When
Carlos arrived at Fred’s Diner at five after six, Vivian was waiting by
the entrance.
Great, he thought, she’s probably been here for ten minutes,
wondering where I am…I have to get a new alarm clock.
As he approached her, Carlos could tell Vivian was dressed casually in
a khaki skirt, sandals, and a green patterned V-neck shirt that went well
with his own dark green button-up dress shirt and black slacks.
“We match,” she said with a shy smile.
“You read my mind,” he said as he offered her his elbow. “Shall we?”
An hour later they exited the restaurant laughing and holding hands.
“I haven’t had this much fun in a long time,” Vivian said.
Carlos spun her around as though they were dancing then pulled her close,
holding her hands to his chest. “Me neither,” he admitted.
“Do you still want to see a movie tonight?”
Vivian looked into his eyes and almost forgot he’d asked her a question.
“Sure.”
“Sure,” Carlos repeated in a whisper. He bent down to kiss her.
She pulled back briefly, then allowed herself the pleasure of meeting his
lips again. He shifted his arms to run a hand through her soft hair
as the other went around her waist and pulled her closer. She changed
position, too, putting her arms around his neck. When she began playing
with the short hair on the nape of his neck, he broke the kiss with a laugh.
“That tickles,” he smiled as he looked in her eyes. “Let’s get out
of here.”
“Alone with you, Detective Sandoval, in a dark theater?” she asked coyly.
“Do you have something better to do?” he demanded. He got no reply
from her, only another long kiss.
[
Sidney had decided to spend her Saturday night at home watching a good
chick flick, but after watching Mass Destruction 2: Bombs in Colorado,
she just wanted to get out of the house. Why she felt the need to
go to Crazy Louie’s, Gage’s favorite bar, she had yet to figure.
The words he had said to her earlier still stung. They hadn’t spoken
at all at the office, and he left quietly without her knowing. One
might say that she had come here tonight to make amends with Gage, but
Sidney didn’t believe in the subconscious psychoanalysis of Freud.
She was in control all the time…wasn’t she?
As she parked, she searched the lot for Gage’s car. Luckily, she
didn’t see it.
What the hell? She thought, I’m here anyway, so I might as well
go in.
Upon entering, she swept the room with her eyes and chided herself for
casing the building. Gage was a friend, not a fugitive. He
was
a friend.
With that sobering thought, she headed to the bar for a beer. She
was halfway through it, lost deep in the philosophical reflections induced
by alcohol, when Gage sat down on the barstool next to her. He signaled
to the bartender for a beer of his own before turning to face her.
“Sid, what are you doing here?” he asked.
“We need to talk,” she said before she could stop herself. She had
meant to say something spiteful; she didn’t want to talk.
“We’ve needed to talk for a while now,” he agreed.
“What happened today wasn’t about what you said,” she continued, ignoring
his comment. “It was about my pride.” Why was she continuing
with this ridiculous tirade? Talking it out never worked.
“I know that,” he replied. “I can read you like a book.”
Sidney clenched her teeth and swallowed her pride. “And what are
you reading right now?” she asked softly, looking at her shoes, rather
than face him.
Gage looked her over, searching her face, and his eyes rested on her mouth.
“I see the same woman I kissed over a year ago in CDs. I miss her.”
“I’m still that girl,” she said, meeting his eyes pleadingly.
Gage nodded, a tiny smile on his lips. “Sometimes.”
Sidney nodded, too, blinking back tears. Was he telling her that
it was really over? Their relationship, if it could be called that,
hadn’t even started yet! Gage stood and pulled her to him.
They rested in the embrace until Sidney asked, “Where do we go from here?”
Gage squeezed her and indicated a vacant pool table with a nod of his head.
“Over there for a game.” He released Sidney only to take her hand
and lead her through the maze of tables and people.
[
Walker helped Alex dress their baby, Angela, for bed. There were
times when he stepped back from the reality of his life and marveled.
He was a family man! Sometimes that thought scared him because he
had never really had a normal family like this, with a real mother and
father. He hoped he wouldn’t make the mistakes his parents and guardians
had.
