“Alright, that gives me something to look forward to,” I tell her. Shit, this case better be wrapped up by then, I rub the back of my neck. “You've only really met Isabella, so we should get our head in the game before you meet the rest of ‘em.”
“Hmmm, like we had to do before our failed attempt at dealing with our parent’s perspective issues last month? Which by the way turned out to be the same problem,” her tone is full of laughter. “Sheesh, I’m never returning to that restaurant.”
“You and me both,” I say in jest, as a few uniform cops walk into the locker room.
There are orders being shouted in the background for various types of cupcakes. Reese takes a deep breath, “Alright, Evan. Look, I think we should…” Her voice trails off. “It’s getting busy, gotta go.”
We hang up, and I exit the locker room.
As I'm sliding the phone into the silk lining of my suit, the captain’s head pops out of his office. He eyeballs me, then slams the door.
I cock my head for Tyrone to get up from his desk.
“Nope, you're big boss, bro,” he shakes his head, chuckling under his breath. As I start around the desks to our captain’s office, my partner hightails it out of his seat and he jogs into the office in the nick of time.
The instant the door meets its frame, Raynor points and shouts, “You, and you, have everyone that is somebody in Los Angeles eye fucking us under a magnifying glass, waiting for another incident. Dumb and Dumber, keep this shit up and I can't save your sorry asses. You all are gonna have to screw the mayor and that little redheaded bitch...”
“I think I've got the hot, redheaded DA covered,” Tyrone laughs. “Evan, you handle the mayor. He’ll be more agreeable with your wavy hair.”
“Knock it off.” He points to Tyrone. “That little fucker Cooper is dead. Two of our very own are dead! We don't have shit!”
“Cooper?” I inquire through gritted teeth. It was nothing short of a miracle to learn that Derek Cooper hadn’t died in the shootout. He was barely breathing when Emergency Medics finally got onto the scene. His surviving was also a bit of information not given to the press.
I still don't know what the Russians wanted with Derek Cooper. Their connection to Riker and his band of redneck idiots is beyond me.
The Russians and guys like Riker only have one thing in common, alcohol. Riker and his guys cook meth, they own a bunch of dive bars to legitimize their business. The Russians are a more cultured group, and that's saying a lot. Most of their smuggled alcohol becomes the ultra-rich’s bragging right. But the two can coexist because bars like Riker’s only sell cheap, non-Russian shit. And the Russians don't dabble in meth.
“The warden just gave me the call,” the Captain huffs. “Cooper got iced by a big motherfucker named—”
“Something Russian,” Tyron scoffs.
“Winner, winner chicken dinner. The bastard who snuck his seven-foot, crazy-ass into the highly guarded infirmary’s name is Popov.”
“Who is he representing?” Tyrone asks.
“Everyone and no one.” Raynor sighs, pulling his flask from his side drawer. He uncaps it and places it to his lips before taking a large swig. “Popov was representing the entire Soviet Union as far as we know. Popov was a war dog, in it for the money.”
“And being that capital is the almighty persuasion, there’s no way to pinpoint who funded this,” I conclude.
“Yup, no amount of encouragement,” Raynor annunciates every syllable, ideas of torture flash before his eyes, “will amount to shit. Popov ain’t talking.”
I rub the back of my neck. Cooper was one of Riker’s flunkies. Not high enough on the totem pole to even put the energy into swatting like a fly. Why would Popov go through so much stress to shank a nobody?
“We've gone over this a gazillion times now, Evan. All the cops on the beat have their eyes peeled for Riker and his bicycle club,” Tyrone shakes his head. The day Reese came into my life, Riker has been MIA. I’ve been on thin ice for intervening before the meth deal. “And now we've added these motherfucking Russians to the equation.” Tyrone rubs at his temples.
“Let’s go meet Popov,” I say optimistically. Though the outcome is clear as the Monopoly game “Don’t pass GO.”
17
Reese
18
As soon as there was a knock on the door, I hightailed it from my bedroom like I'd just escaped the State pen. Down the tiny hallway, hands over my ears to cut down on Lolita's incessant screaming and crying. I opened the front door of my one-bedroom apartment so harshly it almost fell from the already loose hinges.
Jamie was dressed to kill in all red. A tube top, suede shorts so short that his shiny, dark-chocolate legs looked a mile long. He had a shiny gift bag in his hand with red and pink hearts; the words scrolled on the side had an “I love you” cutesy punch line.
I grabbed his other hand. “Come in before the neighbors call the police!”
“No, come outside,” he tried to argue as I yanked him into the dim, dank living room and shut the door.
Jamie's shimmery, smoky eyes glared down the hall to the bathroom, then to the mound of clothing and expensive luggage crowding the four-by-four I call a living room and back to me.
“So she moved in?” He simpered, speaking over the sound of my mother’s incoherent shouting.
“It's just short-term,” I shot back, heading toward my bedroom. Once we got inside, he slammed the door.
“Sheesh, you guys wanna get me fucking evicted,” I snapped at him when I honestly wanted to kick my mom out. It's my second year in college. I should have stayed at the dorms one more year; instead I opted for a cheap one-bedroom apartment.
“Honey, are you motherfucking addicted to the pain?” Jamie asked, hands
