Things We Hide from the Light: Chapter 30

The smell of pizza wafted through the open windows of Knox’s truck. I was camped out in a strip mall parking lot in Arlington. Across the street was a block of row homes that had seen better days.

I was waiting for Wendell Baker, a.k.a. Chubby Goatee Guy. He was beefy, white, balding, and an enforcer for the Hugo family who wore too many gold chains and always had a toothpick in his mouth. According to Tina’s questionable intel, Baker collected a paycheck from Anthony Hugo but was tight enough with Duncan that his loyalties were divided.

Authorities hadn’t been able to tie Baker to the abduction and shootout, which meant he was free to go about his business. And I was free to follow him…hopefully to a pristine 1948 Porsche 356 convertible.

So far, however, Baker had gotten out of bed at 11:00 a.m., grabbed a Grande at Burritos to Go, and then paid his brother’s girlfriend a visit that involved unzipping his fly on the front porch before she even answered the door.

Classy guy.

My phone rang again.

“Seriously, people? When did I get so popular?”

I’d already had calls from my mom about Dad’s birthday gift, Stef wondering if I was planning to sweat with the oldies at the gym this week, and Sloane, who had forced me to volunteer for something called Book or Treat the following night at the library. Not to mention the text from Naomi telling me she’d given my number to Fi and hoped that was okay. That was followed by a group text from Fi, Max, and Silver from Honky Tonk recapping all the best fictional versions of my run-in with Tate Dilton.

Apparently I had broken a bottle over his head, then shoved him backward into a vat of fryer oil. No one was sure where the vat of oil came from but everyone agreed that it was hilarious watching him crawl out of the bar like human escargot.

That was when I saw the caller ID.

I almost let it go to voicemail before deciding that was the coward’s way out.

“I assume you found your way out of my apartment,” I said by way of a greeting.

“Why the hell am I hearing about you and Dilton from a U.S. marshal and my dumbass brother instead of you?” Nash demanded.

“First of all, I’d like verification that you did leave my place. Second, when exactly did we have time for a conversation last night? Third—and this is the most important one, so pay attention—what business is it of yours?”

“We spent the night together, Angelina.” His voice went gravelly on my name and I pointedly ignored the delicious shiver that rolled up my spine. “That’s plenty of time for you to say ‘Hey, Nash. I was accosted in public by the asshole you suspended.’”

His impression of me was terrible.

“And then what? You’d have said ‘Don’t you worry, little lady. I’ll make sure you’re never alone so the big, drunk wolf can’t be a dick to you’? Also, I don’t remember it fostering a chatty atmosphere when you showed up mid panic attack at my door.”

“Dilton is my problem, not yours. If he’s trying to make it yours, I need to know.”

That at least made sense. “Fine.”

My agreement temporarily shut him down. “Well, okay then. Now, I heard that he approached you, then you threw him through a plate glass window,” he said, sounding amused.

I snorted at that one. “Really? Because I heard I dunked him in a vat of fryer oil.”

“But what I’m most interested in is he approached you and started running his mouth. Why and about what?”

“I made eye contact with him. He was drunk and disorderly and getting rammy so I looked at him until he looked at me back.”

“Need I remind you that with great female power comes great female responsibility?”

I rolled my eyes. “I wasn’t trying to become a target or start shit, Chief. I was just trying to distract him from riling up the staff. Max definitely would have deep-fried his ass last night.”

“Still don’t like it, but fair enough.”

“How generous of you.”

“Tell me what he said to you.”

“He asked if I was your bitch and then gave me a message to give to you. Said it was time to take you down a peg or two. I, of course, insulted his intelligence.”

“Of course,” Nash said dryly.

“Then he tried to pretend he was a cop who could take me downtown until I found my manners. I may have mentioned that I knew he didn’t have a badge anymore and wondered how you’d feel about him impersonating a police officer. Then he insulted me and the women of Knockemout, and just when things were getting interesting, as in fried food being thrown, a bystander and Nolan stepped in.”

There was a stony silence on Nash’s end.

“You still there, hotshot?”

“Yeah,” he said finally.

I didn’t know it was possible to pack so much anger into one tiny syllable.