The phone rang, and he looked at Alex.
“You get it,” she said laying Angela down in the crib. “I’m not here,”
she called after him.
“Hello,” Walker answered the phone.
“It’s Carlos,” Carlos said. His voice was taut.
“What’s wrong?” Walker asked instinctively.
“The Cirq broke into my apartment.”
“Anything missing?” Walker wanted to know.
“Nothing. They broke in, messed everything up, and left me a friendly
note on the wall,” he answered.
“Where are you now?” Walker demanded. “You can’t stay the night at
your place.”
“I’m in my car,” Carlos answered. “I’ve got somewhere to stay, I
think.”
“You’re sure? We’ve got room here,” the Ranger offered.
“Nah. I’ll check in tomorrow.”
“Ok,” Walker replied. “Bye.” He hung up the phone and turned
to find Alex leaning on the doorjamb.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “You look worried.”
“Carlos’ apartment has been vandalized.”
“He can stay here,” Alex suggested.
“He said he already had a place to stay, but he didn’t say where exactly.”
Alex folded her arms and raised an eyebrow. She had an idea to whom
he might go.
By the time Carlos arrived at the “Sunset Flats” apartment building, it
had begun to rain. The summer heat made the already humid air muggy.
He was thoroughly drenched by the time he knocked on room 282. There
was a pause, and the door opened.
“Can I stay the night with you?” he asked.
“What’s wrong? What happened?” Vivian asked, moving aside to let
him into her living room. Carlos sighed and looked at her.
She was wearing plaid pajama pants and an old college T-shirt.
“What do you know about the Cirq 30?” he asked her. Taking her blank
stare and silence as an answer, he filled her in on what had happened.
When he had finished, he looked down at his still-dripping clothes and
asked, “Can I use your bathroom or something?”
“Of course,” she said. She led him down a short hallway to the right
of the front door. “Bathroom. Bedroom,” she pointed left, then
right, to indicate the rooms. A timer beeped from the kitchen back
the opposite way, and Carlos noticed for the first time that the tiny apartment
smelled like popcorn. “The popcorn is done,” she said. “Can
I get you a coke or something? I was just getting ready to watch
a movie.”
“Another one,” Carlos commented as he went into the bathroom. “Do
you have a beer?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” she explained. “Yeah, I think I can dig up a
beer.”
“Works for me. I’m gonna change,” he said as he shut the door.
Vivian put the popcorn in a bowl on the coffee table in the living room
and set down two beers beside the bowl. Failing to find her movie
on the TV or VCR where she usually put it, she remembered it to be in her
bedroom, where she had left it before answering the door.
She opened the door to her bedroom and looked across the room to the nightstand
at the right of her bed. Instead, she saw a barebacked Carlos just
buttoning up his pants. He spun to face her, startled, and she took
a step back.
“I…sorry,” she stammered, embarrassed. She quickly moved across the
room, grabbed the cassette, and left. “Sorry,” she said again before
she closed the door.
Carlos, meanwhile, had a look of pure amusement on his face as Vivian backed
out of the door. He threw on an old, ratty T-shirt and headed back
out to the living room, where a red-faced Vivian sat on the couch, mechanically
eating popcorn and pretending to be engrossed in the movie previews.
Carlos sat down next to her on the couch and looked at her. He chuckled
as her eyes slowly and timidly sought out his own, and laughed harder as
an angry, indignant look crossed her face. She did not like being
laughed at, and she stuck her tongue out at the man. He cupped her
face in one of his hands and kissed her. Then he sat back, propped
his feet up, and took a slag of beer.
“You ok?” Vivian asked. She was worried about how he was taking this
situation.
Carlos took another sip of beer before replying. “I think so.” He
stretched out his hand to her and she took it. Then she cuddled up
closer to him, and they watched the movie in silence.
[
The Dallas streets were still slicked with rain as Carlos pulled up to
his apartment the next morning. He saw a police car, and he recognized
Walker’s truck and Sidney’s car as well.
