There always is. “What’s that?” Venom asked, all smiles and false curiosity.
“You ever do any time in the military?”
Venom felt Crutch tense beside him, but he made sure to keep his own muscles loose, especially those in his face. “Yep. Army for eight years.”
Carver nodded. “Spend some of those eight years in Iraq?”
Now Crutch was vibrating, the waves of his unease reaching out to Venom and nearly making his teeth rattle. “Two tours,” he admitted, because all of that was easily accessible information, and lying would only draw future suspicion when the detective checked his story. “Why do you ask?”
“No particular reason.” Carver shrugged. “You just have that military bearing about you.” And with that parting shot, the detective pushed into the cool summer day. The tinkle of the bell above the door was a further taunt Venom could have done without.
Crutch waited until they heard the engine on the cop’s car turn over before blowing out a blustery breath that was thick with cigarette smoke. “What the fuck was that last part about? Why was he asking about Iraq?”
“Dunno,” Venom mused, narrowing his eyes.
There was no way to trace the guns. Raheem made sure of that, made sure all the serial numbers were eradicated with a stippling machine. So even if that douchewad Monroe was able to find out his homeboys were scoring their weapons from the Basilisks, there’s no way he could have known where the Basilisks were getting the guns. No way. Even Devon Price, the leader of the Apostles, didn’t know that the shit he fired on the Chicago streets originated in the hot Iraqi desert. Still, somehow, Iraq had come into the conversation, and Venom desperately needed to find out how.
“But I know one person who can probably tell us,” he said between clenched teeth. “Samantha Tate.”
Even her name was sexy. Like a cheerleader or an actress or the high school slut. “Call Bulldog. Tell him to up his game and grab her.” He watched Crutch reach for the burner phone he kept in his pocket. “And tell him to take off his cut, and for fuck’s sake, stay away from the damn PODs while he’s at it.”
* * *
Tribune Tower
“What are your intentions toward Samantha?”
Samantha walked into the bullpen’s break room where Ozzie was in the middle of making himself a cup of coffee. And where Donny Danielson was in the middle of…what? Interrogating the poor man?
Oh, Donny…
She could have put a stop to it then and there, but she was interested in Ozzie’s reply. She ducked out of the doorway, flattening herself against the wall and turning her head to listen.
“I…uh…I’m not sure what you mean.” Ozzie’s tone was guarded.
“I mean, are you just in for a little slam-bam, thank-you, ma’am? Because if that’s the case, then let me warn you, I—”
“That’s definitely not the case,” Ozzie interrupted. “I like Samantha. And I respect her. More than that, I consider her my… She’s my friend.”
Samantha warmed at the words. Very soon, she hoped to make him more than a friend.
“Friend, huh?” Curiosity laced Donny’s voice.
“Yep.”
“Hmm. Well, in that case, feel my shirt.”
What? Samantha peeked around the doorjamb to see Donny offer Ozzie a sleeve.
Ozzie raised a brow but dutifully rubbed the material of Donny’s shirt between his thumb and forefinger.
“Know what that’s made out of?” Donny asked.
“Cotton?”
“No.” Donny waggled his dark eyebrows. “Boyfriend material.”
If there were two things to be said about Donny, besides her loving him to pieces and respecting the hell out of his journalistic integrity, it was that he was a purveyor of terrible pickup lines, and when it came to men, especially handsome men, he didn’t do subtle. Ever.
