Page 16 of Casualties of War
“Only you’re doing what you love.”
“I am,” he agreed. “So are you.”
She hesitated. “I am.” Her voice held a note of strain.
Bernie came back from the bedroom. “Basic lift latch,”he said. “Credit card would do it.”
“You need better locks, Mr. Caballero,” she said, pushing her notebook into her pocket. “We’ll file a report and ask around—fences and faces known to work the area. I wouldn’t hold my breath about getting your stuff back, though.”
He nodded. He hadn’t expected more than that. “I had to report it, though.”
“It helps us keep tabs on what’s moving around here,”she replied, her tone one of agreement. She put her cap back on. “We’ll see ourselves out.”
Adán watched the apartment door close behind them, puzzling out the odd, strained note in her voice.
What had that been about?
Two days later, he got his answer, for Officer Graves phoned to tell him she’d recovered his video player.
“You’re kidding,” he said, astonished.
“You gave us a serial number,so we know for sure it’s yours. Local fence had it. Couple of kids hocked it for chump change. He figured they were so young it was probably their parents’. Wanna come down to the station and pick it up?”
“I’m due on set this afternoon,” he said.
“You start in the afternoon?”
“It’s a night shoot. I hit the makeup chair this afternoon.” He wouldn’t get home until dawn. “What time does your shiftstart tomorrow?”
“Six. Will you be up that early?”
“I’ll still be awake. I’ll stop by on my way home.”
He was filming the sequel to the down-and-out cop movie. The first Smokey Silva movie had made such an obscene amount of money that double the funding for a sequel had been budgeted before the execs even thought about asking for it.
The night shoot was on a back lot parading as a New Yorkstreet during a rain storm. Adán spent the night soaked to the skin and wielding a blank-shooting Glock. The entire ten hours of filming involved a whole three lines of dialog.
Shakespeare it was not. The fans loved it, though.
He was physically tired after the night of running and climbing, yet his brain was wired. As he wheeled the car into the station parking lot, he was still weighing whetherhe should try to force himself to sleep or give in to his brain and do something constructive until sleep grabbed him naturally. He didn’t have to be back on set until tomorrow night.
Officer Graves was sitting behind a desk in the bullpen. She got to her feet when he reached the front desk. “I got it, Emile,” she told the sergeant at the desk. She held up a finger to Adán. “I’ll be right backwith your player. Just have to get it out of lock-up.”
He nodded and turned to consider the plastic molded chairs in the tiny reception area. Nearly all of them were taken. Everyone was looking at him with wide eyes, trying to figure out if he was just some guy who happened to look like Adán Caballero. In a moment or two, one of them would risk it and try to engage Adán in conversation.
Thenthe autograph requests would pile up.
Then someone would get to their feet and try to stand even closer to him than anyone else.
Then the shoving would start.
Adán cleared his throat and turned back to the desk, putting his back to them.
Emile lifted a brow. “Wanna wait in an interview room?” he asked.
Relief touched him. “That would be a good idea,” Adán admitted.
Emile crooked his fingers.
