XXX Shamus Page 7

  Keith grinned. “Girl knew what she was doing. She wasn’t like a porn star, but she knew what she wanted, told me how to do it. Most girls that age—”

  The lawyer cleared his throat and cut him off at the pass.

  “Anyway…she was a normal chick, I’ll say that. Most of those ‘student government’ types are all image in public, to their parents and teachers. They get away from home in college, you start to see their real personalities.”

  “Yasmin wasn’t ready for college.”

  A shrug. “I wish I had known. At that party you couldn’t tell her apart from the freshmen and sophomores. She was ready for something.”

  Hopper started thinking this was a waste of time. Maybe the dad was the one to question. He had the power and the money. This kid didn’t have enough concern for his own reputation to make Yasmin disappear. So maybe Sanchez set up a secret adoption, but Yasmin decided to keep the baby and took off on her own after all. Plenty of options.

  “You talk to her much after getting her pregnant?”

  Another glance to the lawyer. “Well, no. It was in my best interest not to, let the professionals handle that side of things.”

  “Did she try to contact you?”

  “Sure she did. Look, we got along fine and all. I liked her. It’s just, you know, we were drunk and got sloppy. Women’s biology. Who fucking knew?”

  “Yasmin must have. You might have been more careful after figuring out she wasn’t exactly a coed.”

  “I’m telling you, I didn’t fucking know.”

  “You had sex at a party once, and that was all, and she gets pregnant?”

  The lawyer said, “Come on, it happens. We’re not giving him a quiz.”

  Hopper said, “Maybe I’ve been lucky my whole life, never got anyone pregnant, and I’ve been around. Seems all the stars lined up perfectly for Keith and Yasmin on this one particular night, right?”

  Silence from all parties.

  “Because if I had to guess, buying more than one lottery ticket helps with the odds. That’s also biology, I think. Maybe you guys hit the jackpot with one try, but I’m thinking there must have been a few more chances.”

  The little lawyer grunted. “No one else had trouble with the first story.”

  Keith said, “Like I said, I liked her. We were having fun.”

  “And no condoms those other times, either?”

  “Once,” Keith answered immediately. Good, getting him riled. “I fucking pulled out those other times, though.”

  “When you were sober.”

  “I pulled out when I was drunk, too. I’m pretty sure.”

  “That’s so lame.”

  The boy wanted to fight, Hopper could tell. When people get pissed, they say what they mean and also say what they don’t mean. And it’s pretty obvious which is which. There was more psychology to it than Hopper’s mentors gave credit for.

  “You calling me a liar?”

  “Where did you meet her after the party? In your frat house? That would be embarrassing, bringing a high schooler to your place when it’s swimming with sorority tang. That was the best you could do?” Hopper stood, did a Columbo pace by the poolside. “I don’t think you’d come here either. If Dad happened to be home and catch you, he’d probably make you swim a hundred laps, go visit a prison and let them tell you what happens to child molesters, whatever.”

  “The fuck you mean, ‘child molester’?” Keith was out of the chair, fists clenched. Hopper regretted the wording, remembering his kiss with Janice earlier in the day. The lawyer was sure to shut him down soon, so Hopper shut everyone out and kept talking.

  “Same with her house. Her father might castrate you. So I’m thinking it was a hotel room, a friend’s house, in the car.”

  “It should be obvious. Who else is gonna help poor helpless Yasmin grow up a little?”

  Hopper caught on. Surprised him. “You’re kidding.”

  “Why not? Makes sense to me.”

  The sister.

  Hopper stared at the pool water, blue and sun-sparkled. He hated everyone involved with this mess except Yasmin, and he was disappointed in her, too. Mostly, it reminded him what a hypocrite he was when it came to sex. He said, “You should be arrested, you know. Arrested and humiliated and anything else to make sure you don’t grow up protected by your daddy and wealth.”

  When the impact came Hopper expected it, but it still knocked the wind out of him and he struggled to grab a breath as he fell into the pool, strong arms wrapped tightly around his torso and squeezing out the air in his lungs. Bubbles, frantic spinning, the chlorine burning his eyes as he tried to kick to the surface. The arms loosened and drifted away, and Hopper thrashed, wishing he had gills. He broke the surface and heaved in pool water, humid air. Choked up. Eyes still cloudy and on fire.

