“How?”
“By giving me names of all your employees and everyone who could have interacted with Oliver and Derrick. I also want to follow up on your whereabouts for the night of the attack.”
“Get the fuck out of here, man. I ain’t giving you shit.” He looked like he was about to spit. “Are you even a cop?”
“I’m a detective,” I said, dodging the question. “And if you don’t cooperate, then this will get messy.”
“How so?” Mario cracked his knuckles. I heard something past the pops of his bones. There was movement in the room across from me, behind the closed door. There were a pair of shoes left on the floor. They were blue basketball shoes but seemed three sizes too small for Mario to wear.
Someone else was here, and they were listening to every word that was being said. I could spot the shadow underneath the door’s threshold.
My defenses shot up. Mario said he would be handling the interview in private, without anyone else around. The fact that someone stood quietly behind a door only a few feet away from me didn’t put me at ease.
“Huh? How will this get messy?”
“Mario, I didn’t come here to get in a fight. I genuinely want to close this case. Give me everything you know about that night and about who could be involved.”
“Why me, huh?” He was getting pissed. I was going to have to back down. “Why are you coming into my house and accusing me of a crime I never committed?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything, Mario. I’m following the threads, and you’re one of them. I spoke to someone who told me they spoke to you about attacking Oliver and his boyfriend. It may have only been a conversation that nothing came from, but that leads me to believe you’d at least know of someone who could be involved. Give me my next thread. That’s all I need.”
“I got nothing.”
All right, maybe if I switched up the line of questions: “How about your affiliation with the Avispas gang? It’s not something you hide judging from your social media. I know they have initiation rituals. Could one of them be attacking innocent gay guys on the street?”
“Get the fuck out,” Mario growled, his yellow teeth bared.
This guy was acting like someone harboring guilt. I had done plenty of interviews before, and the ones who were this aggressive right off the bat were the ones who were responsible, or at least hiding something valuable.
Or maybe he wasn’t hiding something, but someone.
“Mario, please.” I stood, but I wasn’t giving up. “Just give me a name. Let me put this all to rest.”
“The only name I’m giving you is the name of a fucking doctor. You’ll need him to repair your face if you don’t get the hell out of my house.”
He stared me down from across the table. It felt like two lions sizing the other up, aggression flowing through the air like oxygen.
I didn’t move. All I could think of was Oliver, waking up sweaty and scared next to me, shouting from his night terrors. If I could figure this out, put the right people behind bars, then maybe Oliver’s nightmares would disappear, too.
I had to ask point-blank. I had to see if I caught him off guard. I secretly set Record on my phone and braced myself, knowing this question wasn’t going to get a good reaction.
“Mario,” I said. “Did you have any involvement in the assault and murder that took place that night? Did you kill Derrick because he was gay? Did you?”
That was when all hell broke loose.
Mario shot up from the table and came at me, fists flying.
I was ready for it. I blocked two punches before I was able to land one of my own. It left me open, though, and his fist connected with my face. My vision exploded into a field of stars. It threatened to give out, but I knew that if I showed any sign of weakness, I’d be done.
I fought back hard, using the searing hot pain as fuel. I pressed the assault and started pummeling him back, not giving him a second to breathe. One of my punches landed hard, slamming into his side. He fell, grabbing onto the tablecloth to hold him.
It didn’t hold shit. The tablecloth went with him to the floor, dragging the fruit basket and a couple of plates down with him.
Porcelain shattered. Huge chunks spread out across the floor.
Mario jumped back onto his feet before I could even think.
And then things got worse.
“You fighting my brother?” The bedroom door was thrown open. A loud crack sounded through the room as the doorknob broke through the drywall.
“Juan, get back,” Mario spat.
So that was the infamous J who needed his big brother’s help in cleaning up.
He looked like his brother: beady dark eyes and a pointed face with olive skin and green eyes. They both had shaved their heads down to the scalp, and they both were covered in black-and-white tattoos.