Criminal Pleasures (14 page)

Brendan scowled as he processed this. “Eww.”

Marc laughed. “Yeah.”

Brendan straightened up, pulling the sheet around his lower body as he shifted toward Marc. “Are you saying my car got gang banged?”

“Someone had a good time in it. But don’t worry, by the time the cleaners are done it’ll be completely sterile.”

“Shit.” Brendan shook his head as he became more awake. He took another sip of coffee, then looked at Marc. “When will it be ready?”

“At least another hour. When do you have court?”

“Not until this afternoon.”

“You should call work and tell them you’ll be late.”

He nodded. “Thanks. Thanks for everything.” He glanced at Marc’s clothes, noticing he was back in his PJ bottoms and white cotton jersey. “You must have to get to work, too.”

“I’ll go in when I take you to get your car. I figure we can relax until then, have some breakfast if you’re hungry?”

Brendan met his eyes, searching. Could this nice, thoughtful guy be the real deal? Or was the sucker punch coming soon?

Marc laughed. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. But you’ve got that little dent between your eyebrows. Like you’re
bewildered
.”

Brendan laughed, scratching the back of his head. “It’s been a bewildering twenty-four hours.”

“Indeed. I’ll let you get dressed. Come downstairs when you’re ready.” He gave Brendan’s thigh a squeeze, then left the room.

Brendan checked his phone messages. There was a text from Cal Whitehead. ‘
Everything all right, Brendan? Let me know.’

Brendan hit reply. ‘
Everything’s fine. I’m shocked about what I learned, but okay. And thank you.’

He tried not to think about Cal’s potential opinion of Brendan falling into bed with Marc on the same night he discovered his betrayal. He’d think about that later.

He texted Terry Ann to tell her he’d be late. He didn’t want to call her, afraid she’d ask him too many questions he didn’t want to answer.

Then he went to the bathroom and cleaned up as best he could, giving his teeth a finger-brush with toothpaste and then gargling repeatedly with mouthwash.
Planning on kissing someone, Brendan?

His body felt more refreshed than it had in a week, and the memory of last night’s sex kept creeping back, making him smile. Then his smile turned to a frown as he pondered this strange, completely insane turn of events. Brendan had never really liked any of the cops he’d known. Yet he’d just spent the night with one. Did Marc have a gun? Several guns, locked away somewhere in this house? The shift from Marc the busboy to Marc the cop was still processing in his mind. It was like he’d been on some bizarre sexual role playing excursion, and he was still trying to decipher what was real.

But he acknowledged now that since their first meeting, Brendan had sensed on some level that Marc was more than your average busboy. Still, it was hard to imagine him...well,
copping
. Doing whatever it was that police detectives did. 

After washing, he put his suit pants and shirt back on, and carried his tie and jacket with him down the stairs. Marc was in the kitchen making scrambled eggs, jazz music emanating from somewhere in the living room. He looked up and smiled at Brendan. “Have a seat. You want some orange juice?”

Brendan took one of the stools at the island. “Sure. Thanks.”

Marc poured him a glass of juice and set it down in front of him, then went back to the eggs. Brendan watched him as he sipped his juice. Marc was being so nice, perhaps overly so, and Brendan’s gut nagged him with the thought that maybe this was all about guilt. Perhaps Marc felt so badly about deceiving Brendan—and being found out—that he thought feeding him and giving him a mind blowing orgasm was his civic duty. 

He tried to push these pessimistic thoughts aside, but couldn’t help pondering that awkward question circulating unspoken in the air.
What happens now?
His base feelings wanted to forget the past and pursue things with Marc, if he was willing. But he’d done a whole lot of looking before he leapt lately, it might be prudent to take some time to think about things. Brendan was usually the boring sort that did everything expected of him, never veering too far off the path. But that path had become twisted and convoluted since moving to Providence. He was afraid he may have wandered too far off it into the thorny brush.

Marc set down two plates of eggs and toast with a side of sausage, and took the stool beside Brendan.

“Thanks,” Brendan said. “You’re quite the host.”

“It’s the least I could do,” he said.

Brendan ate, but his stomach churned uneasily. To fight his discomfort, he turned to small talk. “So, what do you do at work all day, when you’re not chasing mobsters and murderers?”