He climbed the stairs to his floor to find a party of sorts in what was
left of his abode. In the hallway outside the door, a uniformed officer
was taking statements from Carlos’ neighbors. Inside, a gloved man
was taking crime scene photos as the Rangers scanned through junk strewn
across the floor. They’re probably breaking something with those
big cowboy boots of theirs, Carlos thought.
He shifted his gaze from the painful demolition of his knick-knacks to
the message the robber (or robbers) had scribbled on the wall.
“Kind of vague, isn’t it?” Trivette asked as he stood beside Carlos.
“Stay away from him,” he quoted, and his brown eyes looked over at Carlos.
“Do you know what it means?”
“I figure whoever it is has unfinished business with Trent,” Carlos answered.
“Walker mentioned that you thought the Cirq did this. Why would they
be after Trent?” Trivette asked.
Carlos made a face. “Last night I was certain it was the Cirq, but
you’re right: they don’t have motive to hurt Trent, and they didn’t take
anything. Now I just think that it’s whoever attacked Trent, but
I still don’t know who that is or why they did it.”
“Only Trent can tell us, but he doesn’t remember much,” Trivette mused.
He pulled Carlos out of the way of the photographer, who snapped two quick
pictures of the wall.
“Can I get a copy of that?” Carlos asked. The photographer turned
and stared at him stupidly.
“Don’t see why not,” he finally growled. He took a pen from his coat
pocket and documented both the photo Carlos requested and the young cop’s
badge information. “I’ll have ‘em for you shortly,” he said, and
he moved on to another room to continue his work.
[
Trent moved cautiously through his house late that morning after being
released from the hospital. He was trying to determine whether or
not anyone had been there during the night. Nothing had been touched,
and it certainly hadn’t been disturbed to the degree of Carlos’ apartment.
Carlos had called Trent at the hospital earlier in the day to tell him
what happened. His theory was that the Cirq 30 was responsible, but
Trent wasn’t so sure. To date, they’d never stooped to petty crime,
and they would never leave a hit without money or riches to show for it.
Of course, a month ago, Trent would have said that the Cirq couldn’t steal
over a million dollars.
Perhaps they adopted a new policy, or they had new leadership, Trent deliberated.
He vaguely remembered something, but the memory was gone almost as quickly
as it was recalled. Shaking his head to clear it, Trent said aloud,
“This amnesia thing sucks!”
Satisfied that nothing had been disturbed, Trent decided to head into work.
He grimaced at the thought of the endless paperwork that awaited him in
his office. Kim would refuse to let him go out in the field until
Dr. Chase had fully released him.
He arrived at the building which housed both Uppercut’s Bar and Thunder
Investigations. Before noon, Uppercuts was closed, and Carlos liked
to use the empty bar room as extra office space, since both of his were
so cluttered. Sure enough, Trent’s partner was at the bar, studying
a file in front of him, when Trent entered silently.
Still not making a sound, Trent moved from the door across the room to
stand behind his friend. He paused to grin mischievously at what
he was about to do, then pushed Carlos off the barstool while he yelled
loudly.
Carlos yelped in surprise and rolled on the floor to break his fall.
The gun strapped to his hip was halfway out of its holster when he finally
recognized Trent and released his weapon.
“Ha ha, funny,” Carlos said sarcastically. He dusted himself off
as Trent doubled over laughing.
“What’s going on?” Butch came out of the kitchen door behind the bar with
a towel over his shoulder.
“I was working when this moron,” Carlos jerked a thumb at Trent, “pushed
me over. When was the last time you swept this place, Butch?” he
asked, still brushing dirt off his dark pants.
“I scared him,” Trent gloated between guffaws.
“You’re lucky I didn’t pull my gun,” his friend replied crossly.
Butch looked down on what Carlos had been working. “What’s all this?”
he asked, shifting through pictures of Carlos’ apartment, papers, files,
and books.
“I’m trying to analyze the handwriting on my wall,” Carlos answered.
“So far it’s not going too well.”
