Chapter 17

SEVENTEEN

"Everything look good?" Jamie asked Matt, who'd agreed to give the protective custody paperwork a final once-over.

Rick had given them a massive head start, completing the bulk of it before Jamie and Aidan had arrived. They'd just needed to fill in some details, and once done, there was no one better to check over the final package than Matt. Prior to moving out west, he'd worked with Cam on kidnap and rescue cases in Boston. Much of their caseload had involved working with juvenile victims and witnesses; he'd seen plenty of these forms over his career.

"I know you've filled these out before," Matt said as he skimmed the pages. "Cam told me about that child pornography case he worked with you and Aidan early on. You had to place all those kids afterward."

Jamie shivered, remembering that bone- and soul-chilling bust on a foggy September morning. Matt was right; they'd had to arrange protective custody for dozens of kids pending conclusion of the case. But that custody paperwork and the paperwork for this case were fundamentally different, at least where it concerned him and Aidan. "We didn't place any of those kids with us."

"So, why's Bev different? We have usual channels for this. Safe houses and fosters that have been vetted."

"Because she's important to Angel." He glanced past Matt, Aidan's red hair catching his attention as he and Berat led a handcuffed White to the interrogation room. "And because Angel is important to Aidan. He can't—won't—disappoint him again."

Matt handed the paperwork back to him. "It's perfect, but you knew that already."

"Another pair of eyes never hurts."

"Fair," Matt said, then tilted his head toward the interrogation room. "So come with me to observe in case I miss something, at least until social services gets here."

Jamie neatened up the stack of papers, then followed Matt. "You think this case is related to your jewel thief one?"

"On the front end, I doubt it," Matt said as he closed the observation room door behind them. "The thefts I've been looking into are clean, neat, professional. But I'm not ruling out that the end buyer could be the same." He flicked on the speaker so they could hear what was said on the other side of the one-way glass.

As Berat went over identification particulars with White and his public defender across the table, Jamie studied their suspect. Late thirties, white, greasy brown hair, sunken brown eyes, dingy clothes that hung loose on his thin frame. Meth head, Jamie recalled from White's rap sheet, and by the sweat dotting his brow and his bouncing knee beneath the table, withdrawal was starting to kick in.

Potentially good for their team .

"Tell us what you were doing at Long Beach Port on Friday," Aidan said from beside Berat.

"I wasn't there," White replied.

Berat opened a file folder and withdrew a picture. He pushed it across the table in front of White. "That's you behind the wheel of a truck we found off the 125 in San Diego County. Sounds to me like you were violating parole."

"You found me here. I didn't violate my parole."

"But you were in that truck."

"Okay, fine, yeah, that's me." He flicked a dismissive hand at the picture. "I was filling in for a friend. He couldn't make it to the port on time, so I picked up his load." His jittery gaze bounced around the room, and his knee bounced faster with each lie he added to the pile. "I met him in Torrance. That's still LA County."

"And the opposite direction of San Diego," Aidan said.

White shrugged. "Not my business where he went with it afterward."

"What's this friend's name?" Berat asked.

"Peter."

"Peter who?"

"I don't know."

"Because there was no Peter." Aidan rested his forearms on the table, leaning forward. "You drove the truck to El Segundo Beach, where you gave a briefcase of stolen goods to Angel Crane."

White slumped in his chair, away from Aidan. Whether he realized it or not, White was telegraphing that every word out of his mouth was bullshit. That Aidan and company were dangerously close to the truth. Jamie wondered if that was why the PD remained silent; he already knew this was an open-and-shut case, at least against White.

Who continued to dig his hole deeper. "That kid's full of shit."

Berat slid another sheet of paper across the table. "Your fingerprints are all over the windowsill of the car he was driving."

"Yeah, cause he's all the time visiting my sister's ward. The two of 'em are attached at the hip, always talking in not American so we can't understand."

Jamie rolled his eyes. "Who wants to tell him American isn't a language?"

Inside the room, Rooster spoke for the first time, his voice carefully neutral. "Her ward?"

White's gaze shot to Rooster leaning against the wall, and some of his jitteriness calmed. Sensing an ally, Jamie supposed, in the man who looked and sounded the most like him in the room. "Yeah," he said, a half-smile exposing his stained teeth. "Deidra lets her stay. Puts a roof over her head."

"And that's about all," Matt remarked beside Jamie.

"State don't give her nearly enough for it."

"So you do," Rooster said. "With the money you make from selling meth."

White deflated, the smile slipping from his face.

"Here's the problem, Darien," Aidan said, drawing the criminal's attention back to him. "Your prints are also all over the stolen tags you put on Angel's car. You weren't filling in for someone. You hijacked that truck out from under another driver's nose. We have his statement."

