“Works for me.” He’d still need to buy a roll of plastic sheeting on his way home to cover the shattered rear window. Maybe a case of Lysol while he was at it. He had a feeling the stench wouldn’t completely disappear with the back seat.
An alert on Navarre’s phone chimed. “We better get moving; meeting’s in five.”
Judging from the agenda, this was going to be a busy meeting. Normally, Pinto wasn’t invited—a lot of the topics were above his pay grade—but his predicament with Fiona’s ex was a major point of discussion.
After rolling down the metal bay door, Pinto and Navarre went into the main building and down the hall to the conference room. Austin was at the head of the table, swiping and typing away on his tablet, while Nina and Larissa sat to his right, their heads bent toward each other as they viewed something on Larissa’s laptop.
Nina looked up as they entered the room, a smile lighting her face. “Hey, guys. Did you have a good Christmas?”
“Absolutely,” Pinto said, and that was the truth. Sure, his ribs ached every time he drew breath and the bruise around his eye had deepened to a vivid shade of purple, but he got to spend the whole day with Fiona, and that was all he needed for things to be right in his world.
He pulled out a chair, and Navarre took the one beside it. “And how was the Flint family Christmas?”
“Pandemonium,” Austin said, his eyes still glued to the tablet. “I’m amazed the house is still standing.”
Larissa scoffed. “Oh, it wasn’t that bad.”
Austin’s gaze slanted to her. “You’re not the one who had to pry the turkey out of the dog’s mouth.”
“Since when do you have a dog?” Navarre asked.
“We don’t.” Austin didn’t explain, and the tone of his voice made it blatantly clear that it was best not to ask. “Where’s Jackson?”
“He and Wade are with the recruits,” Pinto said. “Today’s their last day of training.”
Technically, there wasn’t any actual training today, just a bunch of congratulatory shit to get them all pumped up. Then they’d receive their first field assignments for what would hopefully be a successful career at Six Points.
The conference room door opened and Ryan Flint walked in with his younger brother Ty, arguing over whether the Bucs were going to make it to the playoffs. It was coming down to the wire this season, but considering who they were playing this week and next, Pinto figured they had a good shot.
“Hey man, how are you feeling?” Ty asked Pinto as he passed.
“Aside from my ribs, I’m doing well.” Thanks to the wonders of modern medicine, two nights of restful sleep, and a steady regimen of cold packs, much of the swelling around his rib cage had subsided. It still hurt to cough, sneeze, or breathe deeply, but not as badly as before. It would take some time to fully recover, but as long as he followed doctor’s orders and didn’t do anything stupid, it would be weeks instead of months.
Ryan claimed the empty seat by Pinto and set his phone on the table. “We drove out this morning to where the cop pulled you over. You didn’t say there was a convenience store across the street.”
“I didn’t think it was important.”
“Every detail is important. The guy at the counter was working that day. He saw what they did to you but doesn’t want to come forward because he’s afraid of what the cops might do to him.”
“Can’t say that I blame him.”
One corner of Ryan’s mouth went up. “He was, however, willing to send me a copy of the footage from the store’s parking lot surveillance camera. It’s grainy, but it’s there. Want to see it?”
Dread knotted Pinto’s stomach. “Not really, but I suppose I should.”
Watching himself get beat like a narc at a biker rally wasn’t anywhere on his list of favorite things. But he didn’t remember everything that had happened to him, and he needed to fill in the gaps.
Ryan swiped at the phone to pull up the video and angled the screen so Pinto could watch.
He was right. The video quality sucked, grainy black-and-white with no audio, but it captured every punch, kick, and swing of the baton that had left Pinto bloody and unconscious. His battered body might be on the mend, but watching how it got that way was nearly as painful. It also fed his desire for payback, a sharp, incessant clawing inside that he knew would not go away until it was satisfied.
“Can you send me a copy of that for the file?” Larissa asked.
A muscle ticced in Ryan’s jaw as he nodded. Back in the day, he worked in law enforcement, so it came as no surprise to see how much he despised crooked cops. “That ought to be enough to get him and his buddy charged with aggravated battery.”
“How long would that put him away?” Pinto asked.
“Fifteen years if they get convicted and the judge is a hard-ass. But if they hire decent defense attorneys, they’d stand a pretty good chance of pleading down to misdemeanor battery, or get into one of those diversion programs to avoid jail time altogether. Hell, if the police union fights hard enough, they might even be able to keep their jobs.”
