Page 38 of A Friend in the Glass

“Shit,” he said.

Rufus crouched before Sam to get a better look at his face. He frowned at the sight of red puffy skin and dripping blood, then gave the wallet a little wave. “Pay day.”

Chapter Twenty-One

“God damn it,” Sam said as Rufus dabbed at his face again with the wet paper towel. He tried to pull back, but the redhead had a surprisingly strong grip when he put his mind to something. As Rufus moved in for the kill again, Sam settled for asking, “Tell me again why we couldn’t have gone back to your place to do this? Not that I don’t have a special place in my heart for the men’s room at the Javits.”

In all fairness, it actually wasn’t all that bad. It was clean—ish—and the smell of Sam’s own blood was strong enough to cover any other odors that might have bothered him. More importantly, it was surprisingly empty, but then, they’d picked one of the facilities away from most of the foot traffic. The looks they’d gotten on their walk, as people gaped at Sam’s possibly broken nose and bloodstained face and clothes, had almost been worth it.

“You’re being a huge baby,” Rufus muttered as he worked, carefully rubbing at the crusted blood under Sam’s nose. “Can you breathe? Is it broken?”

“No clue.” But when Sam checked himself in the mirror, he said, “I don’t think so.” Rufus had done a good job—the bloodwas gone except for a few dark drops on his clothes. His nose was puffier than usual, but it didn’t look crooked or bent, and when Sam probed gently, it felt sore instead of painful. He turned back to Rufus and gave him another once-over; Rufus had already insisted that he was fine, but—“How’s your ass?”

“Wanna kiss it?”

“Playtime’s later.” But Sam brushed his fingertips along Rufus’s hairline and kissed him. “You’re sure you’re ok?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m not the one who went face-first into a car.” Rufus tossed the paper towels. “I’m glad you’re tougher than old boots.”

“Is that an expression?”

“Sure it is.” Rufus shrugged and smiled—a little less cockier than usual, but given the situation, that was expected. He cleared his throat before producing the wallet he’d lifted. “Here you go. Keep whatever cash he’s got. I probably owe you.”

“Maybe it’s more like a joint checking account.” But Sam took the wallet and opened it.

Two hundred and forty-three dollars. An unmarked keycard—not the cheap, thin kind that hotels gave out, but a solid piece of plastic that was meant to last for a long time. A business, maybe. An unopened scalpel blade in sterile packaging. A bump of coke. A crumpled receipt for McAlister’s Steak House. And a driver’s license for Chad Deangelis. The photo on the ID matched the man Sam had fought on the street, down to the ridiculous mustache, and as far as he could tell, the license was real.

“Call Erik?”

Rufus was making a face now. “Everyone I’m working with thought Chad was just some lowlife coke dealer… but he’s gotta be connected. Maybe he’s got a lawyer on retainer. Because twodays after I put the NYPD on his ass he shows up outta nowhere in a swanky car? He should be booked downtown. I think it might be in our best interest to first look for what’s connecting him to all this.”

Sam nodded. He folded the cash into his wallet, handed the license to Rufus, and said, “Assuming that’s legit, I guess he wasn’t worried about anybody knowing who he was.”

“Looks real to me,” Rufus agreed, flipping the New York ID back and forth to study either side. “It’s got the raised signature and funky holograph. Those are tough to make on the street. Can’t believe his name reallyisChad.”

“Chad likes rib eyes. And he’s not smart enough to buy his wine by the bottle—how many glasses did this asshole have?” Sam held out the receipt. “Do you know this place?”

“That many zeroes isn’t my lifestyle. But the address isn’t far from here—somewhere in Chelsea.”

“Ok. So, town car, expensive dinner, keycard. But on the other hand, a scalpel blade, a bump of coke, and more cash than most people carry. Not to mention the fact that they planned that shit show.” Sam touched his nose gingerly again. “The guy I saw in the car looked like he could have been military, but Chad—” He flicked the license. “—I don’t know. And if they’re with Lew, why are they riding around in a fucking town car and carrying a New York license?”

“Someone must have seen us hanging around here,” Rufus said. “I bet they were waiting, hoping we’d come back today.” He shoved the ID into his jacket pocket before putting his hands on his hips. “These asshatscouldbe working for Del, right? I guess if that one guy is military, the situation does lean more in Lew’s favor, but Chad being a local? That must be important.”

“Right.” Sam glanced at his watch. “We could check out the steakhouse. Or run down the address on the license. But I don’t want to miss Del if he’s here. I guess Chad’s going to have to wait.”

The rest of the morning and early afternoon they spent roaming the convention, on the hunt for any news about Del Jolly, Conasauga, or the colonel. It wasn’t like they had to find a way to bring the topics up—the majority of people at the convention, it turned out, were people who loved to hear themselves talk, and everybody was talking about the colonel’s death and Evangeline’s possible suicide. It was simply a matter of moving through the convention hall, stopping to listen where conversational knots had formed, and then moving on again when the time was right.

The problem, though, was that even though everyone was talking about the colonel, nobody was saying anything useful. Sam heard the same information repeated over and over again, the bare details of the case embroidered with rumor and suspicion. That it had something to do with organized crime. That it had something to do with drugs.

What he didn’t hear—not even once—was a word about Stonefish. And he wondered if whoever had killed the colonel was pissed that those incriminating emails had never made it to the authorities. When Lew got pissed, he got quiet, but you could see it in the way he clenched his jaw.

There wasn’t any sign of Lew, though—pissed or otherwise. And no sign of Del, either, although Sam didn’t think that was too surprising—if Delhadstuck around, he might not want to poke his head out until he absolutely had to. With Evangeline dead, and now the colonel, everybody around him was dropping like flies.

When Sam tracked Rufus down in the convention center’s bar shortly before Del’s panel was scheduled to begin, the first thing he said was something else he’d noticed.

“Looks smaller today, doesn’t it?”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Rufus answered. He’d taken up residence in the back of the bar, standing at one of the high-top tables hardly big enough for two people to set their cocktails on. “I didn’t want to be dramatic, but maybe these deaths really spooked the Suits.”

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