The Two Gentlemen of Altona (Playing the Fool, #1) Page 9

  “You don’t know shit about me.”

  “Yeah? That makes two of us.”

  Mac glared at him. “What’s your real name?”

  “It’s Henry.”

  “Stop lying.” Mac slammed his hand on the desk. “Are you trying to be an unreliable witness? You think that will get you out of testifying?”

  Henry shook his head.

  “What’s your game here, Henry?” Mac said the name like there was something foul about the taste of it.

  “I’ll testify. I already said I would. And when I’m done, I’ll walk away. You won’t see me again.”

  “And then what? You’ll con more old ladies out of their retirement money? Probably not just old ladies, right? Young, old, men, women, you’d do anyone, wouldn’t you?”

  Henry had walked right in on Remy and Carson that time. Carson, his nicotine-stained fingers twisted in Remy’s hair, had looked up and laughed. “Look at what this little faggot will do for twenty bucks! Yeah, suck it, bitch!” He’d had the exact same incredulous disgust in his expression as Mac had now.

  “Yeah,” Henry said, jutting his chin out. “I would. And they fucking love it.”

  Mac’s face twisted up a little more.

  “And Mac?” He lowered his voice. He rubbed a hand down his shirt—the same one from yesterday—and over his exposed nipple. Felt it pebble under his touch. Kept his hand moving down. Splayed his fingers over his crotch. “You want it too? You want me to make you feel good?”

  He was acting on anger now. Anger that Mac assumed he was nothing but a hustler, when he hadn’t fucked anyone in months. And the last person he’d fucked was Remy, not Gloria Maxfield. Henry’s old ladies liked him because he was handsome and sweet and attentive. They liked it when their friends assumed Henry was fucking them, but it was a long time since he had actually done it. It was amazing how far a variation of “I worship you; you are my Muse, and you are untouchable” could get him. But here he was, dressed like a fucking rentboy, with Mac looking at him like he was one, and he was overwhelmed with the temptation to push that as far as he could. To be in control again. And to fuck with Mac.

  “Bet I could.” He kept his gaze locked with Mac’s, tilting his head back as he rubbed his crotch. Spread his legs as far as the chair would allow. “Bet I could make you feel real good, Mac.” He sighed, and allowed his eyelids to flutter closed for a moment. Drawing Mac in, weaving the spell before he broke it. “You need it, Mac. You need it so bad. You need it more than . . . birthday cake.”

  He snapped his eyes open.

  Mac didn’t look as pissed off as he’d hoped. “That all you got, Henry? I don’t buy the cheap whore routine either, you know.”

  “I beg your pardon? I never pretended to be cheap.” He was a little miffed. He’d hoped to get Mac to bellow at him again, at least.

  “What’s your name?” Mac repeated.

  Henry felt a flash of panic, but he wasn’t sure why. He didn’t have to tell this guy anything. He’d come in here to get Mac to yell at him—or something; fuck, he didn’t know why he was in here.

  “My name’s Henry Page.”

  Mac gave a disgusted snort and turned away. “Get out of here. You stupid kid.”

  His throat tightened. From anger at first, and then from a frustrated exhaustion that did make him feel like a stupid kid. Like he wanted to stomp his foot and wail until he got a reaction.

  He didn’t think that was his best option right now, so he left the cake on the desk and got out. He could go talk to Alex again, or maybe Lina. If he was smart, he’d do what Mac wouldn’t and try to figure out if there was anyone here he ought to be watching out for. But he wasn’t, as Mac had pointed out, terribly smart. At least not today. So maybe he could just get someone to take him back to his cell. He wasn’t really in the mood for celebration anymore. Or looking at pictures of guys who might have been trying to kill him.

  And he definitely wasn’t in the mood for Ryan fucking McGuinness.

  Val came in several hours later while Mac was on the phone with Dom Wolman at the BCA—the only person Mac knew he could count on to get him Henry’s juvie record fast. He’d sent Dom Henry’s prints, and now he was waiting as Dom looked through his files and sang softly under his breath.

  He held up a finger to Val as Dom said, “Okay, I’ve got a hit.”

