Chapter 25: Lovely Beast: Chapter 25

Visiting Nicolas in prison is a lot harder without Angelo, but I refuse to admit that I need him here to keep me calm. I don’t need anything from anyone, at least that’s what I’m telling myself, even if I keep thinking about Angelo’s voice, the way he would stand slightly in front of me like he was shielding me from the world, the way he would check in and make sure I was okay.

Really, I’m so damn terrified all the time, from the moment I wake up to the second I close my eyes at night, and it never goes away.

Nicolas looks better. The bruises are faded and he’s sitting up straighter like his ribs aren’t bothering him anymore. He seems almost in a good mood as he grins at me from across the table.

“I didn’t expect you to show up alone,” he says and drums his fingers on the table. “Where’s Angelo at?”

“Angelo and I aren’t working together anymore.” I do my best to keep the nerves from my voice. I expected him to ask and I’m glad we’re getting it out of the way up front. “I’m only here to ask you a few questions about what happened.”

His eyebrows raise. “You two get in a fight or something? Angelo’s got a rough exterior, but he’s a good guy on the inside. I doubt anyone else would drop everything to fly down here just to try to pull my ass out of prison.”

“Our plans changed, that’s all.” I sit up straight and give him my best no-bullshit lawyer stare. “If you wouldn’t mind, let’s focus on the case, since we don’t have a lot of time.” I begin asking him questions before he has the chance to push the Angelo thing harder, and he reluctantly starts telling me everything he remembers, starting from the moment he pulled up to the Two Lane and ending with when he left.

There’s nothing new. At least his story hasn’t changed, which is a good sign. I wasn’t sure if I could trust him at first, but the more I get involved in this case, the more I’m sure he got caught up in something bigger than him.

“I wish I had more to say, but that’s all,” he says, looking slightly more defeated. “I have to admit I’m not feeling great about my chances right now.”

“Are you sure you didn’t notice anything off about the motel room? Anything at all, no matter how minor?” I want to push him on the crime scene more but I also can’t lead him into giving me the answer I want. This is being recorded and if I’m going to use it in court, it has to be perfect.

“There were a lot of bodies and there was a lot of blood.” He clears his throat and leans forward. “I told you, I was busy freaking out. I didn’t see much. It’s kind of hard to take things in when there are, like, five corpses staring at you.”

“What about the walls? The carpets? Anything on the tables?”

“Uh, everything was bloody. And…” He trails off, hesitating. “Okay, this could be something. There were bullet holes everywhere, like the place was totally lit up, but there weren’t any shell casings. I remember thinking that as I backed out of there. I didn’t step on a single one. Someone must’ve shot, like, a few dozen times, but there wasn’t a single casing anywhere.”

My heart starts racing. That’s it, right there. I try not to let my excitement show as I nod to myself and takes notes. “Where could the casings have gone? Explain like I don’t know anything about guns.” Which I don’t.

“Well, when bullets fire, the back little part of it gets ejected from the gun. The holes in the walls were pretty big, which means the guns were powerful, which means the bullets were pretty large. A few dozen holes means a few dozen big casings and that many would be impossible to miss. It seems like whoever did that shooting also bent over and picked up the spent casings after it was done.”

I nod to myself and clear my throat. “Okay, that’s good. I’m going to walk through this again. You said there were a lot of holes in the wall?”

“Oh, sure, tons of them.”

“Meaning someone shot a lot of bullets.”

“Right.” He tilts his head. “I mean, there were five dead guys, so—”

“And if there were a lot of bullets, that means there were a lot of bullet casings.”

“True, that’s right.”

“Which means whoever did that crime also spent a lot of time cleaning it up.”

He leans back, his mouth open. “Well, okay, yeah, I hadn’t thought of that. It must’ve taken… I don’t know, it must’ve taken a while to pick each and every one up.”