Marc chuckled, taking a sip of coffee. “It’s not always so exciting, believe me. I spend most of my time doing paperwork.” He glanced at Brendan. “And what does one of your days consist of?”

Brendan pushed his eggs around on his plate. “My main gig is family law. It’s been weird starting my own practice, but I think I’m finally settling down into a groove. Also a lot of paperwork at this point.”

“I bet you’re a really good lawyer,” Marc said.

Brendan looked at him. “Why is that?”

Marc shrugged, giving him a quick grin. “A lot of putting cases together is investigation, right?”

Brendan nodded.

“Well you’re pretty damn good at that. Just you being here is proof enough.”

Brendan laughed. “Yeah. I guess.” He glanced at Marc. “But I can’t say I was in a logical state of mind when I was looking for you. More like a crazed, downward spiral to be honest. It was mostly luck.”

“I’m sorry I put you through that.”

Brendan shook his head. “I don’t want you to keep apologizing. Doesn’t sit well with me. I don’t like playing the victim, it’s not me.”

“But I did hurt you. And I’m sorry.”

Brendan shrugged as casually as he could manage. “I’m not some delicate flower. I’m a big boy, I can handle it.”

Marc put his fork down and his fingers brushed Brendan’s knee. “Having feelings for someone doesn’t make you weak.”

Brendan went still, looking down at his plate. “Didn’t say it did.”

“Look at me, Brendan.”

Brendan’s eyes lifted.

“Do you want to see me again?” Marc asked. “Or were you just vulnerable last night, because of everything that happened?”

And there it was. Somehow he’d expected it to be himself who asked the ‘what happens next’ question, not Marc.

Marc looked sexy and sleep-rumpled, his brown eyes intense and wary as they watched Brendan, waiting for an answer. Everything inside Brendan said to throw caution to the wind, and that this was what he wanted.

“What did you have in mind?” Brendan asked.

Marc took his hand. “Whatever works. I mean to avoid Providence as much as possible, for obvious reasons. I don’t want anyone recognizing me, and it’s not a big city.”

Brendan nodded. “No, it’s not.” He wrapped his fingers around Marc’s. “I feel like I’m speeding down a hill with no brakes. So much has happened so quickly.”

“You haven’t answered the question,” Marc said. “Are you going to make me cross-examine you?”

Brendan smirked. “Yes. I want to see you again.”

He smiled and released Brendan’s hand. “Good. What are you doing this coming weekend?”

“No plans.”

“How about you go away with me somewhere?”

A tingle of pleasure ran through Brendan’s body. “For the whole weekend?”

Marc nodded, shrugging. “I think we can find ways to fill up the time.”

Brendan tried to conceal his happiness so he didn’t come off as a schoolgirl that just got asked to the prom by her crush. He gave Marc a curt nod. “All right. It’s a plan.”

Marc beamed and went back to his breakfast. “Good. I know just the place.”

Brendan’s phone rang, and he fished it out of his pocket. It was a Providence number, but he didn’t recognize it. He glanced at Marc. “I’d better see who this is.”

Marc nodded, chewing a piece of toast.

Brendan stood and moved into the living room. “Hello?”

“Hello, is this Brendan Burke?” a male voice asked.

“This is Brendan,” he said.

“Brendan, this is Matthew Amador, the property manager at your building. We met when you moved into the loft.”

“Yes, Matthew, how are you?”

“Not so good. Have you been home today?”

“Ah, no, I’m out of town, why?”

“I’m calling to tell you that someone vandalized your front door. It’s spray painted pretty much all over, a real mess.”

Brendan frowned. “Really? Well, hell. That’s weird.”

“Yeah, nothing like this has ever happened here before, safety is important to us, so I’m looking into it. It’s going to require some elbow grease to get it off. I apologize but I let myself into your place, just to make sure everything was untouched inside, and it looks like nothing is out of place. The door lock was in place, nothing busted. I’m pretty certain they didn’t get into your loft, but you’ll want to look around, make sure nothing’s missing.”

Brendan rubbed his forehead. “Well, shit.”

“What’s wrong?” Marc asked, stepping in from the kitchen.

