Page 30 of Playing for Keeps
Del’s fingers clenched the phone. Renaldo Wimbley was a drug kingpin who was the subject of his last case while he was with the DEA.
“Okay,” Del answered recalling the subpoena he’d stuck in his desk drawer at home. He’d wanted this case and that chapter in his life out of sight and out of mind for as long as possible. Apparently, that wasn’t long enough.
“I know I can’t tell you what to say when you take the stand, but I wanted to remind you that—”
“No.” He snapped, cutting Clark off and shook his head before realizing the guy couldn’t see him. “You don’t have to remind me. I know what to say and more importantly what not to say.” In the end, everything had rested on what Del hadn’t said or done, including a woman’s life.
“It’s a delicate situation, Del,” Clark continued.
“I know,” he replied even though he still didn’t totally understand what had happened. All he knew for certain was that he’d been the only one from the team to resign from the Agency. The only one who saw a problem with how things had played out the night of the raid on The Xstasy Club.
And probably the only one who felt guilty about Shannen Cranston’s death.
“Look, I’ve got my own attorney and we’ve gone over the testimony I’m going to give. So, you don’t have to worry.”
“I wasn’t worried.” Clark lied.
Special Agent Clark Jones was deathly afraid of what Del could say, because in one sentence, Del could end Clark’s illustrious career with the DEA and take a few politicians and other law enforcement agents down with him. But Del had no intention of doing that. Not now because all of that stuff was behind him.
“I just wanted you to know it was coming up, so you’ll be prepared to face Wimbley again.”
“I’m not afraid of him,” Del said. “I never was.” Which was all the more reason why testifying in this case was probably a very bad idea. Wimbley wasn’t the forgiving type, nor was he the type to ever forget a face.
Clark cleared his throat. A sign that he didn’t like what Del had just said. Del didn’t give a damn. He didn’t work for Clark anymore and he definitely didn’t need the guy’s approval of what he thought or said.
“So, thanks for the heads up. Guess I’ll see you next week.” There was no need in prolonging the call and besides that, Del had nothing but contempt for Clark and all the others that were wore the badge but acted like him.
“Yeah, see you next week,” Clark replied and the call was disconnected.
Del pressed the button to clear the call from the screen and the call log on his phone. He stuck the phone in his back pocket and yanked open the door to the bar. Stepping back inside to the heat and the noise, he tried to find his center once again. Breathing in deeply, out slowly, he let the combined sounds of the televisions, music and guests chatting remind him of who and where he was now. He was a business owner, not a DEA agent. His job was to help run this bar and restaurant, not take down national drug lords or protect confidential informants.
But he couldn’t help but remember the time when that was his job and he’d failed dismally. Flexing his fingers at his side, he started moving, cutting through the tables of people and heading past the bar. He pushed through the kitchen doors and walked by the shelves of pots and pans and supplies, the two large sub-zero freezers and a host of sous chefs and waitstaff, to another door. This one led to staff bathrooms, the storeroom and two offices that the guys all shared. Del went into one of those offices and slammed the door closed behind him. He paced back and forth across the ten by ten space, trying to tamp down on his temper as the memories came crashing back, and with them the guilt and disappointment. Not that he’d felt, but as Del had always thought his mother would’ve felt if she’d lived to see what he’d done.
“Hey, you alright?” Lance asked the moment he opened the door and stepped inside.
When Del only stopped pacing and looked up at him, Lance closed the door.
“What happened? Jeret said you took a call outside. Who was it?”
He almost didn’t answer Lance’s question. Talking about his problems wasn’t something Del subscribed to. But Lance wasn’t just his twin—making them even closer and more in tune with each other than anyone else in the world—he’d also worked in law enforcement as a homicide detective at the Metropolitan Police Department. Which meant Lance was just as good as Del, if not better, at knowing when someone was lying.
“My old supervisor. He wanted to give me a heads up about the trial next week.”
Lance knew the whole story. He was the only one Del had told every sordid detail to. The other brothers knew the reasons behind Del’s resignation, they just didn’t know the background emotional stuff. Some things only a twin could know.
Lance came over and sat on the side of the desk. He hated the chairs in the offices because he said they weren’t built for men over six feet tall.
“Did you tell him to jerk off?” Lance asked snidely.
Del shook his head. “I should have.”
“Look, you knew the trial was coming up and you know what you have to do. Just do it and get it over with. Don’t let that asshole try to persuade you to do things his way. You don’t work for him anymore.”
“I didn’t do things his way when I worked for him,” Del said. “And look what happened as a result.”
Lance shook his head. “That investigation was bound to go bad, man. We both know that.”
Del stopped pacing. He dragged his hands down his face and took a deep breath before letting it out slowly.
