Shit, now he felt like a dick for asking her to do something that could jeopardize her job. He held up his hands in a don’t-shoot-me gesture. “Look, I’m sorry. Forget I said anything. The last thing I want is to get you into trouble. It’s just…don’t worry about it, okay? I’ll go talk to Larissa.”
He was looking forward to that conversation almost as much as his next prostate exam, but if that was what it took to get the information he wanted, so be it.
He’d taken two steps into the hallway when he heard Sloane say, “Wait.”
Hopeful, he turned back to face her.
“I didn’t say no; I only asked for clarification. You said you wanted to know what kind of hornet’s nest you’d kicked. If she’s not your girlfriend, why are you staying involved?”
“Because it’s the right thing to do,” Pinto said simply. “She’s a good person who made the mistake of dating an asshole with a badge, and now he’s making her life miserable. What kind of person would I be if I sat back and watched that happen?”
Sloane stared at him for a few long seconds, lips pressed into a thin line. At last, her shoulders slumped on a heavy exhale. “I can’t do it on the clock, but I can work on it during my break.”
It took everything he had not to do a fist pump. “As long as it’s not going to cause you any problems.”
An edge crept into her voice. “I said I’d do it. Now give me the information and I’ll get to it as soon as I can.” She shrugged. “Or take your chances with Larissa. It doesn’t matter to me either way.”
Before she could change her mind, he handed her a slip of paper with everything he knew about Dennis the asshole cop. It wasn’t much, but it should be enough for her to work with. “Thanks. I owe you big-time.”
“Yes, you do.” The hint of a smile warmed her mouth as she made a shooing motion. “Now get out of here so I can finish my work.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.” He gave her a salute and took his leave.
Outside the building, Pinto slipped on a pair of yellow-tinted shades and crossed the lot to his car. There were times when he was tempted to trade his old Mustang in for a newer model, but it ran well, still looked sharp, and nowadays, it was all but impossible to find an affordable car with a manual transmission.
Most important, the car was paid off, and he hated the idea of making payments.
His phone rang as he unlocked the door, and he grimaced at the sound of his mother’s ringtone. She’d called three times while he’d been at the obstacle course, but he’d been too busy to talk. And even though that excuse no longer applied, he was still tempted to let the call go to voicemail.
Not much in life unnerved him. Bullets flying, bombs exploding all over the damn place while he tied off a severed artery? Sure, no problem. The Navy had taught him how to handle that shit in his sleep. But nothing filled his soul with dread like the prospect of talking with his mother.
He drew a deep breath and answered the call. “Hey, Ma.”
“Don’t you ‘Hey, Ma’ me. I’ve been calling all day.” Her voice was pure New Jersey, and it made him cringe and feel a little homesick at the same time. “Why didn’t you answer? I was starting to worry you were dead or in the hospital.”
“I was working. You know I can’t talk on the phone while I’m working.”
She made one of those sounds that indicated she didn’t believe a word he said. If she’d been standing within arm’s length, she would have thwacked him upside the head. Back in the day, Dad would have done the honors, but she’d had no problem with picking up the slack after a reckless driver on the Parkway sent him to an early grave.
“So what’s up?” he asked as he got in the car and shoved his key into the ignition.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said, a beginning that never bode well for him. “Since you haven’t come home since you and Gina—”
His hackles went up. “It’s only been a year.”
“Twenty-two months,” his mother corrected him. “I’m not getting any younger, you know.”
Great, it was going to be one ofthoseconversations. There must be something in the water in Trenton—or maybe they taught it in prenatal classes, because every mother he’d ever encountered up there was a master at wielding the whip of guilt, his mother the best among them. If she set her mind to it, she could make you feel bad about something you’d only considered doing.
Pinto ran a hand through his short, dark hair. “You’re only fifty-six, Ma. It’s not like you’re ready to check into a nursing home.”
“You never know what life might bring you. Just look at what happened to your father, God rest his soul.” She muttered something too low for him to hear, and he would have bet his next paycheck she was making the sign of the cross. “Do you remember Tommy Tortelli’s mother? She had a massive heart attack a few weeks ago, died in the back of the ambulance. She was two years younger than me. Two years!”
“She also smoked three packs a day.” Both of Tommy’s parents had smoked more than a tire fire at the junkyard. He couldn’t recall a time in his life when he hadn’t seen a cigarette in their mouths, between their fingers, or in the ashtray in front of them. Their poor kid used to show up at school every morning reeking of Marlboro Reds and coughing like a coal miner. Looking back, it was probably why Pinto had never been tempted to pick up the habit.
In contrast, his mother never smoked a day in her life and only drank the occasional glass of wine. Of course, her diet was a whole other matter. Meals in the Pinto household tended to be rich, filling, delicious, and guaranteed to clog your arteries. Think lots of cheeses, meats, and fried foods, with the occasional vegetable thrown into the mix to give the appearance of a balanced diet. But considering his mother went to the family physician at the slightest cough or sniffle, he was confident the doctor was on top of any ailments she might suffer.
“As I was saying,” his mother continued. “Since you haven’t been able to come up for a visit, I’m coming down to see you for the holidays. Isn’t that great?”
