Page 68 of Roma Queen
“The boy’s alive.”
That stops him dead in his tracks. He looks like he just stepped on a fucking land mine.
“Go to Zara’s apartment in an hour. You can pick him up and take him home. Yuri Petrov will think you walk on water for the rest of your fucking life.”
Holmes shakes his head. “Okay. Sure. If that happens…I’m sure he’ll be willing to stump up the forty. There’s something else, though. Your people need to leave Spokane.”
“What now?”
“Your clan. The Rivinvitsa.” He says the word like he knows what the fuck he’s talking about. “Having a large contingency of gyp—sorry,Romapeople in the area has made local government…edgy.”
“We’ve been coming through here for more than fifty years, asshole,” Patrin snaps. “We don’t cause any trouble. We’re not gonna leave just because some pen pusher sitting behind a desk in your town hall thinks we’re bad for PR.”
God, I knew he couldn’t maintain his silence forever. I send him a malevolent glare powerful enough to strip paint courtesy of the rearview mirror, but Patrin studiously ignores me. “We’ve been chased out of enough places over the years. We’ve been beaten and disrespected. Our children have been outcast and ostracized. We’ve been looked down on and spurned at every turn, and all because we don’t conform to some bullshit societal ideal, where we’re supposed to chain ourselves to one spot and work our fingers to the bone just so we can pay our taxes, and get ourselves into debt with fucking credit cards, and—”
“All right, all right! Jesus Christ! Fine!” Holmes holds up his hands, wincing. I sympathize with him. I’m accustomed to Patrin’s rants, but if you’re new to them they can be pretty fucking overwhelming. “I’ll figure that one out, but for the record, youdocause trouble. Those boysdidfucking rob a bank. They won’t have a choice. They will have to go. I don’t care where you send them, but that’s fair turnaround. They shit the bed here. There’s no way they’re gonna be invited to sleep over anymore.”
Patrin slowly closes his mouth.
“That’s fair,” I agree. I already know Patrin’s going to piss and moan about this clause, but he’s just going to need to learn how to be fucking grateful for what he’s getting. Jamus and Sam can go live with one of the other clans if they want to, or they can join the Rivin Clan whenever they’re not in Spokane, then go on fucking vacation or something. I’ll have no bones with telling them they’re not welcome within the state of Washington whatsoever, if they actually manage to get out of this thing unscathed. They’re probably not going to be too eager to come back here anyway, after a near miss with such a huge fucking prison sentence.
“Right then.” Holmes scratches at his chin, frowning at the dashboard. “I have to get everything signed off by the chief. He’s gonna be on the phone all night, greasing the wheels on this thing. He’s gonna fucking hate me.”
“No. He’ll fucking love you. You’re gonna be the guy who brings in a murderous, serial rapist pedophile. Everyone’s already forgotten about the boys who robbed the bank. This is gonna be news for months. You’ll make your career off the back of this deal and you know it.”
The fact that Holmes chooses not to say anything to this gives me the feeling that I’ve hit the nail on the head. Instead, he says, “Where is he, then? This guy, Lazlo? Your murderous, serial rapist pedophile? We’ll need to send a team to—”
“You won’t be needing a team.” My gaze flickers to the back of the car, and Patrin squirms in his seat uncomfortably as the detective turns and looks back over his shoulder. As if on cue, Lazlo wakes from his Patrin-induced coma and thuds helplessly at the trunk of the Mustang, moaning something offensive that only Patrin can hear.
When Holmes looks back at me, he’s already started to shake his head. “No. No, no, no. Not cool, man. You’ve got to be kidding me.” The detective bolts out of the passenger seat and hurries to the back of the vehicle, large fat flakes of snow landing on the shoulders of his leather jacket as he slaps his palm against the trunk. “Open it up, right now. Jesus, I don’t have any handcuffs.”
“Yeah, you’re not gonna need them.”
All the blood drains from Detective Holmes’ face. “If he’s dead, there’s no deal, you know that, right?
“Don’t panic, officer. The Roma just took their pound of flesh first is all. He’ll be able to stand trial in a couple of months or so. After a short stay in an ICU.” I pop the trunk, and Lazlo doesn’t try and lurch out of the cramped space this time. He starts cursing, spitting blood, and Detective Holmes draws his gun.
His eyes have lit up like it’s fucking Christmas morning. “Well, shit. Would you look at that. We’ve had an APB out on this guy for a long time. Except we know you as Malcolm Jarvis, don’t we, Mal? Three counts of murder. Another sexual assault. You’re an old school cold case come to life, huh, buddy?”
Patrin steps in front of the trunk. In front of Holmes’ gun, for that matter, putting himself in between the cop and the rapist. “Even better. If he’s doubly important to you people, then you should have no problem cutting our boys loose. Do we have a deal?”
Holmes regards Patrin with an air of disbelief. “You really are a jerk, you know that?”
I laugh into the cuff of my jacket, turning it into a fake coughing fit when Patrin sends me a withering look. My cousin holds out his hand, offering it to Detective Holmes. “Shake on it.”
“This isn’t the wild west, man.”
I heave a sigh. “Just do it. We’ll be here all night otherwise.”
Unhappy, Holmes shakes Patrin’s hand. Patrin nods and steps out of the way. “Take the sick fuck. And hold up your end, Detective. Do what you agreed to do.”
Holmes doesn’t strike me as a guy that takes threats well. He arches an eyebrow, eyes bouncing from me to Patrin and back again. “And if I don’t?” he challenges.
I don’t try and hide my laughter this time. “Oh, Ireallywouldn’t recommend it.”
Thirty-Three
ZARA
