“Call her? She’s in FBI custody,” I say incredulously.
Chase shoots a dart. “Like you don’t know how to reach her.”
“I need to let her go.”
“If she’s interested, dude, wouldn’t she call you?” Reese says.
“You don’t know much about how high level witness protection works. She doesn’t have access to a phone, or mail, or any visitors. She’s cut off from her family and friends and her entire life stops until after Miguel is captured.”
Why the fuck are we still talking about Farrington? With no thought or joy, I lift the coffee to my mouth, blow across the top layer and pull in a mouthful.
I promptly spit it out to the floor. “WHAT THE FUCK!?”
Reese and Connor burst out laughing.
“Jesus, what the—?” I open the Keurig and snatch the little container out. “Papa John’s GARLIC!?”
Reese drops out of his chair. “I cannot tell you how long ago we put that in there for you!”
“Weeks ago, man, fucking weeks!” Connor can’t hide his extreme joy either.
Chase adds, “No wonder it smells like pizza.”
I take long strides to the fridge and pop open a beer to wash away the garlic taste.
“I forgot that was even in there,” Liam says. “Guess that means no pizza—I think I’m going to order a real one.”
“Man, I can’t believe he finally cracked and used it!” Reese is never going to let this go—it’s just that good. “We just kept reaching over it to the real coffee. We never thought you’d actually get to the point of drinking it, though. Seriously, how could you not notice the shit was yellow and smelled like garlic? You are in way over your head with this girl if she’s got you that distracted.”
“Congrats, you got me,” I tell him. “I’m heading home, it’s been a hell of a few days. And by the way, you can clean that up.” I point to the mess on the floor and the now disgusting Keurig. That flavor is going to be stuck in the machine for days.
I look over at Reese, who has now stopped laughing, which makes me smile as I walk out the door and down the hallway that leads to the artist alcoves.
The shop is owned by Liam and Talon, and I’ve helped run it since its inception, but I left it behind some months ago to focus solely on my booming security business. But one thing has always been a plus—this feels like home, and when I need to express myself in some non-violent way, I take a client or two and create some art. Liam got me into that back at North House. It saved me for a while, but that kind of expression and my own denial of my issues could only appease me for so long.
I position myself on top of Delilah—my 2015 black Kawasaki Ninja—and head to my apartment in the city, thinking of nothing but Farrington.
For the next couple of weeks I purposefully avoid my brothers and throw myself headlong into my job.
I restored dignity to the St. Paul police department by bringing Farrington back into protective custody, so D’Angelo starts throwing lots of bones my way. It’s good for my savings, and I begin contemplating the idea of a much needed vacation in some tropical locale. I like the idea of skimpily clad beach divas, tall, strong drinks and no noise except for the sound of the waves hitting the shore.
Eduardo Miguel is no nearer to trial than he was when he escaped from that transport. The FBI can’t get a lead on him, even with all of the manpower they’re throwing at the problem.
In my spare time—which I should call all of my off hours—I hunt him via search engines, webcams, paper trails; every tool in my arsenal, I employ. He’s disappeared so effectively. He probably has all sorts of money hidden in offshore accounts.
But one thing my intuition is telling me is to wait and be patient. A man like Miguel doesn’t want to stay hidden, he wants notoriety and to take pride in his work.
Then again, my intuition isn’t exactly reliable at the moment. It’s telling me—no, screaming at me—to call Farrington.
Just pick up the phone and say hello.
Yeah, right. The fuck?
I’m actually hoping I’m totally mistaken and Miguel is just a low rank douchebag who happened to turn himself into a prosperous businessman. Maybe Mason Enterprises was only a pretty storefront for Cruz’s drug runs. Maybe all the money was Cruz’s after all.
If Cruz has already murdered Miguel, that will make him real tough to find. It would mean Farrington would ultimately be safe, but it might also make it so she never sees her cherished family again.
I tell myself there is nothing I can do about it. It’s not my business anyway.
During working hours, I can keep Farrington at the edge of my thoughts—sometimes, if I’m led on a particularly decent chase, I almost don’t think about her at all. That is, until it’s time to sleep.
Then I’m fucked.