Jamie didn't think it was possible for White's skin to blanch more, but as Aidan continued, he continued to edge toward ghostly.

"You coerced Angel into being your accomplice by having your sister hold his friend hostage so he'd show up at the port and help you steal that truck. Then, you had him ferry the stolen goods to another party for you."

"We don't care about a meth head," Rooster said. "You're not worth my time to prosecute. Rate you're going, you'll overdose or cross the wrong person soon enough."

He gulped, audibly enough for Jamie to hear through the speaker.

"Or maybe you already did," Rooster said. "That's the person we want."

"Did you know what you were transporting?" Berat asked.

"You don't have to answer that," White's PD said.

He glanced his direction. "But I got nothin' to hide. I didn't know." He turned back to Berat. "It was just a briefcase."

"The value of its contents put you squarely in grand theft territory."

Rooster hummed. "Maybe I'll rethink that prosecution."

White mumbled a curse and skated a shaking hand through his hair.

"Doing the math, Darien?" Aidan said. "With your record, that's three strikes. Twenty-five years in prison. I wonder how many people in there you've crossed."

Too many, apparently. Tipping point reached, White lurched forward, beseeching. "Okay, look, I got upside down on some stuff. I owe money to this guy, Pudge."

"Pudge?"

"Patrick something, skinny, freckled fucker. He runs stuff, I don't know for who. He said I do this one run, and my debts would be clear."

"And you were too much of a chickenshit to do it yourself."

"Look, I needed a hit, but I needed to get clear too."

"That's why you called Angel back in?" Aidan's voice vibrated with anger. "Because you got fucked up?"

"He did good at the port, distracting folks like I told him, and I knew he'd do it again. Anything for that girl." He rolled his eyes and puffed out his chest, sneering. "Sorry excuse for a faggot."

On the other side of the glass, Berat's arm flung in front of Aidan was the only reason Aidan didn't get his hands around White's neck, while on Jamie's side, Matt's arm around his middle was the only thing keeping Jamie from barreling through the door to his husband.

White tried to push his chair back, away from the immediate threat, and missed the one he'd thought friendly before. Quicker than Jamie could blink away the red in his own gaze, Rooster was beside the table, a foot hooked around the leg of White's chair, foiling his escape.

"Did you know who Angel was delivering that briefcase to?" Rooster demanded. "All you told him was a white guy in a black Benz on the third floor of the P-7 at LAX." When White didn't answer, Rooster leaned closer, a shark's grin curling one corner of his mouth. "You know, maybe I will prosecute you. For attempted murder."

"How do you get that?" White protested.

Rooster grabbed the front of his shirt and hauled him nose to nose. Every word he bit out was full of the same anger that had colored Aidan's voice earlier. "Because you sent a kid to a meet not knowing a name, with only half the information he needed to survive it. What stops mister mysterious from just ending him right there? Making your and your sister's lives a hell of a lot easier. You get your money and keep collecting from the state. Sounds premeditated to me. And with that silly snake tattoo on your arm, I'm sure I can sell it to a jury. One less brown faggot in your lily-white world." He shoved White back in his chair, hard enough to make it wobble on two legs. "I don't take kindly to assholes who set kids up. Especially ones like me."

White brought the chair down, barely, and darted a gaze at Aidan and Berat. "Are you just going to let him threaten me like that? You're cops. He can't do that."

"My husband's in the other room," Aidan said.

"And I'm brown too," Berat said, waving a hand in front of his face. "Also very gay."

White took up knee bouncing again, the speed increasing as Rooster propped a hip on the table and crossed his arms over his puffed-out chest, a much more intimidating display than White's earlier. "News flash, despite what your cult leads you to believe, us queer folk are in the criminal justice and law enforcement systems, and just your luck, you got them all on your case. You're outnumbered, you racist, homophobic junkie, so start talking."

White glanced at his PD, who remained as quiet as he had throughout the interrogation. Finding no help, he finally folded. "Fine. Pudge told me his name was Arty. Arty Martino."

"Shit," Jamie cursed.

"You know him?" Matty asked.

"Arthur Martino was a mob fence Aidan and Tom put away a decade ago." He remembered Arty's name from the case file index he'd reviewed again yesterday.

Judging by Aidan's stiff frame, he'd made the connection too. But before Jamie could tap on the window or open the door to confirm, Aidan's phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, an incoming call from Danny lighting up the screen. "Danny, it's Jamie," he answered. "Aidan's right in the middle?—"

"There's been another theft," Danny said, cutting him off. "And this one's on us."