Page 61 of A Friend in the Glass

And then, slowly, it began to shift. His chest hitched. His breathing came thin and high. He wanted to close his eyes or cry or both. But he didn’t. He fumbled the pistol toward Rufus and dried his hands on his jeans and limped away.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Rufus knew he was being hypocritical.

He lived off of greasy pizza, diner pancakes, expired bodega snacks, and cheap alcohol he “borrowed” from Pauly Paul. His palate was underdeveloped and he’d probably die of heart disease before he hit fifty. But all that being said, police precinct coffee was fucking terrible.

It was brewed too strong, left on the burner for too long, and the only sugar the motherfuckers had were packs of Splenda.

He drank it anyway.

Rufus had been in an interview room at One Police Plaza—referred to by cops, crooks, and informants alike as 1PP—since last night, and he had no intention of falling asleep around a bunch of police he didn’t trust, but mostly, he drank the shitty coffee because he was bored. Rufus took one last swig before making a face. At least the cup was mostly empty now. He started picking the Styrofoam apart.

The door opened, sending a current of stale air wafting through the room, and Erik stepped inside. The dark eyes, theloosened tie, the rumpled clothes—he’d been up all night too. And he didn’t look happy about it.

“What the fuck,” he asked as he dropped into the seat opposite Rufus, “were you thinking?”

Rufus brushed the bits of Styrofoam to the floor while saying, “You’ll have to be more specific.”

Erik breathed through his nose. Then he slapped the cup—what was left of it—and sent it flying across the room, with a little comet tail of coffee trailing behind it. In the silence, the sound of the coffee spattering the floor was loud. “Start talking. And don’t leave out any of it.”

Rufus absently wiped his hands. Then he pulled free the black hard drive he’d swiped from Jen’s home office. He didn’t pass it over, instead clutched it tight to his chest. “Would you say I’m pretty levelheaded? Seriously, Erik. I might annoy you, but I’m not insane, right?”

“There’s a string of dead bodies leading to you in a hotel room with another dead guy. I’d say the jury is still out.”

“Oh no, they don’t lead to me. I got tangled up in all this because the powers that be tried to dragSaminto it. How does conspiracy to commit murder sound to you?”

“It sounds like a lot of fucking paperwork.” But some of the anger seemed to have leached out of him, and he said, “Do you have something? Besides that guy? Because I’m telling you, as soon as he lawyers up, he’s going to walk it all back. For Christ’s sake, you were holding a gun on him.”

“Iwas holding an iron on him,” Rufus corrected. He smiled a little and said with a false bravado, “Never even used one before.” But when Erik didn’t laugh, Rufus said, “Ok. As far as I understand it all, there was some Army mishap years ago called Stonefish. Soldiers died. A guy named Sergeant Went took theblame, but Sam has always insisted he was killed—murdered—and it was all a government cover-up. I thought it was bullshit in the beginning. I fully admit to not believing Sam. But then a whistleblower—Shareed Baker—was found dead.

“We went to the MoDe conference at the Javits where Conasauga was in attendance. They have contracts with the Army and were involved with the Stonefish project. You’re thinking, maybe that’s a coincidence, right? Except insider gossip at the conference was that Evangeline Ridgeway, the company’s golden goose, was leaving to work for a competing firm—New Haven—and she was taking big-time military contacts with her. Like Colonel Bridges. But guess what? They both wound up dead this week. And ifthat’snot totally fucking wild enough for you, I’ve got some recordings on this hard drive that paint Del Jolly of Conasauga in some very bad light. He did business with lobbyist Kenneth Nasta—the husband of Jennifer Nasta.” Rufus reluctantly set the hard drive on the tabletop. “That’s who you need to look at, Erik. She didn’t commit the murders, but she’s been pulling Del’s strings.Hewas pulling Lew’s. She made them kill those people—Shareed, Evangeline, Colonel Bridges.”

Erik leaned back in his seat. After several seconds, he asked, “Who the hell is Jennifer Nasta?”

“A Congresswoman,” Rufus replied. “She’s on the Defense Subcommittee.”

“Fuck me.”

Rufus didn’t take the easy route with a joke. He just didn’t feel like joking anymore. “Lew leads to Del, Del leads to Jennifer, and Jennifer’s protecting her cashflow.” Rufus began ticking off more names on his fingers. “Brady Ellsworth, Chad Deangelis—that coke dealer—some guy calling himself Shane. This goes deep, Erik.” Rufus tapped the hard drive while saying, “And thisisn’t over. You have to listen to these recordings.Swearyou’ll listen?”

“Most CIs bring me a gangbanger, you know. They don’t drop a fucking congresswoman in my lap.”

“These people tried to kill me,” Rufus said. “They tried to kill Sam. Theydidkill several people—in the NYPD’s own backyard. Look, I’ll… I’ll even testify in court. I’m that serious about what’s going on.”

Erik grunted. “We’ll see about that. I want to hear what’s on that drive first.”

Rufus nodded. He pushed back his chair but didn’t stand. “Sam isn’t under arrest, is he? It was self-defense, you know. Lew was going to shoot him first.”

“That,” Erik said as he dragged the hard drive toward him, “is literally the least of my worries.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Eventually, they were allowed to go home. After being awake for over twenty-four hours, and with nothing but bad coffee in him for the last twelve, Sam was barely conscious for the taxi ride. He was vaguely aware of the last staggering steps toward Rufus’s bed, yanking off his boots, and collapsing—fully clothed—onto the mattress. The last thought that ballooned up to him out of the darkness was that he hadn’t thought of it as Rufus’s apartment. He had thought,Home.

He woke to the sounds—and light—of the city in late morning. Horns, engines, the grinding restlessness of machines and people that never stopped moving. His head was pounding, his hip was killing him, and he was aware of every sticky, grimy inch of himself in a way that was already working itself up into a need. To shower, at the minimum. Rufus snored next to him; the redhead was bare chested, still in his jeans and Chucks. The elastic band of his underwear had ridden up the small of his back.

After stripping off his clothes, Sam found clean ones in the ruck. He got his soap. The studio was too small for a dresser, he thought, but he’d seen plastic things you could slide under thebed. He drank water from the sink as he waited for the shower to warm up. Palpated his hip. A tote, he thought. That’s what they were called.

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