“Well you know,” Butch began, “I have a friend who did that kind of thing
at the FBI for a number of years.” He paused to pick up a pen and
scribbled down a name and address on one of Carlos’ many papers.
“Tell Toones that he still owes me that favor.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” Carlos joked as he gathered his papers to leave.
It was a well-known fact that many people in the Dallas area-and beyond-owed
Butch a favor for one reason or another.
[
Beatrice “Bee” Thompson and Ira Temp called a meeting of the Cirq 30 to
discuss some important issues. They were all gathered in the school’s
auditorium, with Bee speaking behind a podium and Ira in a seat off to
the side.
“This will be a crucial couple of days for our clan,” Bee was saying.
“We have many different projects working independently of each other and
without the knowledge of one another’s objectives. This is intentional,”
she said with emphasis. “Each group is merely a part of the bigger
picture.” She looked down at her fingernails before continuing.
“Starting now, there will be a lockdown. No one is to leave their
barracks unless it is time for his or her respective mission. No
television, radio, newspapers, or other distractions will be permitted.
You are to concentrate, focus, and meditate on your objective. If
one person fails, the entire mission-and the last eight months-is for nothing.”
She paused for effect, before turning instructions to her counterpart,
who stood.
“Don’t cross me,” he threatened in a low voice. “Group leaders, you
will have an hour-one hour-to make sure your crew knows exactly
what is expected of them. If even one event doesn’t go to plan, the
entire operation is ruined. There is no margin for error.”
He looked at everyone seated before him in turn. “Understood?” he
barked.
A murmur of “Yes sir” could be heard in reply.
“Dismissed,” he responded. Slowly everyone drained out of the auditorium,
leaving Bee and Ira alone. She sat down and sighed. Ira crossed
the stage to stand behind her.
“Are you ready?” he asked as he began to rub her tense shoulders with his
strong hands.
“I’m worried about Tom,” she confessed. “That he might get hurt during
this.”
“We’ll protect him. You know that,” he assured her. “We always
do.”
“He’s starting to get suspicious,” she reminded him.
“We told the PI’s to back off his case, and we’ll take care of the cop
today. That will protect him for now. After today it’s all
over. Everything will work out,” he promised softly as he kissed
the nape of her neck.
Bee pushed her reservations aside for the moment and gave into Ira.
[
Carlos was en route to Toones’ place when he saw police lights in his rearview
mirror.
“Oh man,” he moaned. “This is embarrassing!” He pulled over
and parked, and a state trooper got out of his car.
“Just my luck,” Carlos thought as he put both hands on the wheel, “He’s
not local.”
“License and registration?” the cop demanded rudely.
“Can you tell me why I was pulled over?” Carlos wondered. He was
just beginning to sympathize with civilian’s loathing of rude police.
“This car was reported stolen,” he replied.
“What?” Carlos was confused. He reached for the glove box, opened
it, and took out his registration papers. After handing those to
the law official, he shifted to take his wallet form his back pocket.
“Oh…no…” He frantically searched his jacket pockets, but he couldn’t find
his license anywhere. The trooper handed back his registration, and
Carlos noted with shock that the sheets were blank. Before he could
explain anything, a thump in his trunk caused the suspicious cop to pull
his gun.
“Open the trunk!” he yelled unnecessarily.
Carlos complied, knowing that whatever was in there would only further
incriminate him, and that refusing would only make matters worse.
He had been set up, an excuse he’d wager the trigger-happy officer probably
wouldn’t buy.
“Get out of the car,” the officer yelled after he had checked the trunk.
Carlos exited his vehicle slowly, showing his empty palms and faced his
door, legs spread.
“Hands on the roof,” the officer commanded, even though Carlos had already
assumed the position. He never enjoyed being frisked-especially not
by an over-weight, middle-aged foul-tempered cop. Carlos’ gun and
extra magazines he wore on his hip were taken from him, as was the little
knife he carried at his ankle. Then the trooper pulled out a par
of handcuffs and began to shackle Carlos’ hands.
