Prodigal Son (Orphan X #6) - Gregg Andrew Hurwitz Page 0,24
time Evan reached him, only the deputy commissioner and nearest two policemen were in view. All three aiming at him from close quarters.
“Look,” Evan said. “I don’t want to injure anyone and start an international incident. What do you say we just part ways amicably?”
The deputy commissioner’s mouth twitched as if he’d tasted something and found it not to his liking. “Handcuff this man,” he said. “We will deal with him in interrogation.”
12
People Skills
One of the cops stepped behind Evan to cuff him, and Evan allowed it. As he was steered to the nearest police car, he stumbled, brushing against the guy. He was deposited roughly into the backseat. As the door swung shut, he slung the seat belt aside, flopping it out. The vinyl strap caught in the frame when the door slammed, wedged beneath the latch.
Mist rolled across the vehicle with car-wash intensity. The car might as well have been underwater.
The commotion of excited voices escalated outside, arguing in Spanish. Then a voice cut above the others. “¿Dónde están mis pinche llaves?”
By then Evan had used the key to unlock his cuffs. There was no inside handle, so he shouldered into the door, and it unstuck from the jammed seat belt with a soft click.
He fell outside, rolled under the car, and flattened against the asphalt.
Then he waited.
A few seconds later, the expected outcry arose. Various department-issue shoes shuffled into view, a colorful bouquet of Spanish curse words issuing from above. Then there was running and more swearing, which quickly gave way to recriminations.
Evan relaxed, pressed one cheek to the cool ground, watched wisps of mist furl and unfurl in his slivered view. At one point the exasperated deputy commissioner passed into sight, close enough for Evan to catch a whiff of his spicy cologne. One flap of his blue uniform shirt was untucked, the back spotted with sweat, and his inexplicably brown socks sagged down by the polished black leather of his boots. Someone was screaming at him through his radio. He vanished back into the mist, his head ducked with defeat.
At long last, cars started up around Evan and tires peeled off into the night. The vehicle above him erupted as the engine turned over, laying a soothing blanket of warmth across his shoulders. It pulled forward and drove off, leaving him alone lying in the middle of the park.
He stood and brushed off his knees. The branches of the Gomero de la Recoleta ranged and twisted overhead, cloaked in mist like the cobweb-draped arms of a skeleton.
It was mostly silent, just the gentle whoosh of the wind and the sound of a couple bickering in Spanish somewhere in the soupy air. He recognized the calmer of the two voices.
He strolled over, their words coming clear. Veronica had switched to English. “—your jealousy isn’t nearly as charming as you think it is.”
Evan walked up to where they sat on a low bench near the base of the behemoth tree. The man at her side was exceedingly handsome, late fifties, a curl of thick black hair laid across his forehead with timeless matinee-idol aplomb. He rose abruptly. His posture, ramrod-straight, compensated for the fact that he was not as tall as he seemed to think he was.
“This is him?” he said, showing his teeth. “This is the puta madre who injured my men?” He stepped toward Evan. “Give me one reason not to have you thrown in prison and leave you to rot.”
Veronica rose and rested a hand on the ledge of Matías’s shoulder. “You’ll have to forgive him, Evan,” she said. “He’s been working on his people skills for years, and he’s gotten them to the point where they’re merely terrible.”
Matías took out his phone, dialed, and pressed it to his cheek.
Veronica said, “Hang up the phone.”
His dark eyes swiveled over to her. “Or what?”
“Or you’ll never see me again.”
His jaw clenched, bone rising at the hinges. Through the line a voice said, “¿Hola? ¿Hola?”
Matías took a breath, then said into the phone, “Perdón. Estaba tratando de llamar a Francine.” He hung up and clenched his mouth with irritation.
Veronica said, “Evan, this is Chancellor Matías Quiroga. Matías, this is my … friend, Evan.”
Matías glared at Evan.
“He’s a former fútbol star,” she told Evan. “You know how they get.”
“No,” Evan said. “Not really.”
She turned to Matías. “Give us a minute.”
“I am not leaving you alone with this man.”
“I’m not asking,” she said, giving him a nudge to get him moving.