  Mac tensed. “Yeah?”

  “A Sebastian Hanes.”

  Sebastian Hanes? Sebastian, at least, sounded familiar, if Mac remembered his college English lit. How long had Henry been doing this Shakespearean alias thing Lina had mentioned? Surely not since childhood. “Okay.”

  “And I’ll send you—oh. Mac, I got a note here that you requested this record already.”

  He tried to remain calm. “I didn’t.”

  “It says Ryan McGuinness. FBI.”

  His heart sped up. “Who processed the request?”

  “Uhh . . . not sure. The prints were sent through yesterday at three, so I’m gonna say probably Linda Thomas. But she’s at lunch.”

  “Can you get ahold of her? I didn’t request the record or authorize a request.”

  “Shit. Yeah, I’ll call her.”

  “What was the exact time of the request?”

  “Three nineteen.”

  Mac had been in the middle of a manhunt for Henry. But they hadn’t left for the motel yet, so everyone had still been at the office. “Where was the record sent?”

  Dom read out Mac’s email address. But he hadn’t received anything from the BCA. “Okay. Call me back as soon as you get ahold of Linda.”

  He hung up.

  “What’s going on?” Val asked.

  Mac ran a hand over his head. “I was trying to get Henry’s juvie record. But I’ve already requested it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean at three o’clock yesterday, someone put in a request for the record under my name and had it sent to my email address. But I never got anything. And I sure as hell didn’t put in the request.”

  “Shit. Mac.”

  He lowered his voice. “We might be looking at someone here. And if they’ve hacked into my email, I don’t know what other access they’ve got.”

  “I’ll have your office swept. Let’s go out in the hall.”

  They headed for the copy room. “You need to get out of here.” Val was calm as always, but he could tell she was concerned. “Go off the grid for a while. Henry too.”

  “Where am I supposed to go?”

  “I can arrange a safe house—”

  He shook his head. “If it’s someone here, they might have access to those locations.”

  Val closed her eyes for a moment. “I don’t want to believe it’s someone here.”

  “But—”

  “I know. And you’re right. You have anywhere you can hole up for a while?”

  He nodded. He could only think of one place.

  “Good. Don’t tell me. Be careful getting there. And be careful with—with Henry.”

  Mac didn’t know if she meant be careful not to let anything happen to Henry, or be careful not to let Henry stab you with a sharpened stick and flee. “Sebastian,” he muttered.

  “What?”

  “The name on Henry’s juvie record is Sebastian Hanes.”

  “Well.” Val’s expression was unreadable. “That’s unfortunate.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Obviously your phone and email are off limits. But if you can find a way to contact me once you’re safe . . .”

  “I will.” He knew Val had probably figured out where he was going. Or if she hadn’t, she would. But he trusted Val implicitly. He trusted her to the end of the world and back.

  “All right.” Val clapped him on the shoulder. “Get the fuck out of here. I’ve got an investigation to launch.”

  He didn’t bother returning to his office. There was nothing he needed there. He paused as he walked down the aisle of cubicles and saw Alex’s head poking up, watching him.
Why was Alex watching him?

  He started making lists of every exchange he’d had with his coworkers over the last few days. He was embarrassed to realize he didn’t pay much attention to the interactions he had with them, unless they were strictly work related. Henry probably had a better idea of who the mole was after spending less than twenty-four hours in the building.

  “Alex,” Mac said. Alex ducked down briefly, then looked back up. “Happy birthday.”

  He didn’t wait for a response. Headed for the elevator and took it down to the cells.

  “Henry.”

  What the hell did Mac want now? Henry stretched and opened his eyes. “More questions, Mac? Aren’t we done with that? I’m trying to nap here.”

  “Get your bag,” Mac said. “We’re leaving.”

  He was suddenly wide awake. “What? Why?”

  “Would you like to let me explain in the car, or would you like to hang around here and get shot?”

  He stood and grabbed his bag. “I’ve always enjoyed a good conversation and a road trip.”