“You are under arrest for grand theft auto, carrying a concealed weapon,
and the possession of controlled substances. You have the right to
remain silent,” the officer began the traditional tirade while Carlos listened
grimly and sighed.
So that’s what was put in his trunk.
[
“Handwriting analysis is either right on or way off,” Toones was explaining
to Trent as they descended into Toones’ basement laboratory. “Even
disguised writing shows some signs of characteristics the writer usually
has. If they’re normal. I can’t read schizophrenics.”
Trent couldn’t tell whether the old man was making a funny or dead serious.
Toones, an elderly man with thin white hair, thick glasses, and a gravelly
voice, turned on the lab lights. Fluorescent light illuminated posters
of samples of writing, diagrams of letters, and personality charts.
He donned a headband with a light on the forehead and a special lens over
one eye, hen examined the photos Trent had brought. Toones grabbed
a yellow pencil made for writing on photographs and began to mark the loops
and curves of the letters in the same manner on of his posters depicted.
After a few moments, Trent decided to leave Toones to his work, particularly
since the old man seemed to have forgotten him. Trent slowly walked
around the room, looking at the myriad of posters, notes, and pictures
that cluttered the walls and tabletops of the basement. Where was
Carlos? Trent wondered, thinking that it was fortunate he had insisted
on taking his friend’s files.
“Mm…hmm…hm…yep,” Toones muttered absently.
“Anything?” Trent asked hopefully.
“Come heahr,” Toones commanded. Trent looked over the man’s shoulder
as Toones used his pen to point at the end of the first letter. “This
is a bit unusual,” he said of the splatter marks. “People who spray-paint
walls genehrally get close to the wall so’s the paint doesn’t spread out.
You get better ahrt that way,” he said, and Trent noticed is New York accent
for the first time. “Whoevahr did this stood a good distance away.
Why? Amatchahr, maybe. Or maybe she didn’t wanna get doity.”
“She?” Trent asked, shocked.
“Looks like female writin’,” Toones replied. “The message wasn’t
premeditated, though,” he continued. “She shows some hesitation in
hehr beginning woids heahr. My guess is that she writes a lot, and
she’s used do doin’ it quick-like, on the fly. Secretary? Teachehr?
Movie stah? Cop, even?”
Upon hearing the last suggestion, Trent was seized by a sudden flashback.
…It was the weekend after his father’s funeral and everyone was still being
nice about it. He had been putting on a strong front of his mom,
for his friends; they all needed him to be strong.
Tonight, though, the family was staying the night with some friends in
Fort Worth, so Trent was finally alone to mourn.
Except soldiers didn’t cry.
He remembered sitting in the living room staring at the blank TV and missing
his father. What would become of his life now? A knock at the
door broke his trance, and he opened it to find a teary-eyed Margo.
“I’m so sorry Trent,” she whispered as she gave him a huge hug. They
moved back into the living room and sat down on the couch in awkward silence.
“Say something, Trent!” she pleaded as she wiped her eyes.
Trent opened his mouth to speak, but instead he began to cry. He
didn’t know how long he wept or what he and Margo had talked about that
night after he stopped, but he recalled vividly when he woke up the next
day to find her laying in his arms.
She stayed two more days, and they talked not just about Trent’s dad, but
about life, their plans for the future, and their fears in the present.
It was so peaceful to have her there laughing with him, but the FBI called
her back. They shared one last romantic evening together, and when
he awoke the next morning, the only trace he had of Margo was a note she
left on her pillow…
“I’m sorry, what?” Trent realized that Toones had continued talking.
“I said that I can try to match the writing, but it will take time and
a good deal of luck,” he repeated. “You ok, kid?”
“Sure,” Trent said distractedly. “Thank you for all your help.”
“Can you see yourself out?” Toones asked as he pulled three thick books
from under his work counter and plopped on the table. “I’ve got bad
knees.”
“Yeah,” Trent said, and he trudged up the basement steps and walked outside
into the blinking sunlight. He wiped his sweating face and got into
his car. Why did he suddenly remember Margo like that? He wished
desperately that he could remember. Did she have a connection to
the incident at Carlos’ apartment that Carlos felt was connected to him?