I rocked my head back against the seat. “It was fine, Nash. He was never going to get physical. Not in there. Not with me. He was drunk and stupid but not drunk and stupid enough to forget that a physical altercation with a woman in a public place would be the end of him.”

There was more silence.

“Nash? Are you stabbing that spot between your eyebrows right now?”

“No,” he lied, sounding a little sheepish.

“It’s your tell. You should do something about it.”

“Angelina?”

“Yeah.”

“I meant what I said. Dilton is my problem. If he tries to contact you again, I need to know.”

“Got it,” I said softly.

“Good.”

“How are you feeling? Not that I care,” I added quickly.

“Better. Solid. I kicked Knox’s ass at Career Day,” he said smugly.

“Literally or metaphorically? Because with you two, it could go either way.”

“Bit of both. You sleep okay?” Nash asked.

I’d slept like the dead. Just like I did every time I was in bed with Nash.

“Yeah,” I said, not willing to give him more.

“What’s that psychology minor say about a girl who doesn’t like to be touched except by the guy who just keeps pissing her off?”

“That she has serious emotional issues that need to be addressed.”

His laugh was soft. “Have lunch with me, Angel.”

I sighed. “I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Mostly can’t. I’m not in town.”

“Where are you?”

“Arlington.”

“Why?”

I wasn’t falling for the “come on, you can tell me anything” tone. But I also had nothing to hide.

“I’m waiting for Wendell Baker.” I told him.

“You’re doing what?” He was back to using his cop voice again.

“Don’t be dramatic. You know what I mean and who he is.”

“You’re surveilling muscle for an organized crime family?” he demanded.

And there he was, my pissed-off, overprotective-for-no-reason, next-door pain in the ass.

“I’m not asking for permission, Nash.”

“Good. Because I sure as hell wouldn’t give it,” he said.

“You are infuriating, and I want off this merry-go-round.”

“Convince me this is a good idea.”

“I don’t have to. It’s my job. My life,” I insisted.

“Fine. I’ll come down there running lights and sirens.”

“Jesus, Nash. I run trainings on surveillance strategies. I’m damn good at it. I don’t need to justify my job to you.”

“It’s dangerous,” he countered.

“Need I remind you that you’re the one who got shot on the job.”

There was a noise on his end of the call.

“Did you just growl at me?”

“Shit,” he muttered. “I don’t know. Every day with you is a new fucking surprise.”

I took the tiniest bit of pity on him. “Look, with the heat the feds have brought to Anthony Hugo’s activities, no one is doing anything. I’ve been sitting on two of these guys for days. All they do is eat, have sex with women who should know better, and go to the gym. Maybe hit a strip club. I’m not looking to catch them committing a crime. All I need is for one of them to lead me to a stash house. Even if Duncan is long gone, that car might still be here.”

“I still can’t believe you’re doing all this for a damn car.”

“It’s not just any damn car. It’s a 1948 Porsche 356 convertible.”

“Fine. All this for a small, old car.”

“That small, old car is worth over half a million bucks. And just like everything else we insure, its cash value is one thing. The sentimental value is something else entirely. This car is part of a family’s story. The past three generations have gotten married and driven off in this car. There’s a vial of their grandfather’s ashes in the trunk.”

“Shit. Fine. Damn it. I want you checking in with me every half hour. If you’re even one minute late, I’ll show up and blow your cover so fast it’ll make your head spin.”

“I don’t have to agree to any of this,” I pointed out. “You keep acting like we’re in some kind of relationship when we’re clearly not.”

“Baby, you and I both know there’s something here even if you’re too scared to acknowledge that.”

“Scared? You think I’m scared?”

“I think I have you shaking in those sexy high-heeled boots of yours.”

He was not wrong, which pissed me off more.

“Yeah. Shaking with rage. Thanks for making me regret answering the phone.”

“Every thirty minutes, I want a text.”

“What do I get out of this deal?”

“I’ll go through whatever crime scene files I can get from the warehouse. See if there’s anything in those files that might lead you to your damn car.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. I’ll give you whatever I find over dinner tonight.”

It was like a dance number we were locked in. Two steps forward, two steps back. Get drawn together. Get pissed off. Rinse. Repeat. Sooner or later, one of us had to end the dance.

“I don’t like that you don’t think I can do my job.”