Brendan scowled. “Someone spray painted my door,” he whispered to Marc. “Guess this isn’t my week.”

“Brendan, you still there?” Matthew asked.

“Yeah. Listen, Matthew, how did they get inside the building without being buzzed up?”

“I don’t know. I’m looking into it. You know nothing about this, then?”

“No, I didn’t sleep at home last night. Jesus Christ. Okay, I should be there in a couple of hours.”

“All right, well give me a call when you get here, I’ve arranged to have it removed but I guess you ought to see it first.”

“What does it look like?” Brendan asked.

“Well,” he said, “the whole door is painted bright red, and in the center there’s a word in black. It says ‘snitch’.”

Brendan’s gut went cold, and he lowered himself onto one of Marc’s chairs. “
Snitch
?”

Marc had started walking into the kitchen but he froze and turned back. Their eyes met.

“Yeah. Give me call when you get back home, okay?”

“Yeah, thanks.” 

He hung up the phone and looked up at Marc. “I think we may have a problem.”

Chapter Fifteen

“You’re the
last
person that should be going down there, Daggett, and...”

“...not a coincidence! I told you, he...”

“...revealing yourself when you knew you should...”

“...not safe. It’s my responsibility to...”

“...don’t have the resources and based on this bullshit...”

“I’m not leaving this office until...”

“...with DiPietro locked up! Now I told you...”

Brendan sat in the police station, just outside a closed door where he listened to snippets of the argument going on inside between Marc and the skinny middle-aged guy he’d gone in there with. Brendan assumed he was Marc’s supervisor, or superior, or whatever they called your boss when you were a detective.

Finally the door opened and Marc came out, red-faced, shoulders tight. “Come on,” he said to Brendan. “I’ll take you to your car.”

Brendan got up and followed him outside, quickening his pace to keep up with Marc, whose palpable anger seemed to have turned him into an Olympic speed-walker. They rounded the back of the station and Brendan spotted his BMW in the lot. When they reached it, Marc circled around it, examining the driver’s side window. Brendan stepped up alongside him, peering in. “Looks perfect,” he said.

Marc grunted, and began pacing back and forth next to the car, running fingers through his hair. He wore a navy blue suit, and despite all that was happening, Brendan was wowed by how good he looked. “So what happened in there?” he asked.

Finally Marc stopped pacing. He sighed, then came and leaned against Brendan’s car, arms crossed as he scowled at the ground. “A plainclothes officer is going to watch your place, but only for twenty-four hours. Fucker refuses to take this seriously. Damn it!” He moved away from the car and paced a circle, cursing again under his breath.

“Well maybe it is nothing,” Brendan said hopefully. “It could be just—”

“Don’t say coincidence,” Marc said. He moved close to Brendan and put his hands on his shoulders. “This is my fault, and I’m sorry. I want to go down there and investigate but my request was denied.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Oh yes, it is. If I hadn’t been so damn selfish. If I’d just done my job and told you to fuck off that night on the street, you wouldn’t be in this position.”

Brendan swallowed hard. “What position am I in, exactly?”

“Someone must think you tipped off the cops.”

Brendan shook his head. “But that doesn’t make any sense. I’m just a lawyer who happened to come in contact with the DiPietros. I didn’t do anything to make anyone suspicious of me!”

“Brendan,” he said. “Someone got suspicious enough to get into a locked building and write
snitch
on your door.”

“But who?”

“If I had to guess, either Gina DiPietro or Carmen DiPietro.”

“Why would they suspect me?”

Marc let go of his shoulders and leaned against the car again. He looked at Brendan. “The raid happened shortly after Patrick Quinn entered the restaurant, so by now they’ll have figured out that someone tipped off the cops. The only new, unknown people to enter the DiPietro’s lives in the recent past were me, and you. They don’t suspect me. Bernard DiPietro called the girls and told them Marcello was back in Italy. So that leaves you. In the two weeks before the raid, you dined at the restaurant, made friends with me, had a business meeting with Gina, and happened to be at, and then abruptly leave Bibeta’s Garden minutes before it went down.”

“And
that’s
reason enough to think I’m an informant? That’s ridiculous!”