The Killing Game(14)

“Are you going to the hearing?” Iris asked, drawing on a line of lip gloss with her left index finger.

“I think I’ll wait for the CliffNotes.”

“You’re not going for the friend you defended so much you quit your job?”

“That would be a yes . . . I’m not going.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You’ve never understood the finer points of why I quit.”

She thrust one fist on her hip. “Maybe you can explain it to me.”

“Doubtful,” Luke said as he climbed out of bed.

Two bright spots of color bloomed on her cheeks, little red flags of suppressed fury. “You oughta be more grateful to me for pulling you out of that bar. If you’d gotten in your car, you’d be in jail just like your good buddy, Ray.”

“I wasn’t driving. I took Uber.”

“You kissed me when we got back here,” she declared, practically in a shout.

The noise caused his head to throb. “I was drunk. I was worried about Bolchoy. I’m still worried about him.”

“You kissed me!” she repeated.

“I do remember,” he snapped, his patience shredding. “You took off my shirt and you kissed me. I don’t know what you want, but whatever it is, it doesn’t look like I’m giving it to you. So, I guess I’m saying thank you? For seeing me home?”

“You’re such an *.”

“You’re not the first to point that out.”

“Jesus, Luke.” She glared at him. “When are you going to wake up?”

“I’m awake.”

They glared at each other. Luke was the first to break away, his attention distracted as he considered what time it was. He might go to the hearing, but he had an eleven-thirty appointment, so maybe not. And Iris didn’t have to know until he showed up, or didn’t, anyway.

“Bolchoy’s going to prison,” she said again. “He falsified evidence and Corkland’s got him dead to rights.”

Luke shrugged. He didn’t know exactly what Bolchoy had done and he didn’t care anyway.

“Why are you going down for him? He didn’t ask you to. If you go back to the department and talk to your lieutenant—”

“I’m not going back.”

“—he’d give you your job back. I’m just trying to help you.”

“I don’t want the job back. I told you. I’m going to keep doing what I’m doing.”

“I can’t play this game forever, Luke. I mean it.” Tears stood in her eyes.

He shook his head. “I gotta get to work.” With a headache threatening to break into a crusher at the back of his skull, he brushed past her to his walk-in closet, the one nod to luxury in his two-bedroom/one-bath apartment.

“For God’s sake, Luke ...” she trailed off.

“Iris, go home. Or to the courthouse, or wherever.

“You just can’t wait to get rid of me, can you?” she asked bitterly, sweeping up an airy black scarf that she threw around her shoulders. Her makeup wasn’t even smeared, and he wondered how the hell she managed that.

“We’ve been through this scenario before. A couple of times.”

“We need to talk. No matter what you think, we need to talk.”

“I’m all talked out.” He pulled out another pair of jeans and a white shirt, freshly pressed, and took them to the bathroom. Iris followed him and tried to hold open the door with the palm of her hand. “Iris,” he warned.

“Listen to me. Just listen.” She pushed back on the door when he tried to close it with slow but steady pressure. “You can’t help Bolchoy. He doesn’t want to be helped. He wants to be right, and he’s wrong. He forged the Carrera brothers’ names on those confessions. He admitted he did it. This case is not subject to interpretation. You know it and I know it. It’s going to trial.”

“The Carreras have intimidated and coerced and threatened. They zero in on their next real estate acquisition and drive everyone out. They don’t care how. They pretend to offer a fair price, but they never follow through. Anyone who thwarts them ends up in some kind of ‘accident,’ or some other misery befalls them. That’s what I know.”

“You can’t be a one-man vigilante on this. The judicial system will get them eventually. Go back to Portland PD, or finish with that law degree. Luke, come on ... don’t let this get in our way.”

He yanked open the bathroom door so hard, she fell forward and had to catch herself. “I’ve got a different job now.”

“Private investigating?” she said with a sneer. Her eyes widened a moment later when he clamped his hands on her shoulders, turned her around, and steered her toward the front door. She actually tried to dig in her heels and grip the sides of the door frame. “My purse!” she yelled and, with a pungent swear word, he was forced to let go of her.

“Don’t move,” he warned in a cold voice as he turned back and swept the purse from the nightstand, returning a few moments later and slapping the clutch bag into her hands.

She gripped it in one hand, then raised up both in surrender. “This is ridiculous. Honestly, Luke. Come on.”

“You don’t like what I do. You don’t like my friends. You don’t really like me.”