  He’d told Mac that maybe he needed to look a little closer to home for his security leak, and Mac must have. Because whatever was going on here wasn’t official. No way. Not with Mac casting narrow stares down the hallway every couple of seconds like he was expecting someone with a gun to burst in. Either a hit man or . . .

  Or the good guys?

  No. Mac was the good guy. Henry was sure of it. He’d had plenty of chances on the way from Dayton back to Indianapolis to take care of Henry if that’s what he wanted, and he hadn’t. He was the only one of them Henry had ever really been alone with, and nothing had happened. Mac was the good guy.

  Henry slung his bag over his shoulder and left the cell. He watched as Mac pulled the battery out of the back of his phone and shoved the phone and the battery in different pockets.

  Realized how fucking serious this was when Mac stopped him from getting out of the elevator in the underground parking lot first. Actually drew his gun before they walked to the car.

  Henry’s heart pounded.

  Shit, Mac. You should’ve just let me run, and we’d both be a lot safer right now.

  He climbed into the passenger seat and buckled his seat belt. Glanced across at Mac and wondered if he even appreciated how difficult it was not to run his mouth off at a time like this. In high-stress situations, he talked. Always. Couldn’t abide the silence. Silence was where bad turned to worse.

  Silence let in the squeak of old bedsprings. Let you hurt.

  “Shut your mouth. You want to wake them up?”

  Silence was frightening.

  He reached for the radio as they left the parking lot. “Easy listening or show tunes?”

  “Henry.” Mac was using that low, warning tone again.

  He sat back without turning the radio on. Had to let Mac win some of the small battles. “Nothing like a few hits from Chicago to cheer things up.” He tapped his fingers against his thigh. “Although we are getting rid of this car soon, aren’t we?”

  Mac looked sideways at him.

  “No point in ditching your phone if we’re not ditching the car too,” he pointed out. “Come on, Mac, this is what I do. If we need to disappear, then I’m your go-to guy. How much cash have you got?”

  “About sixty bucks.”

  “Which will just about cover lunch.” Henry tsked. “Pull up at the first ATM we see and withdraw everything you can. Then don’t touch your accounts again.”

  “I know the drill, Henry.”

  “I’m sure you do. I’m sure you know exactly what can and can’t be traced. But I’ll bet you don’t know how to get us a car, do you?”

  Mac looked at him curiously.

  “Finally,” Henry said. Jazz hands. “A chance to shine.”

  “Omigod!” Henry squeezed Mac’s hand. “I love this one! Can we get this one, Peter? I’ll be so good, I promise! I won’t drive it into a ditch like the last time!”

  Mac frowned at the small sports car. A red convertible. Henry could not be serious.

  Henry fluttered his lashes and flung his arms around Mac’s neck. “Please, baby?”

  The salesman looked away.

  Henry winked at him. “Please?”

  Mac disentangled himself. “It’s a bit . . . much.”

  He could have sworn Henry had his eyes on the gray sedan at the edge of the lot, but they hadn’t even looked at that. Instead, Henry had dragged him straight to the shiny convertible. The salesman, a thin man wearing a tie with a grease stain on it, had materialized out of nowhere and was currently, and obviously, weighing up his dislike of Henry and Mac against the chance of a sale.

  “Oh, but I love it.” Henry beamed at Mac and at the car. “It’s perfect!” He rounded on the salesman. “How far do the seats recline?”

  The salesman stammered out something that wasn’t actually words.

  Henry sashayed around the car. “Because if Peter buys me this car, I want to take him parking. Right, Peter?”

  “Right,” Mac said. Actually, it was kind of fun to watch the salesman turn all different shades of red.

  They’d ditched their last car outside a strip mall, spent two hundred dollars in a rattly little electronics store that Mac was sure he’d raided once, and caught a taxi five blocks to this dealership. Of course, he had no idea how they were going to drive away in a car given that he had a little over seven hundred dollars in his wallet after stopping at an ATM.

  “It’s very sexy.” Henry leaned over the hood of the car, jutting his ass out. And wiggling it. “How do I look?”

  Like the world’s sluttiest hood ornament.

  “Good enough to eat, baby,” Mac said, and could have sworn Henry almost burst out laughing.