Something felt familiar about this scenario, but his still fuzzy brain
couldn’t quite place it.
[
Sidney was sitting in a jail cell when the Cirq 30 came for her.
She had spent much of the morning going over Marla Gregor’s interesting
case file. She studied the woman’s mode of robbing people.
Marla had a style all her own that Sid secretly admired.
Later in the morning, she had spoken with Marla herself, who was surprisingly
cooperative. Sid got the impression that Marla was incredibly intelligent
and athletic, and she enjoyed thieving because it matched her wits against
the wits of others. She was challenging herself through robbery.
Marla was very good at challenging herself. All her hits were well
guarded and expensive, requiring a gymnast’s grace and strength and a hacker’s
expertise.
Sid talked with her so much she found it easy to assume the infamous burglar’s
identity. It was fortunate that the transition came quickly, because
Sid was only in Marla’s cramped prison room for an hour before seven men
seized her.
The operation was bloodless, the attackers preferring to stun rather than
to kill. The whole ordeal took a matter of minutes. The Cirq
30 was very prepared for their operation. They probably even had
several back-up plans incase they encountered problems.
Sid was shoved into a car, and they drove fifteen minutes to an abandoned
suburban area. No one had held residence there for a while, opting
to live closer to the heart of Dallas. Thus the Cirq 30 used an old
school building as their base.
Having already seen a demonstration of the physical shape her abductors
were in, she was not surprised to find that the playground outside the
school more closely resembled a military training ground.
As her escorts led her through the halls of the school, she saw that each
of the classrooms were used either as training rooms or dormitories.
The cafeteria and auditorium retained their usual purposes, and the office
and teachers’ lounge were used as the headquarters of the building.
Apparently the higher-ups were meeting in the lounge when Sidney was shoved
inside. Her two escorts stood stiffly at attention.
The woman and the man at the head of the long table had their backs to
the door, and they turned their heads to see what the interruption was.
Sidney nearly lost it when she recognized Congressman Thompson’s wife and
bodyguard as the leaders of the Cirq 30.
Marla had spent the past several years in prison and consequently would
not know-or care-who the Thompsons were or the many scandals created by
Ira. Sidney suppressed her gasp and showed her surprise only through
a slight widening of her eyes.
“Welcome, Miss Gregor,” Ira said in his melodious voice.
“And you are?” Sidney asked, covering her fear with a mask of apathy.
“My name is Ira,” he said smoothly,” and this is Bee. We are the
leaders of the Cirq 30.
“I don’t ever remember the 30 being set up quite like this,” Sid commented,
fishing around her pockets for a piece of gum.
A sinister smile crossed his lips. “Things change.”
Ira’s tone of voice chilled Sidney despite her tough façade, and
she chose to direct further questions to Bee instead.
“You guys have been successful under the new management?” she asked between
obnoxious chomps on her gum, a trait she had picked up from the real Marla.
Bee gestured around them. “See for yourself. We took what little
money this pathetic group had and bought this property. Then we fixed
it up after…acquiring more funds. Our next growth phase involves
you.”
“What might I be doing?” Sid inquired with an uninterested air.
“You ask too many questions, Miss Gregor,” Ira said in his chilling voice.
“Sleep a little, and we can discuss business over dinner.”
Sid swallowed her gum. “Ok.”
Bee led Sid through the school, proudly showing the different rooms and
specialized groups. As Sid listened, she got the feeling that Bee
truly enjoyed being a thief. She was enthusiastic, sharing her goals
for the 30 as a CEO might discuss the future of a promising business.
She wanted them to become a peaceful, “voice-for-the-people” group.
Her vision of the Cirq was a political power, and she felt that the end
justified the means.
“And here are your quarters,” Bee finished, opening a locked room.
IT was sparingly decorated, containing a lamp, chair and bed.
“It’ll do.”
For now, she thought. She needed to get in touch with Gage,
who had been assigned as her correspondent.