Adrenaline pumps into my blood. I lean closer to him and lower my voice. “I think whoever did this hit was able to make it disappear. I think they cleaned up their tracks, took their time, really swept the room, before bribing or threatening all the employees at the Two Lane.”

“Motherfuckers,” he whispers back, blinking rapidly. “They know I didn’t do it.”

“I think so.”

“Then that freaking maintenance guy—”

“He lied, Nicolas,” I tell him with a gleam in my eye. I consider showing him the interview Detective Vance did with Wally but decide against it. That’s my smoking gun, the real proof that it wasn’t Nicolas, and if he goes around blabbing to the wrong guys, some jailhouse snitch might ruin this for all of us. “And I think we can prove it, or at least we can cast enough doubt to get you out of here.”

“Holy shit.” Laughter bubbles up from his chest. “I honestly didn’t think this would happen.” He grins huge, and there’s a renewed excitement and hope in his eyes. “No offense or whatever, I just didn’t think it would happen, that’s all.”

I smile at him and nod like I understand. “I’m not promising anything, but there are too many holes in the story. There’s too much uncertainty. No matter how badly the prosecution wants to pin this on you, I don’t think it’ll stick.”

“Fuck.” He sighs and leans his head back. “You know, I really was starting to think I’d never see the outside again.” He sinks down in his chair with a groan. “It’s going to be good to walk around a free man again.”

“Just hang in there and we’ll get this figured out. Until then, think back to everything you saw in that room and tell me any details you remember, no matter how insignificant. Write them all down if you can.”

“I will.”

I push my chair back and stand.

Nicolas flashes me another charming smile. “Thank you. Seriously.”

“Just doing my job.”

I leave him there. The guards take me back out through the lobby, and I stand on the front steps breathing the fresh air. Back inside, Nicolas is probably being taken to his cell again where he’ll stay for a while longer, at least until I can finally gather all my evidence and get him out.

For a second, I can almost feel like myself again. Following this case, figuring it out, working all the angles—it makes me feel like I’m alive, like I’m smart and capable, like I’m more than just a girl that follows orders and tries not to break any rules. I’m saving someone right now and that’s a good feeling. I’m worth something.

Slowly, I head down the steps. I try not to think about what’s waiting for me at home. A pink bedroom, an old desk, a version of myself that I thought I’d grown out of. And my father and my mother, their disappointment, their control, the big quiet house with all my ancient memories. I’m not that girl anymore but I’m also still her and staying in my old room in my old house is slowly warping me back into the shape my parents want.

I slow as I approach my car. I parked way in the back, as far on the other side of the lot as I could, mostly because I wanted to stay in the shade. A big black pick-up truck is parked next to me and the doors pop open when I’m close. Two men get out, and my feet go numb with terror.

Detective John and Mustache stand side by side, staring at me, getting between me and my car.

Nothing happens. Detective John looks tired and pale. Mustache is more or less what I pictured: craggy, thick facial hair, cheap cowboy hat, slim denim jeans, boots. He looks like a walking cliché, like he’s about to rope cattle or go eat barbecue.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” I finally ask, breaking the tense silence.

“Depends.” Mustache spits on the ground. “What did you tell your client in there?”

“That’s between me and him, or have you forgotten about privilege?”

“Fuck privilege,” Detective John says. “And fuck you, stuck-up bitch. What did you tell him?” He steps closer and I’m very aware that we’re all alone in the parking lot. Even though we’re at the far side, we’re still within sight of the prison, which means lots of cameras. The guards inside might hear me screaming, and these two aren’t stupid enough to hurt me where they’ll get caught.

“I didn’t tell him about the interview, if that’s what you’re wondering.” I do my best to pull my walls together. I keep my insides frozen and glare at them, mustering all my scorn into my stare. “What do you think he’d do if he knew the cops were the ones fucking him? That it was your brothers-in-arms that murdered those cartel men?”

“Allegedly,” Mustache says.