  Hopper slipped back under the surface before finding his footing and vision—not very deep. He got a line on some movement and launched himself towards it. Legs. Took ‘em down, hugging those calves covered in slacks.

  Slacks? Wait a second.

  Hopper grabbed the guy’s shirt and pulled him to the surface. A wild fist at the man’s face to cool him out. Popped his nose.

  It wasn’t Keith. It was Mr. Sanchez.

  Luckily Sanchez was still upright, maybe a little groggy, elbows on the lip of the pool. Hopper sloshed towards the steps at the shallow end, trying to think of a good apology. I’m going to jail. For this. After everything else today, I’ll get arrested for punching a rich guy.

  He sat on one of the steps, water above his waist, nearly floating. I thought it was your son. That wouldn’t work. Another stab at it: “I won’t press charges, but I should.”

  Sanchez twisted, ready to come at Hopper again, but his gnarled face froze on angry for a second before melting. He said, “You’re right, of course. That was uncalled for.”

  Holy shit, it was working. “Knocked my wind out. I almost drowned.”

  “Things got a little emotional for everyone.”

  Keith was at the poolside now, helping his dad out. Whatever bluster the boy had shown before had faded. He was all about being his father’s son. Hopper stayed where he was as Sanchez climbed out, the water slapping the concrete like applause, and conferred with the lawyer for a minute. Some harsh chalk-scratch whispering while Hopper caught his breath and figured he should pretty much walk out now. He would keep an eye on Sanchez, see if he had shaken up the earth beneath him enough to reach out to the Hannity family and change the plans. He was pretty convinced there was no way this was a simple runaway situation, nor a simple kidnapping. It was complicated like Japanese instructions translated to English. Money, reputations, class issues, but mostly money.

  Hopper stretched to full height and pulled his khakis away from his skin. Wet clothes, one of the worst sensations in the world. Another trip back to the apartment before he could confront Kristen Hannity. It wasn’t her letting her underage sister and frat boyfriend bone each other in her apartment so much as it was that she was holding back. Clients always do it, and it always burns them halfway through the case.

  As Hopper held up a thumb and said, “Let’s call it a day, then—” the lawyer pulled a checkbook from his breast pocket and began scribbling.

  “Mr. Garland, Hopper, right? H-O-P-P-E-R?” He kept scribbling as Hopper nodded. “We do offer apologies for your accidentally falling into the pool. It can get slippery out here sometimes.”

  An accident? Son of a bitch.

  “My memory sees it differently. I remember getting attacked by your client.”

  “Funny how memory works, isn’t it? Three of us, one of you. Look, any broken bones?”

  Hopper instinctively checked his ribs, his shoulders, thought he could say pretty much anything. “It was a hard fall, after all. Little sharp pains all over. I’ll need to get checked out.”

  Scribble, scribble. “I think you’ll agree it’s best if everyone forgets what happened here. No harm, no foul.” He ripped the
check from the book and handed it to Hopper, who wiped the wetness from his fingers before taking the corner. It was made out for five thousand dollars.

  Were these people so rich and worried about public perception that they could throw money around like it was sand? He could take the money and still use this incident against Sanchez, but the retaliation for that would be brutal, swift, unforgiving. No, the money was a warning more than anything.

  Then again, it was five thousand goddamned dollars.

  Rent. Groceries. Money to take Divinity out dancing. Savings for a rainy day.

  Come to think of it, if it weren’t for money like this coming his way more often than not, he wouldn’t be able to make a living. Private eyes weren’t rolling in it, and he couldn’t buy pizza on blowjobs and freebies.

  He shook his head. Fuckers trying to buy his silence.

  Hopper tried to grin. “I should be more careful. Thanks for your time.” He folded the check and held it between two fingers as he turned to make his way back through the house, making sure to drip on most of the expensive furnishings along his path.

  Kristen Hannity opened her apartment door a crack, saw Hopper there and swung it wide, expectation pulsing off her.

  “Already? You’ve got something?” She was in jeans and a bikini top. Hopper wondered about that combo.

