Becoming Rain
Page 89

The elevator ride up is silent, Luke leaning back against the wall, his eyes closed. No doubt exhausted. I’m exhausted, and I’m used to going a full day without sleep. Still, my mind frantically works to find a way into his condo without sounding forceful. “Hey, with everything going on, I couldn’t find where I put Stanley’s leash last night. Let me go grab it? Stanley’s less obedient in the morning for some reason. I’ll bring Licks home, too.”
“Yeah, sure,” Luke says absently, his keys dangling from his fingers. I pull them from him with a smile, unlocking the door, giving me the advantage of walking into his condo first. Everything looks the exact same, right down to half a glass of red wine sitting on the kitchen counter and the brown Thai food take-out bag.
I move through quickly, pretending to search for the leash—that I didn’t forget to give to Bridgette when I dropped off the dogs—with my gun hidden between my purse and my rib cage. If my behavior seems erratic, Luke doesn’t seem to notice, dropping down into his couch, his head hung, his elbows resting on his knees.
My heart aches for him, in a way that it isn’t supposed to, in a way that isn’t allowed. I force it down to focus on the more critical matters at hand.
“Weird. Can’t find it,” I call out when I’ve checked the last closet and can clear Luke’s condo from any crazy Russians wanting to exact more punishment. Slipping my gun back in my purse, I squeeze Luke’s shoulder. “Let me go grab the boys. I’ll be back.”
I duck out and run down the hall, cutting chitchat with Bridgette short and forcing Licks to gallop behind me. Luke has moved into his bedroom and shut the door behind him. I can hear the shower running.
So I quickly update Warner.
“Sinclair made some calls. We’ve got jurisdiction on the murder now. We’re running a couple of partials from the SUV. See if that gives us anything we can use. Anything on that end? Phone calls? Visitors?” he asks.
“Nope. Nothing.”
“That’ll change soon. The media’s all over this now.”
Shit. We haven’t so much as glanced at the TV since last night. Reporters can be insensitive assholes, creating ugly headlines to hype a story with little consideration for the people it impacts.
My body is starting to ache. “Okay. I’m going to grab a bit of sleep, before I accidently shoot someone.”
“Keep your phone by your ear. I’ve got eyes on the outside.” There’s a pause and then he asks, “What does your gut say? Do you think he’s going to spill?”
“Too soon to tell. Right now he needs some space.” I make sure my tone leaves no room for persuasion.
“Okay. Be ready. Once the shock wears off, these guys tend to do stupid things, and fast.”
Not Luke. That’s just not him. But I don’t say that to Warner because he wouldn’t understand.
I make sure every deadbolt is latched in place and then, drawing the blinds, I set my purse on the ground for easy access to my gun. Just in case. Peeling back layers until I’m left in nothing but my tank top and panties, my fingers graze the dragonfly pendant. Desperate for the day I no longer need to wear it. I know that day is coming soon. I just hope I’m strong enough to handle the aftermath.
I set it on the coffee table and stretch out on the couch, trying to catch an hour or two of sleep.
Sleep doesn’t come to me, though.
My eyes are fixed to that closed door, and the eerie silence behind it. The shower stopped running long ago.
And then I hear it. The first sob.
It seizes my heart in an instant. I don’t know if the microphone will pick that up. It’s pretty far away. But I grab the remote and throw on one of the music channels, just loud enough to kill any possibility. He has the right to suffer in private. I think Warner would understand that, and if he doesn’t . . . fuck all of them.
What none of them would understand is me tiptoeing from the living room to the closed door. Trying the handle, I find it unlocked. I slink in quickly, making sure not to make a sound as I shut it behind me. Daylight squeezes through the edges of the closed blinds in slits. Between that and the muted TV flashing in the corner, there’s enough light for me to see Luke’s towel-clad body lying on his bed, his back to me, one arm curled under his pillow.
Without a word, I crawl into bed, until my chest is pressed against his back and my arm is wrapped around his waist and my hand is curled within his. And I listen to him cry softly, his tears rolling down his cheeks to slide over my fingers.
Not until he quiets do I offer, “I’m so sorry, Luke. Really, I am.”
A deep, ragged breath lifts and drops his chest. “Vlad killed him. Or someone for Vlad.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s all over the news. They found him in a stolen black Mercedes SUV. That’s what we were lifting for Aref to ship overseas. He has a buyer in Africa who specifically wants black SUVs.”
“That’s what this illegal thing that you’re into is? Stolen cars?” It’s the first time he’s ever said it so blatantly.
“Yeah. Mainly chopped cars, but some high end. Rust has an organization through Portland, Seattle, San Francisco . . . basically the Western seaboard. He rounds them up on this side and Vlad sells them to buyers overseas. We ship them in Aref’s cargo ships and we split the profits. But Vlad started dicking Rust around, claiming higher payoffs to get people to look the other way. Rust was sure he was ripping him off. Then Aref stepped in, wanting to get in on some of the money. He had a buyer lined up in Africa. So, I convinced Rust to do a separate deal with him. That’s what that was about the other night. Vlad was pissed.”