That had been nearly a year ago. Luke had spent the next couple of months wondering what the hell to do with his life. Private security/investigation sort of found him, not the other way around, and he was still working through the hours to get his license. This had pissed off Iris no end. She couldn’t believe he’d given up being a detective with the Portland PD for some kind of “half-assed” private practice. Though they’d gotten under his skin, he’d ignored her rants and had set a course for himself with a determination that was new to him. Iris was no longer his girlfriend, so he was a free man and could do whatever he damned well pleased. Becoming a private investigator was what he chose.
Last night he’d met with Opal and Yates and DeSantos, and they’d all gone down to Tiny Tim’s, which was little more than a hole in the wall, with some of the cheapest beer around. Tiny Tim himself, over three hundred pounds, eschewed all the microbeers and cutting-edge cuisine Portland was so famous for these days, and served up favorite standards like Pabst, Bud, and Coors, along with greasy fries, jalape?o poppers with basic ranch dressing or tarted-up with raspberry jam, onion rings, and hot dogs or hamburgers (lettuce and tomato extra, which the clientele didn’t often opt for). Tiny Tim’s also held a liquor license, and that was where Luke had made his mistake, going for Johnnie Walker Red, sometimes Black, once in a great, great while Blue, depending on how much money he wanted to spend. But last night it wasn’t about money and/or quality, it was about quantity, and Luke had had his fill and then some.
“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 asshole.”
“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.”