“Really?” I asked him.
“Yeah, you’re right. Besides, I bet they’re much more interesting in my mind than in real life.” I had no doubt that he was correct. Other than their names, nothing about them stuck out in my mind.
“They were really serious as all Internal Affairs officers are,” I told him.
“You’ve dealt with them before?” Josh wanted to know.
“Yep,” I replied.
“Is that common? I’d think a guy could go his entire career in law enforcement and not have a run-in with IA, but you’ve done it twice in how many years?” It was actually three times so I held up three fingers. He cocked his head to the side then looked me up and down. He was probably right about it being unusual for me having a run-in with IA that many times, but I had nothing to compare it to. “What happened the first time?” he asked.
As much as I wanted to tell Josh what happened, I couldn’t. “I can’t talk about it, babe. It’s an ongoing case from about four years ago.”
“Wow, it must’ve happened right before you moved here,” he said, but not in a fishing sort of way. Josh knew how seriously I took my job and never pried for information out of me that I shouldn’t share.
“The second time?” Josh asked.
“Oscar.”
“Oh.” Josh blinked a few times then his expression morphed into concern. “I’m sorry, Gabe.”
“You have nothing to apologize for, babe. You did nothing wrong,” I assured him. “I will never be sorry that you survived that night and ended up in my life. Never.”
My words sounded awfully close to a declaration that he wasn’t prepared to hear. He cleared his throat and said, “Anyway, back to your current interrogation.”
“Ouch.” I dropped my hand between my legs and rubbed my balls as if he’d just kicked them. My theatrics garnered an eye roll but little else. “Jillian Rosewood, my union rep, was awesome. Picture Annalise Keating,” I said to give him a visual, “and…”
“Which wig?”
“Josh,” I said in a warning tone, “do you want to hear this story tonight or are we going to drag this out all week long?”
“Detective Butt Munch,” he grumbled before he took another sip of wine. “You know how much I love Annalise.”
“Why yes, Josh, I do like to munch on your butt and yes I know how much you love Annalise,” I replied before I moved on again. “Jillian kept Ronnie and Lonnie,” Josh chuckled when I said their names again, “on the straight and narrow.”
“Did you learn anything about the photos of me or who sent them? Did you get the impression that Ronnie and Lonnie thought there was someone in the CPD involved in this case or just you?”
“Me?”
“Oh come on, you know they’re looking hard at you, especially since you’ve already tangled with IA twice before.” Josh let out a sad sigh and shook his head. “They think you killed Nate then vandalized Princess and dropped off the subsequent photos of me to divert attention.”
“You’re pretty damn good at this,” I told him. “What happened after that?”
“Annalise, I mean, Jillian reminded them that you had an alibi for the night Nate was killed,” he pointed to himself, “so you couldn’t possibly have been the one to run Nate off the road and shoot him in the head. Frick and Frack–because I can’t say their real names without laughing–are now willing to concede that you didn’t kill Nate yourself, but they suspect you know who did. By now they might’ve even talked to a few patrons of Vibe, or even their bartenders,” he added excitedly, “and know about your personal visit with Nate not long before he died. Add in the email…” Josh let his words trail off.
I shut off the burners beneath the meat sauce and noodles. “You’re really good at this,” I told him. To the best of my knowledge, they didn’t know about my hookup with Nate. If they did, it wasn’t mentioned to me. I wouldn’t have denied it, but I wasn’t volunteering information either.
“I’m good at a lot of things,” he boasted. Was it a boast if it was true?
“Yes, you are.” I drained the pasta and returned it to the pot then poured the pasta sauce over top of it. Josh handed me the slotted spaghetti spoon. I mixed the sauce and noodles while the bread baked for the final minute. “I’m going to go in there tomorrow and thank her for her time, but I have my own representation.”
Josh pinched my ass hard before he opened the cabinet to get the plates out. “Don’t be snarky,” he told me. “There’s only room for one snarkicist in this relationship.” Josh turned and swayed his perky ass over to the table.
“Hey, you said ‘relationship’ without stuttering or breaking into hives,” I replied.
“You want to make it three days?” he asked. Little did he know, I wasn’t waiting another damn day before I saw his studio. I knew him better than he realized. He was wanting to make it perfect for me and the only thing I needed for that to happen was him. He was my perfection. “Snarkicist?”
“Snarkicist. S-n-a-r-k-i-c-i-s-t. It’s someone who uses snark as a main form of communication, often in a passive-aggressive way.”
