Reveal (Wicked Ways #2)(69)

Thank you.

Vee

I stare at my response for the longest time and then hit send before I lose the courage.





CHAPTER THIRTY

Ryker

I eye the man who walks into my office. His eyes never stop glancing around—judging, measuring, assessing—until they land on me.

“Can I help you, Officer?” I ask.

He’s in plain clothes. Light hair. Dark eyes. And he more than takes his time responding.

“You having a good day?”

What the fuck do you want?

Instead of asking the question I really want to, I smile. “Your badge, please?” He looks surprised when I hold out my hand to see it. “You’ve been sitting down in my lobby for the past day or so. You know my name—it only seems fair that I know yours.”

He fights the twitch of a smile at being made and reaches in his pocket for his badge. I look at it for a beat: Dan Brower, detective with the NYPD.

Detective.

I hand it back to him, but not before I try to memorize his badge number.

“I can write down the number so you don’t forget it,” he says, that twitch turning into an I-know-your-type smile.

“No need,” I bluff. “And your recorder?” I motion to his pocket. “Is that on too?”

“No.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and levels me with a stare that’s less than amicable. “Thanks for reminding me, though.”

“Just want to make sure you get this all down the first time, seeing as I’m certain both you and I are busy and have better things to do than talk about whatever it is you’re here to talk about.”

“How generous of you.” Sarcasm of a seasoned detective edges his tone.

“You set?” I ask like an overeager schoolboy.

“Yes.”

“What can I do for you, Detective Brower?”

“We had a complaint filed by—”

“Oh, you forgot to say who I was. You know, for your records. You might want to say who it is you’re speaking to.”

He clenches his jaw. “Yes. This is Detective Brower speaking with one Mr. Ryker Lockhart in regards to case number”—he looks at something on his notepad—“4657894.”

“Great. Thanks. You can ask your question now.” I motion to the list of things on his pad.

He eyes me again, frustration in his expression and defensiveness in his posture. “Can you let me run this now? You good with that?”

“Sure. Shall we?”

“As I was saying. We had a complaint filed by one Brian Vaden.”

I nod. “And you’re following up on it why? Run out of beat cops today?”

“As I said, Mr. Vaden filed a complaint.”

“Through your office? Through social services? Where did he go exactly to file the complaint?”

“You’re being difficult, Mr. Lockhart, and I haven’t even asked my question yet.”

“Not difficult. Just trying to get the lay of the land to figure out why a detective is wasting his time coming to my office to ask about a man he probably never even spoke to personally.”

I can play cat and mouse all day, fucker. Bring it on. I need this. Someone to play this game with.

“Brian Vaden,” he says. “Do you know him?”

“Briefly.”

“Care to expand?”

“Was this a high Brian or a sober Brian?” I ask, laying the groundwork.

“Excuse me?” He picks up a paperweight on my desk without asking and measures its weight in his hand before looking back at me.

“Was he sober, or was he high?”

“That question leads me to believe that you know him.”

“And your response leads me to believe I was right—you’ve never met him face-to-face. You’ve never seen him twitching from his need for more blow or smack or whatever the fuck it is he’s always high on.”

“I’m not quite sure what this has to do with anything.”

“It has to do with everything.” I smile broadly.

“Again, I’ll ask you to expand if you so desire.”

“Well, a high Brian will come and lie to you about how I threatened his life and then punched him for nothing more than showing up at my girlfriend’s doorstep close to midnight. How we chatted about the nice weather we’re having, and then when he told me he loved the Yankees, I chose to punch him, since I’m a die-hard Red Sox fan.”

“So you did punch him?”

“A sober Brian,” I continue without missing a beat, “would inform you how he showed up to my girlfriend’s house in an attempt to extort money from her. And then when he found me there instead, after assessing the watch on my wrist, tried to extort even more money from me. How he asked me to pay an exorbitant amount for him not to protest the adoption of his daughter to his sister-in-law, a.k.a. my girlfriend. He’d tell you he’s just looking for some more cash to fund that nasty habit he has that makes him unfit to parent said daughter as well. He’d tell you that as much as I would have loved to plow my fist into his nose, I didn’t. Instead, after he made a more than vulgar comment about my girlfriend that had me fearing for her safety, I took a step toward him, and he promptly turned to run like a chicken. How he tripped over his own feet and fell face-first into the little retaining wall she has around a raised flower bed.” I shove my hands in my pockets and lean back against the desk behind me and shrug. “He might even tell you that if you head over to her house, you’ll probably see a small spot of his blood on the edge of said wall where his cheek cut open when he hit it. I can guess which person you talked to, though.”