[
A loud, almost rhythmic packing sound brought the prison guards to the
holding cell, where several men, upon recognizing Carlos as a cop, had
begun a brawl.
The prison guards were no happier to have a “dirty cop” in their care,
so they watched the scene for a few more moments before breaking up the
fight. Carlos could more or less hold his own against one or two
people, but six men under the influence of various drugs pummeling him
incessantly took its toll.
“Come on, you,” one of the guards said as he half dragged Carlos through
the hallways. “Someone wants to see your sorry ass.”
Carlos was shoved into a cramped room, where he staggered immediately into
a chair. He winced as one of his cuts stung anew. Trent’s voice
broke his thoughts of pain.
“I was going to ask how you were holding up, but…” Trent said wryly.
Carlos glared at Trent, then closed his eyes and let out a humorless laugh.
“I blame this on you, you know,” he said.
“My fault?” Trent asked.
“You need to start working me, bro,” he explained, “So I can beat those
thugs down next time.” Cool hands touched his forehead; Carlos relaxed
under them.
“Next time?” Alex spoke up, “You’re planning on making this a common occurrence?”
Carlos smiled, and his lip cracked and bled.
“Maybe that’s not such a good idea,” Vivian said, and Carlos jumped at
hearing her voice.
“Where’d you come from?” he shrieked.
“I came to see how you were doing,” she said. “Sit down and let me
finish fixing you up.”
Carlos gingerly touched his face to find that she had cleaned some of the
cuts on his bruised face and spread ointment on them. He sat back
down and leaned back as she knelt to continue her efforts. Vivian’s
cool, pleasant fingers gently worked a cut on his cheekbone.
“I can’t do anything for the bruising or the swelling,” she said when she
was done, “But that will go away with time. It makes you look tough,”
she joked.
Carlos opened his eyes and saw the worry in her face despite her light
words. “Nothing’s broken, Viv,” he assured her, grabbing her waist
and pulling her close. “I’ve been through worse.” She nodded
in understanding. “Just do one thing for me.”
“Sure,” she said with a tiny smile.
“Kiss the boo-boo,” he pointed to his cracked lip and gave her a pathetic
look. She grinned and kissed him while Trent cringed.
“Tell me when it’s over,” he moaned. The couple replied by making
gross sucking sounds, then laughed at their own wit.
“So what do we know?” Carlos asked Trent and Alex. Vivian was seated
on his lap.
“It’s not good. You’ve got means and opportunity, and the prosecutor
will no doubt find a million possible motives. Not only that, but
everyone’s paranoid about bad cops, so they’ll be looking to put you away
for a long time,” Alex said gravely.
“How did a mini snort bar get from the Dallas PD evidence room into my
car trunk?” Carlos wondered.
Trent shrugged his shoulders. “You stole it. You work late
nights a lot, and you’re just careful not to get caught by the janitors.
You’ve been moving pieces for weeks.”
“That’s the story being told?” Carlos asked incredulously.
“You’re innocent until proven guilty, of course, but that’s the rumor,”
Alex replied.
“Great,” Carlos shook his head. “What do I have going for me besides
my good looks?” he asked with a wink toward Vivian.
“Well there’s your record, which speaks for itself,” Alex said.
“And the fact that someone broke into your apartment yesterday and left
a threatening message gives you a scapegoat of sorts,” Trent added.
“If we can prove that it’s the same person-and I know it was-I go free,”
Carlos said eagerly.
“One more piece of bad news, and we have to leave,” Trent said as he checked
his watch. “Alex is being asked to prosecute.”
“The DA’s office feels like I’m the best person to handle this delicate
matter. I’m looking to cite a conflict of interest, but I’m not too
optimistic,” Alex said.
“Peachy,” Carlos muttered darkly.
“Time,” a guard called from the door.
Carlos hugged Vivian tightly. “Thanks, guys. Wish me luck.”
The guard seized him and took him to a private cell rather than the common
holding cell. The wardens had probably decided to keep him separate
from the drunks so he didn’t hurt their hands with his face again.
Carlos yawned and laid down to sleep.