  He said, “How many times did you let Keith Sanchez fuck your sister here?”

  Kristen took a step back and spat out “I never!” Instant denial, of course, that was understandable. He waited a moment. She made a few indignant noises, then, “Maybe hiring you wasn’t a good idea.”

  Hopper stepped inside. “You mean it’s more important for you to jerk me around to protect yourself than it is to lay it all out so I can find Yasmin?”

  “But what does that have to do with anything? My family is not your own personal peep show. You have no right.”

  “Honey, you have no idea what my life is like, so nothing your people do shocks me. I’m not a preacher. Why do people hide stuff from private eyes as if we’d say ‘Shame, shame’ or some bullshit? Jesus. The dirt is what helps us figure it all out, baby.”

  She plopped on her couch and tucked a leg beneath her. Arms covering her top now, hands hugging her shoulders. “Sorry.”

  “All right.” Hopper glanced at the apartment, a Pottery Barn look mixed with high-tech glass entertainment center, computer desk. More than a college student should afford. Nothing looked broken-in. “You make enough to decorate like this?”

  “The parents help some. Loans help. And credit cards.”

  “Nice stuff.” He didn’t say, But you didn’t have enough money to pay me.

  “Thanks.” She smiled, pointed. “Bedroom’s that way.”

  He said, “It’s not like I’m a forensics guy anyway. Answer me and I’ll get busy on the case. You knew about it and gave them a place to have sex.”

  “Yes.”

  “How often?”

  Kristen studied her nails. “Maybe for a couple weeks. Then a few weeks went by where they fought or he found a cheerleader or something, but after that they asked me again. Look, the first couple of times I was under a spell or something because of the asshole I was dating. After that, Yasmin had to beg, I’m telling you.”

  “Did she say what was so special?”

  Eyes on her nails. The most interesting nails ever.

  Hopper sat next to her on the couch, touched her chin and guided her gaze. “Would it help if I gave you some ‘Hail Marys’?”

  “I’m so stupid. I don’t know why I thought you could help. We didn’t tell this to the cops.”

  “For fuck’s sake, why not?”

  She shook her head.

  Hopper tightened his fingers on her jaw. She tried to pry him off. He wanted it to hurt. “If she’s dead, this is on you.”

  Kristen slashed his hand with her nails and screeched, instant hysteria. Hopper pulled away, blood rising from the cuts. Kristen paced a circle around the living room. Arms crossed tight.

  “Shut up, shut up. You were supposed to find out from someone else.”

  “Find out what?”

  She stopped. “They taped it, okay? They fucking taped themselves fucking.”

  “You were here?”

  “No, no no no, I let them have the place for the evening. I forgot my driver’s license. I tried to call her cell but she didn’t answer. My friend brought me back home, and…” She stopped, reliving the moment in her head. Hopper wanted to comfort her, but that would wall it back up again. He needed to know.

  “Kristen. And?”

  A dead voice came from her. “Not her and Keith. I didn’t see him. That guy I dated? Him. He had the camera. Two other guys. On Yasmin. At the same time.”

  Hopper felt sick. He thought of the bartender he’d fucked earlier, wild but innocent on the surface. That was a stretch. From what he’d heard about Yasmin, he couldn’t picture it. He didn’t want to. It was his job, though.

  “You, um...You have the tape?”

  Kristen shook her head. “They kept me in the dark. I mean, Yasmin was embarrassed and all, but also kind of pissed that I interrupted. They said they would pay her, promised it would be a secret, though. Part of an ‘in-house’ collection.”

  “She believed that?”

  “I did. I think Yasmin knew it was bullshit. Hey, she shared some of the money with me. She gave me a few hundred.”

  The whole taping thing triggered something. “Was she already pregnant when she did this?”

  It came out a mumble. “Yeah, started showing. I guess some guys get off on that.”

  Hopper leaned forward, his head as close to his knees as possible. A hottie mommy indeed. Deep breaths. He said, “I need the guy’s name.”

  She eased towards Hopper, rested a hand on his back. “I don’t want my name to come up. I mean if you have to hurt him. It’s my fault anyway, so he doesn’t deserve—”

  “Oh yeah he does. Fucking right he does.”

