was an animated conversation in which Rhonda shook her head a few times, arms flailing with fingers clutching a cell phone. Two seconds later, she dialed a number and spoke into the phone.
When she hung up, she said something to Alvarado, something that lit a fire under his ass. He rushed back to his car.
“Hour’s up,” Luis said, twisting the car on and making a U-turn to follow Alvarado’s black SUV.
“This is why you should always listen to my instincts,” I grinned. “If we’d left earlier…”
“Your instincts? As in the 4th Street Deli?” “Hey, we both tested negative for hepatitis.” “The ‘strange’ looking guys at the grocery store on Racine Street?”
“Stopped a robbery, didn’t we?”
“I got shot.”
“You
got grazed ,” I corrected. “Are you hormonal or something?”
“You ever say that to Angelica?”
“Do you see me still breathing? Yes? There’s your answer.” I didn’t want to think about Angelica. The guilt and recrimination
wouldn’t help with the case. I needed to focus on work.
“Where’s he going?”
I twisted and grabbed my suit jacket, slipping it on and adjusting my holster. “Obviously somewhere import—” My words died as Alvarado swung his car left into the lot of the restaurant where Peter worked.
Oh, Shit. Oh, Shit. Have I Mentioned: Oh, Shit!?
The
parking
lot
of
Colorado’s
Finest
Diner
was
uncharacteristically empty for three in the afternoon. I expected it to be just as crowded as ever, but apparently Tuesdays were slow.
Alvarado had parked in a spot less than three strides from the front door, before disappearing inside the restaurant. Luis and I pulled in a minute later. The flashing “CAREER ENDING
NOW” sign reappeared.
“This is Joe Dench’s place,” Luis murmured, turning the car off and settling back in his seat. “Where you waited for the no-show?” “Yeah,” I croaked, watching the side door with trepidation.
My stomach tightened and twisted.
Retired Detective Joe Dench was, from what I heard, a soft-hearted schmuck no one figured would last a year in vice. And they were right. He lasted twenty-seven instead. Nearly four years ago he abruptly retired at age fifty-six, bought the diner and then not-so-quickly keeled over of a heart attack three years and eight months later. I only knew of him from Luis, who made comparisons of him and me. According to Vice legend, Joe Dench was a bleeding heart who had too soft a spot for street
kids.
Luis had backed into the parking spot at the far corner of the lot, sandwiched between a minivan on the left and an older model sedan on our right. I avoided glancing at the sedan, since it was exactly where I had parked last night. We could only see the cash register and first four booths from our vantage point, but the side door and alley were in full view. Directly across from the side door was a retainer wall, with dumpsters huddled against the far end. Peter stepped outside with two large black bundles, which he tossed in the trash containers.
“And that’s Joe’s kid,” Luis said with a nod, just as Alvarado followed Peter out and jammed a cell phone into Peter’s chest and spitting words at him.
“Huh?” I said intelligently.
“Foster kid. Took in him and two other kids, about four years ago. They all used to hustle under the bridge. Coincidence Alvarado’s here looking for Gaines?” Lovely.
“Now that I think about it,” Luis continued, “there was talk that Dench and Alvarado had ‘history’.” He air quoted the last word.
I sat there and watched the heated exchange, deliberately not clenching my fists as Peter slapped away Alvarado’s pointing hand. They were toe-to-toe, giving the impression they were going to come to blows, when something far more disturbing happened.
Prisc’s palm roped around Peter’s neck and pulled him into a hard kiss.
“Now that is interesting,” Luis said. I tried not to do
something ridiculous—like growl. I
When she hung up, she said something to Alvarado, something that lit a fire under his ass. He rushed back to his car.
“Hour’s up,” Luis said, twisting the car on and making a U-turn to follow Alvarado’s black SUV.
“This is why you should always listen to my instincts,” I grinned. “If we’d left earlier…”
“Your instincts? As in the 4th Street Deli?” “Hey, we both tested negative for hepatitis.” “The ‘strange’ looking guys at the grocery store on Racine Street?”
“Stopped a robbery, didn’t we?”
“I got shot.”
“You
got grazed ,” I corrected. “Are you hormonal or something?”
“You ever say that to Angelica?”
“Do you see me still breathing? Yes? There’s your answer.” I didn’t want to think about Angelica. The guilt and recrimination
wouldn’t help with the case. I needed to focus on work.
“Where’s he going?”
I twisted and grabbed my suit jacket, slipping it on and adjusting my holster. “Obviously somewhere import—” My words died as Alvarado swung his car left into the lot of the restaurant where Peter worked.
Oh, Shit. Oh, Shit. Have I Mentioned: Oh, Shit!?
The
parking
lot
of
Colorado’s
Finest
Diner
was
uncharacteristically empty for three in the afternoon. I expected it to be just as crowded as ever, but apparently Tuesdays were slow.
Alvarado had parked in a spot less than three strides from the front door, before disappearing inside the restaurant. Luis and I pulled in a minute later. The flashing “CAREER ENDING
NOW” sign reappeared.
“This is Joe Dench’s place,” Luis murmured, turning the car off and settling back in his seat. “Where you waited for the no-show?” “Yeah,” I croaked, watching the side door with trepidation.
My stomach tightened and twisted.
Retired Detective Joe Dench was, from what I heard, a soft-hearted schmuck no one figured would last a year in vice. And they were right. He lasted twenty-seven instead. Nearly four years ago he abruptly retired at age fifty-six, bought the diner and then not-so-quickly keeled over of a heart attack three years and eight months later. I only knew of him from Luis, who made comparisons of him and me. According to Vice legend, Joe Dench was a bleeding heart who had too soft a spot for street
kids.
Luis had backed into the parking spot at the far corner of the lot, sandwiched between a minivan on the left and an older model sedan on our right. I avoided glancing at the sedan, since it was exactly where I had parked last night. We could only see the cash register and first four booths from our vantage point, but the side door and alley were in full view. Directly across from the side door was a retainer wall, with dumpsters huddled against the far end. Peter stepped outside with two large black bundles, which he tossed in the trash containers.
“And that’s Joe’s kid,” Luis said with a nod, just as Alvarado followed Peter out and jammed a cell phone into Peter’s chest and spitting words at him.
“Huh?” I said intelligently.
“Foster kid. Took in him and two other kids, about four years ago. They all used to hustle under the bridge. Coincidence Alvarado’s here looking for Gaines?” Lovely.
“Now that I think about it,” Luis continued, “there was talk that Dench and Alvarado had ‘history’.” He air quoted the last word.
I sat there and watched the heated exchange, deliberately not clenching my fists as Peter slapped away Alvarado’s pointing hand. They were toe-to-toe, giving the impression they were going to come to blows, when something far more disturbing happened.
Prisc’s palm roped around Peter’s neck and pulled him into a hard kiss.
“Now that is interesting,” Luis said. I tried not to do
something ridiculous—like growl. I
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