten by dirty cops. Those had been prosecuted. The ones Keesha was after still wore the badge. Knowing this ate at him like acid in the veins.
He released a deeply held breath. “What I am saying is this. This situation is more complicated now than it was three hours ago. So I understand if you can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“Continue to help me.”
I remembered the way he’d kissed me, hard and hungry. I reached over and took his hand, rubbed my thumb across his knuckles, a reminder of where we’d left off. And then I adjusted my grip on the steering wheel, turning my wrist up to reveal the tattoo there—Trey’s name. I’d inked it on my pulse point during one of the darkest times of my life to remind me of what truly mattered.
“Remember why I got this?” I said.
“Yes.”
“Good. Don’t ever forget.” I kept my eyes on the road. “I told you once, and I’ll tell you again—all in, partner. Always.”
Chapter Twenty-six
I spent Tuesday back in business, which was brisker than usual in the square. The big magnolia had no flowers this time of year, but it gave good shade, making the spot attractive to visitors even if the benches sagged and the grass was patchy. The taqueria two lots down had started to draw some of the tourist crowd, who picked up contraband Moonshine tee shirts two for twenty. The proprietors had installed a life-size prop poster of Portia, which had prompted lots of photos hashtagged with #LongLiveLuna. The storefront next to me remained vacant, though Raymond Junior across the square said he’d seen a Korean church group touring the place the week before.
Finn had called not long before closing time—she had our paperwork ready for this weekend, she’d said, though I had no idea what that meant. We were meeting her at the gym where Trey taught his women’s self-defense class. I hadn’t been in a while. I’d had lots of excuses. It was time to drop them and get back into training.
But first…I had a phone to break into.
So I called Rico, who was grumpy because he was at his IT job. He became extra grumpy when I asked him to help me crack Martinez’s passcode.
“Stop worrying,” I said. “It’s not technically illegal.”
“Whose is it?”
“This trespasser stalker type.”
“And why do you have it?”
“I confiscated it as per regulations.”
Rico laughed. “Now you sound like Trey. Except that Trey would not be violating another person’s privacy by snooping in a phone he wasn’t supposed to have.”
“You might be surprised.”
“Whatever. You got this phone in front of you?”
“I do.”
“Is it charged up and turned on?”
“Yep.”
He took me through the steps, an uncomplicated if somewhat counterintuitive process. In less than sixty seconds, the phone flashed to life, glimmering illicitly in the palm of my hand.
“That’s it?” I said.
“Yep.”
“Wow.” I swiped the screen and Martinez’s email app opened. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. And I mean that literally. I do not want to be involved in your shadiness.”
He hung up on me before I could explain. I was contemplating what to explore first when the shop phone rang. I cradled it between my ear and shoulder. “Dexter’s Guns and More.”
“Hey Tai, it’s Ray. I got a little situation over here.”
I went to the front window. Ray’s lunch crowd had petered out, though a few of the old-timers remained. It looked calm as a convent over there, but something had him spooked.
“There’s a fellow here,” he said. “Young, Mexican maybe. I mean Hispanic.”
Bless Raymond, he was trying. “Okay.”
“He’s been sitting at the table a while, looking out your way. Betsy Ann said she ain’t had no trouble out of him, except for him watching your place like a hawk. Said she’s brought him four sweet tea refills and one rib platter and he paid with a nice tip. But he’s still sitting there, nursing that drink.”
“This guy, he got a little mustache, one earring, like maybe he wants to be a pirate?”
“That’s him.”
Diego Martinez. Expanding his stalking résumé to include me. I slid my fingers into the biometric gun safe under the counter, and the lock chirped, flashed green, and opened. I stuck the phone inside and locked it back.
“I think I know what’s going on,” I said. “You care if I come through the kitchen and take a look at things? He’ll bolt if I come in the front door.”
“Is it gonna get rough?”
“I doubt it.”
He chewed on that. “A’ight. Come on, then. Betsy Ann will let you through. And I got some reinforcement under the counter, if you know what I mean.”
“It’s not gonna come to that.”
But just in case I pulled my .38 from under the register and slipped it into my carry bag. Then I made one more phone call.
My stomach growled as I pushed open the screen door. The kitchen smelled like dish soap, smoke, and a bubbling pot of Brunswick stew. Betsy Ann stopped picking the meat from a hog jowl to point into the restaurant area. I peeked through the door.
Yep. Diego Martinez in the flesh, eyes glued on my shop. He was still looking out the window, cleaning his teeth with a toothpick, when