“What we did or did not do is none of your concern. I don’t know how many times I have to keep doing this, Sara. But I’m sick of having conversations. Now I’m going to you why you can’t talk.”

He walks toward me. Mustache grins viciously. I back away, hands raised, and drop my briefcase on the ground. It clatters, bounces. “You can’t do this,” I say, heart racing, a sick fear rising in my throat. Oh, god, my baby, if they hurt me, if they beat me, what will happen to my baby? “The prison. There are cameras—”

“You stupid girl,” Detective John says viciously. “You really fucking think we can’t make that go away too? You’re on turf.”

He reaches for me, and I yank away before he can lock his fingers around my arm. My heart’s going wild and all I can think is , as I stagger back, nearly turning my ankle in my low heels. I turn and run, arms working, and Detective John chases, with Mustache on his heels. I’m freaking out, gasping for air, trying to keep it together. If I can reach the lobby, the guards will have to do something—they won’t stand by and watch these men beat me to death—

A car pulls up and slams on its brakes a couple feet away from me. Detective John curses and I stagger, trip, and fall. I catch myself on my hands and gasp as my knee gets skinned and my palms dig into the gravelly asphalt. I turn, look back over my shoulder, and suck in a breath as Angelo gets out of his car, a gun drawn and aimed at Detective John’s chest.

The detectives both freeze, looking horrified, enraged, and afraid.

“Turn around and leave,” Angelo says. His voice is shockingly calm, despite the fact that he’s brandishing a weapon barely fifty feet from a prison.

“You stupid cocksucker,” Detective John growls. “You’re making a mistake.”

“Turn around and leave before I kill you right here and now. You think I can’t get away with it? You think I can’t put two in your chest, one in your partner’s skull, and drive off into Mexico for a few years? You know what I am, Detective. Turn around and leave.”

Detective John’s teeth grind together. Mustache puts a hand on his arm. “Come on,” Mustache says.

“Fuck you,” Detective John spits out. “You’re dead, Angelo. You are dead.”

“Leave,” Angelo repeats.

Detective John stands there seething for another second before he lets Mustache pull him away. Both cops walk to their truck, and Angelo remains standing there waiting until they drive off. Only then does he holster his gun and turn to me.

I stare at him, sick to my stomach, in pain and afraid. He walks over and extends a hand.

I stare at it without moving.

“I didn’t want to see you,” I say quietly.

He laughs once sharply. “That’s an interesting way of saying thanks.”

I glare at him, but I take his offered hand and he helps me stand. “Why are you here? What are you doing?”

“If it helps, I wasn’t following you.” His eyes narrow as he looks toward the road. “I was following them.”

I let that sink in. He was tailing Detective John and his little mustache pal, whoever that guy is. Angelo must know how dangerous it is to do something reckless like that, and yet here he is, and I’m glad he did it. Otherwise, I don’t know what would’ve happened to me.

“Thanks for helping,” I say and brush past him. “But I meant it when I told Carmine I don’t want to work with you anymore.”

“Don’t sit on that interview,” Angelo says. I hurry to my car, hands shaking. My stomach churns and my throat feels thick and I’m afraid I’ll vomit on the ground but I manage to unlock my doors. “Whatever you’re planning, do it soon.”

He stands a few feet away like he doesn’t want to come too close. I look back and it breaks my heart—he’s staring at me with a strange intensity, like he can’t look away, like all he wants in the whole world is to walk over and take me in his arms and kiss me.

And a piece of me wants that too.

Except I think of my baby. I think of my future. And I look down at the ground.

“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.” I get into the car and shut the door.

He doesn’t move as I start the engine and back out. He watches as I drive away, face twisted in pain. My hands tremble and tears roll down my face, and I hate leaving him like that, especially after what he just did.

For all I know, he saved my life and the life of our child.

No, not child.

child and mine alone.

I have to keep going. I have to stay the course. I’m doing the right thing—I always do the right thing—no matter how badly it kills me.

Though he’s right.

I’m out of time.