  She must’ve weighed the possibilities, pros and cons, before saying, “Burt. Last name is Figg. I think he’s Scottish.”

  Hopper stood. Kristen rambled off an address and he filed it for later. This guy would get a disturbing visit at three in the morning. Hopper wanted him off-guard and scared for his life when they discussed this one. “Not going to call ahead and warn him, are you?”

  Same dead voice, stronger this time. “I’ll never speak to him again.”

  Hopper grabbed the doorknob. “It’s a shame your righteousness has bad timing.”

  He shouldn’t have said that last thing. It haunted him on the elevator ride to the parking lot.

  You fuck every woman you meet bareback.

  You tongue-kissed a middle schooler.

  You take bribes.

  You ratted out Cynthia and she tried to kill herself.

  You know you liked it when Clint raped you.

  You sleep with your sister.

  Hopper climbed into the Sunfire and slammed the door, sniffling, clearing his throat. He didn’t want to cry. Maybe for Yasmin, yeah, but right then it wouldn’t have been for her. It would’ve been for his joke of a life. That pissed him off. He slammed his palm against the steering wheel, over and over, until the bruise pulsed under his skin and the bones ached.

  He dropped his hand into his lap and lolled his head against the window, the sweat pouring down, the interior a sauna. Not like hell, Hopper thought. I deserve a dry heat.

  After pulling himself together, he cranked the car and hit the max AC, let it chill him out. Dialed Divinity.

  “You were right on the porn thing,” Hopper said.

  “Maybe. There are so many ‘Hottie Mommy’ spellings and such, I haven’t found our girl yet. What makes you sure?”

  “Kristen Hannity spilled. Looks like Yasmin knew what she was doing. Look up Burt Figg, possibly Scottish. Amateur porn, I’m thinking. Not that his name would be directly attached.”

  “Okay. Got it. Anything
else?”

  “I’m guessing nothing on the lawyer and Depp.”

  “No, wait, I did. He’s with one of those firms that doesn’t advertise, super-secret and all. High-class criminal stuff when necessary, but mostly contracts, business deals, all that. No Sanchez on the client list. No Depp. But…”

  Teasing him.

  “Yeah?” He didn’t want to know where she got the info. It was always good, though. The type you get from mob guys that enter Witness Protection.

  “His initials came up in a battery case from six months back. Michel seemed to keep most of this out of court, but there are always records somewhere. It’s odd, because the case wasn’t directly against Depp, but against his employer.”

  “A coffee company?” Hopper crossed his fingers.

  “No, I was just starting to look for them when you called. I don’t know what they do, but the name is DPA Partners.”

  That complicated things. Any case lasting more than a couple of days usually cost Hopper more than he made off the job. “Let me know what you find, and if this has anything to do with the babydaddy.”

  She giggled. “Why do you always say it like that?”

  “I don’t know. It’s funny.”

  “Hey!” Long and drawn-out. “You owe me a night out. I won the bet. Dancing?”

  Hopper thought for a minute. He liked going out with her, but they didn’t do it often. She wanted to dance, get stinking drunk, stay out til sun up. He liked things a little quieter. Most of the time they fucked in her dorm room or in movie theaters, ate take-out Chinese or Italian, and she did her dancing when he wasn’t around.

  “Rock N’ Bowl?” he said.

  “You’re on, daddy-o. That’s pretty excessive for you.”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “A nice way to start my evening.” She laughed. He didn’t. She said, “Oh, don’t get all mopey. I won’t keep you up too late. Or maybe I will.”

  “Call when you’ve got something.”

  “I like those funky bowling shoes.”

  Hopper closed the cell phone, angry but not wanting to let Divinity know. Why couldn’t she just have fun without having to stick the knife in? A nice way to start…And after he dropped her off, she’d end up drinking gin from a funnel while getting plowed by one of the Greeks? No doubt about it: love sucked when it wasn’t like a children’s story. She had stopped telling him about the other men recently, but he knew. He knew. Even followed her, hand tight on his mentor’s hardest bat as he watched from outside Divinity’s American Literature professor’s bedroom window. What stopped him from bursting in? Well, he loved her too much.