“Angel, I know you’re damn good at your job. I know you can handle yourself better than most. But eventually, someone will sneak past those defenses. And in your line of work, the consequences are a hell of a lot more serious.”

He was speaking from personal experience.

“I have to go.”

“Every thirty minutes. Dinner tonight,” he said.

“Fine. But you’d better bring me something useful and the food better be good.”

“Don’t get involved. Don’t do anything to draw attention to yourself,” he warned.

“I’m not an amateur, Nash. Now leave me alone.”

“Don’t do anything to draw attention to yourself,” I said, mimicking Nash. I was in the same spot, just one hour more bored and more uncomfortable. I’d texted the man twice with his stupid, required proof of life, selfies with the middle finger. He’d responded with pictures of Piper. Baker had yet to show his face again. And my ass was asleep.

I was starting to wonder if the thrill of the hunt was only exciting because the rest of the job was so damn boring by comparison. Was it really worth it?

I thought about the position opening up in the company’s High Net Assets department. Bigger risk, bigger reward, bigger thrill. But did I really want to dedicate the rest of my working life to chasing the thrill? On the other hand, the idea of supervisory work gave me the heebie-jeebies. All those people needing to be managed? Ugh.

But what else could I do? What else would I be good at?

Those were questions that had to wait for another day, because a man in leather and denim carrying a bouquet of grocery store flowers strolled up onto the row home stoop like he owned the place.

Apparently he did, because he produced a key and opened the front door.

I sat up straighter and grabbed my binoculars just as Wendell Baker’s brother headed inside.

“Oh shit. This isn’t good.”

The shouting started shortly after that.

Okay. This wasn’t great. But as long as they kept it verbal—

The brother exited his house…through the front window…which was closed.

“Fuck.” I groaned and reached for my phone as glass shattered.

Buck-naked Wendell Baker stomped out the front door. A woman in a rock band T-shirt and nothing else appeared behind him and started screaming. The leather and denim-clad brother got to his feet in time to take a right cross to the jaw.

“911. What’s your emergency?”

“This is Lina Solavita. I’m an investigator for Pritzger Insurance. There’s a naked man assaulting someone on the sidewalk.” I gave the dispatcher the address, and as she repeated it back to me, the woman vaulted over the railing onto Baker’s back and got an arm around his throat. He bucked forward trying to unseat his attacker, which unfortunately afforded me a front row seat to view both of their butts.

“Now there’s a woman assaulting the naked man.”

“I have two units in the area responding,” the dispatcher said. “Is the woman naked too?”

“She’s wearing a Whitesnake T-shirt and nothing else.”

“Huh. Good band.”

The brother got to his feet again and rammed his shoulder into Baker’s gut, driving the man back against the concrete steps. I thought of Nash’s bruised jaw and Knox’s black eye and wondered if all brothers fought like this.

“Does anyone have any weapons?” the dispatcher asked.

“None that I can see. Naked guy definitely didn’t come armed.”

The brothers broke apart and Whitesnake lady slithered off Baker’s back. The brother reached behind his back and produced a large knife.

“Shit,” I muttered. “Now there’s a knife in play.”

Just then, two kids exited the house next door and stood transfixed by the scene before them.

“And now there are two kids watching.”

“Officers are en route. Two minutes out.”

Someone could poke a lot of holes in two minutes.

The brother jumped forward and made the wild slashing motion of an amateur.

Nash’s words rang in my head again. But it was either do nothing or let two idiots murder each other in front of children.

I tossed my phone on the seat, opened the door, and laid on the horn.

When I had their attention, I stood on the running board and shouted, “Cops are on the way.”

Both brothers started toward me.

“Seriously?” I muttered. “Why are criminals so stupid?”

I was laying on the horn again as they crossed the street when I finally heard the sound of distant sirens.

They stopped in the middle of the street, debating whether they had enough time to get to me.

I heard the squeal of tires behind me. A white panel van rolled up behind Knox’s truck and the door slid open.

A man in a ski mask hopped out, grabbed me by the wrist, and dragged me toward the van.

The brothers were running at us now.

“Get in,” Ski Mask said, pulling a gun out of the waistband of his pants. But he didn’t aim it at me. He aimed it in the direction of the advancing brothers.

“Um. Okay.”