  “Oh, we’re so getting this one!” Henry peeled himself off the car and returned to Mac’s side. Threw his arms around him again. “You are the best boyfriend ever!” He flashed a smile at the dealer. “Anyway, I’ll bet Peter wants to talk about boy stuff like miles per gallon and transmissions and things. Do you have a bathroom I can use?”

  The salesman pointed up toward the office.

  “Thank you.” Henry blew an exaggerated kiss in Mac’s direction. “I love you, baby!”

  Mac stared at the car, a smile twitching at the edge of his mouth. He was aware of the salesman looking at him. “So, um, how many miles per gallon would I get on the highway?”

  The salesman launched into his patter, and Mac nodded and pretended to be interested. A few minutes later, Henry was back, wrapping his arms around Mac from behind. “Have you signed the paperwork yet, baby? I want to drive this home, so we can make love in the hot tub.” He bit his lip. “Should I call Raoul to join us?”

  The salesman gaped.

  And just when Mac wondered what he could possibly say to that, the fire alarms sounded from inside the dealership.

  “Oh my goodness!” Henry exclaimed.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing,” the salesman said.

  “Is that smoke?” Henry asked.

  “I’ll be right back!” The salesman began to jog toward the office.

  Henry released Mac. “Gray Chrysler.” He tossed a set of keys at him. “Let’s go.”

  “Holy shit. You set fire to the dealership?”

  “A tiny, tiny fire. Hardly a fire at all. More of a distraction. Do you want to stay here and talk about it, or do you want to get in our stolen car and get the fuck out of here?”

  Mac very much wanted to get the fuck out of there.

  He glanced back at the office of the dealership, wondered what the hell he was doing, and followed Henry to the car.

  “I saw this documentary once,” Henry said as they cruised out of the city, “about how they were going to spray the inside of new cars with microdots. Gazillions of them, in the paint, in the carpet, everywhere. So even without a VIN, anyone with a scanner would be able to see where the bits of a car had come from.”

  “Huh.” Mac checked the rearview.


  He threw Mac a grin as he fiddled with the cigarette lighter. “Lucky nobody’s done it yet. The chop shop industry would collapse overnight. Hundreds of thousands of people would be unemployed instantly. Can you even imagine what that would do to an already struggling economy?” He flicked a switch on the device he’d plugged in. “There.”

  “What is that?”

  “A GPS jammer. Most new cars come with built-in GPS. We’re flying under the radar now, as it were.”

  Mac looked grudgingly impressed. Very grudgingly. “Except for the part where we’re driving a car with no plates.”

  Okay, so maybe Mac wasn’t impressed. “Hey, we haven’t seen a cop yet, have we?”

  “It’s only a matter of time.”

  “Lighten up, Mac,” Henry told him. “We’re on a road trip. Now, who do you want to be, Thelma or Louise?”

  Mac hadn’t been to the fishing cabin in a long time. Its last guests had been Libby, Brian, and Cory. He remembered them planning a trip to the lake last year—or had it been two years ago?—and asking him if he wanted to join. He’d said no; made some work-related excuse that was part true and part fear of the idea of making conversation with Libby and Brian for three days. He and Libby got along fine, but they’d grown apart over the last decade. And his brother-in-law was a nice enough guy, but not someone he wanted to share a cabin with.

  Cory would have made it easier. Mac wasn’t great around kids, but he liked his niece. She was eight years old, insanely smart, and happy to carry the bulk of a conversation.

  He was starting to feel like a shitty person, and he wondered at the absurdity of letting the disconnect with his family make him feel that way, rather than the stolen car, the mob boss who was after him, and the con man in the kitchen stocking the cupboards with shoplifted groceries.

  The cabin consisted of a main room with a couple of wooden chairs and a ratty sofa. It had a step up to the kitchenette in one corner, a bedroom off of that, and a loft over the main room accessible via ladder. Mac and Libby had slept up there as kids, and Mac hadn’t liked climbing the ladder. It had seemed endless, and he’d often imagined how it would feel to fall. When they were older, their parents had brought a tent along, and he’d slept outside and given Libby the loft.