Grievous (Scarlet Scars #2)(10)

It’s just fucked.

“She had a file on me, you know. Scarlet.”

Seven’s eyes widen.

“She swiped it from a detective’s office. Gabriel Jones. You know him?”

Seven makes a face. “Unfortunately.”

“Any chance he could be our Senator Palpatine?”

“Who?”

Sighing, I stand up, taking off my glasses and setting them on the table. “I’m only giving you a pass on that because of the prequels, but if you tell me you’ve never seen Empire Strikes Back, I’m shooting you in the face.”

“Seen it a few times.”

“Good, now come on,” I say, pulling my keys from my pocket and tossing them to Seven. “We’re gonna have us a little rendezvous with our little Sith detective this morning.”



“I’m not sure this is a good idea, boss.”

Those are the first words out of Seven’s mouth when we step foot into the precinct down near Coney Island. I sort of expected it, though, being who he is. He’s more uncomfortable here than at a strip club, and that’s saying something, since the man has an aversion to any naked woman that isn’t his wife. Allergic to unfamiliar pussy.

“You can wait in the car,” I tell him. “Won’t hold it against you.”

“I’m fine,” he says. “Just letting it be known so when things go haywire you can’t blame me.”

“Oh, I can still blame you. Probably will, too.”

He shakes his head, stepping by me, naturally taking the lead on this since he’s all too familiar with the procedures in these places. He approaches a woman in uniform sitting behind a desk, clearing his throat before saying firmly, “We’re here to speak with Detective Gabriel Jones.”

Ohhh, his cop voice—no bullshit, no humor. I guess if we’re playing the good cop/bad cop routine, that makes me the good one. The irony...

The officer regards him warily, like she might have an idea of who he is. “Name?”

“Bruno Pratt,” he says.

Recognition flashes in her eyes.

“I’ll let him know you’re here,” she says, motioning toward the lobby. “Have a seat, someone will—”

“Don’t worry about that,” he cuts in. “I can find his office myself, no problem.”

Seven pushes away from the desk, immediately heading for a nearby elevator. The officer at the desk shoots me a look next, that all-too-familiar expression of dread washing over her as she averts her eyes.

My reputation must precede me here, too.

“Officer,” I say, nodding in greeting as I walk past the front desk, trailing Seven.

The elevator opens and we step inside. He presses the number three button.

“Third floor, huh?” I ask.

“Just a guess,” he says.

A damn lucky guess, it turns out, because we find the detective’s office in the back against the wall, blinds drawn, his name prominently displayed on the door.

“Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” I say.

“Oh, no, he’s here,” Seven says. “Should probably look away unless you wanna get an eyeful.”

“No shit?”

Seven shoots me a look that says just that: no shit.

I don’t avert my gaze, because well, I’m nosey. Besides, I’ve seen it all before. Nothing’s going to shock me. Seven grabs the door, shoving it open, a high-pitched yelp ringing out from inside as we interrupt whatever’s happening. Uh-oh.

“Whoa buddy!” I say, letting out a laugh as the detective scrambles to pull himself together. His pants are down around his ankles, damn near tripping him, his awkwardly hairy ass on display. “Might wanna shave that shit, Sasquatch.”

He’s cursing under his breath as he yanks his pants on, the woman on her knees shoving him away to stand up. Blonde, sickly skinny, which I’m guessing is courtesy of coke judging by the high-as-fuck look on her face. She flees the office, and I grimace as she rushes past me, getting a whiff of something rank.

“Christ,” I grumble, walking into the office, not awaiting an invitation since I’m probably not getting one. “I don’t even know what to say right now, detective.”

“Nothing was happening,” he says as he fumbles with his belt. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”

I drop down into a chair in front of his desk, stretching my legs out, making myself comfortable. “I sure hope not, because I thought you had better taste than that. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ve fucked my fair share of questionable women, but that’s like sticking your dick in a trash compactor.”

He glares at me. “I don’t have time for visitors today. I’m busy.”

“I saw,” I say. “You working on something for that girl? A little head, a little pussy, and what? You’ll give her case a little extra attention?”

“Sounds like him,” Seven says, still lurking in the doorway.

The detective seems to just notice Seven’s presence, a look of contempt passing across the man’s face. “Pratt.”

“Jones.”

“I see your choice of friendships hasn’t gotten any better.”

“And I see you still get your rocks off fucking with people.”