“I don’t think—”
“Then you shouldn’t talk,” said the Hatter.
“What have I done to deserve this?” seems to have turned into the motto of his life.
The next day Vegas is busy canvassing all the surrounding streets of Beam’s apartment building for CCTV cameras and car dashboard cameras; he walks until his feet hurt, and then he walks some more. And naturally he has to do it all on his own because his superiors cannot be bothered giving him one, just one, other officer to help. Yes, he is definitely being hazed because of Tem. Screw them all, he sucks it up, story of his life. If his colleagues think he will give up and quit, they thought wrong. This simply makes him more stubborn, but damn, it’s tedious and boring work. However, Vegas needs the footage since there’s always a very slim chance the suspect has been caught on tape.
“In your dreams.”
Okay, so Arm disagrees. They are having lunch together today. Unplanned. It just happens to be that all other tables are taken and so they end up as lunch partners by default. Arm’s t-shirt of the day reads: “Crime is common. Logic is rare.” His sense of humour isn’t for everyone, perhaps that is why no one wants to sit next to him other than Vegas.
“No one who takes care to wipe down a whole public hallway upon his exit is dumb enough to be caught on a CCTV camera,” Arm elaborates. The food he is eating looks so spicy that Vegas, who doesn’t like spicy food, imagines seeing tiny flames surrounding every bite the man takes. “The whole scene was so painstakingly arranged, I would be really disappointed if he made such a colossal mistake.”
“Are you rooting for the monster?” Vegas cannot help but ask between bites. “We are the good guys, remember? You need to be rooting for our team.”
“I merely acknowledge the fact that your monster is smart as hell.” Arm shrugs. “Admit it, it’s so refreshing to deal with a smart killer and not the usual obtuse perpetrators.”
“Arm…” At a loss for words, Vegas ends up shaking his head. “You might want to keep that opinion to yourself. Otherwise you will just end up pissing off everyone here—again.”
Naturally Arm is completely unconcerned. “So what? Let them talk, they have nothing intelligent to add to the discussion anyway. And what else are they going to do, fire me?” He smiles drily. Arm is like Vegas in this way—there is no way anyone will be able to dislodge him from this job. A good ME is rare to find these days; the other precincts are always try to steal Arm away, but he has decided that this department suits him just fine and his superiors are so grateful for this that they ignore his antisocial tendencies.
They eat in silence for the rest of their meal, each of them lost in thought.
“Mark my words, Vegas…” Before he leaves, Arm gives him a stern look over the rim of his glasses. “This isn’t the last you’ve heard of your murderer. I can guarantee you have only scraped the surface when it comes to this guy. You will be in for more unpleasant surprises for sure.” And with that he leaves.
Suddenly Vegas isn’t hungry anymore at all. No, he doesn’t think an intelligent killer is thrilling. And he very much does not want any more surprises, because that would mean more dead people and more exceptionally messy crime scenes. Fuck.
----------------------------------------
As if collecting the tapes wasn’t bad enough, going through all the footage is even worse. It takes him a whole day. Hours upon hours of people and cars and plain every day life. Boring. Really boring. It would be so easy to zone out while looking through everything but Vegas has a duty to the victim. He cannot afford to be sloppy and miss something important. At the end of day he feels ready to climb the walls. And of course Arm was right, he hasn’t found anything glaringly obvious in any of the footage. This sucks.
There is a buzz in his brain from processing so much visual information in black and white all day, so Vegas goes to sit in a nearby park on his way home. He buys some street food and then looks at the trees, the grass, the flowers and the people walking past him while he eats.
And he feels disconnected. As if he doesn’t belong here in this oasis of normality. He is tainting it with the darkness that his job brings, and with his own darkness. He is a blemish that scars all that is perfect. He does not belong here in the last rays of sunshine before dusk. Stick to the darkness, Vegas, that’s where you blend in.
Arriving at home, he finds that someone has stuck a note to his door.
“Call me!”
Vegas snorts derisively, crumples up the note and throws it into the trashcan. Not going to happen. He is still pissed off at Porsche for spilling the beans to Kinn (of course the note is from Porsche). In fact, he was so irked after the last therapy session that Vegas immediately called Porsche and left him a single voice message: “Fuck you.”
He hasn’t been taking his calls since then and is ignoring his messages as well. For the time being it’s better that they do not communicate, or else he might say something he would regret later.
On days like this, when he feels out of sync with reality, a long hot shower usually helps relax him. Vegas closes his eyes and stands still under the spray, steam rising around him, engulfing him in a white blanket of heat. He feels a bone-deep exhaustion, but at the same time he still cannot seem to relax. From experience, he knows he will lie in bed for hours before he is able to fall asleep. Damn.
On autopilot, he washes his hair and rinses it, lost in thoughts. Maybe he should try to take the edge off it? Unconsciously his hand drifts lower, ghosting over his neck, collarbone … scraping a fingernail over his nipple … nice… and slowly further down along the soap-slick skin of his stomach. He gasps, stifling a moan… very nice… he’s getting hard already… this usually works.
Usually—but not tonight.
…a red and black maw with pale streaks of bone … reaching outward like clawed hands…
Any spark of desire in his body withers away in an instant as that memory sneaks up on him.
“Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck!” Vegas smashes the palms of his hands against the shower wall in utter frustration. Again, and again. Until it starts to hurt. And then some more…
It will be a long night.
----------------------------------------
Day three and it’s time for another therapy session.
“Let’s talk about your family…”
“No.”
They are off to a good start, it seems. Vegas has taken the same chair as last time. There are fresh flowers in the vase on the windowsill. His nemesis is as cheerful as always; this seems to be his default mode. Being in his presence still feels like an unexpected electric shock to Vegas’ system. He cannot adjust to someone who is this inherently happy. It isn’t natural, and it puts him on edge.
The little ray of sunshine is wearing another atrocious shirt, this time with pale sunflowers in various shades of yellow and soft brown. Where does he even find these? Vegas feels the urge to rip it off him and put him into a plain white shirt instead—and then to burn this monstrosity. He glares at his therapist. I hate my life.
Completely unfazed, Pete leans back in his armchair, crosses his legs, twirls his multicoloured pen and watches him with a lenient smile. There is that dimple again.
“At some point we are going to have to talk about your family, you know? You can’t avoid this topic forever. Might as well get it over with right now.”
Newsflash: Vegas has avoided taking a closer look at his family for a large part of his life and fully intends to continue doing so, no matter what this fluff ball suggests.
“I’ll pass.” He answers Pete’s smile with one of his own, but decidedly cooler. He will not go anywhere near that minefield which is the Theerapanyakul family and he can be very stubborn.
It still rankles that Pete threatened to sic his own father on him. He has not forgotten about that threat. And a damn good threat it is. The mere thought of how this would play out has Vegas shuddering with fear.
“Therapy? Let me teach you a lesson, boy…”
They stare at each other for what seems an unreasonable amount of time.
In the end Pete holds out both of his hands, palms up. He glances pointedly at the left hand. “Actively working with me…” And then at his right hand. “Suspension…” And then moves them up and down like a scale. “Decisions, decisions. What will it be, detective?”
That little piece of shit. Vegas contemplates how satisfying it would be to wrap his hands around Pete’s neck and squeeze that playful smile right off his face, only to push away that line of thought immediately, because it causes a flutter in the depth of his stomach that he does not want to further analyse. He clears his throat and looks away. Time to change the topic.
“You want to talk about stress? Fine. Let’s talk about my work then. My work is stressing me out the most.”
Pete observes him in silence—like a cat watching a mouse—and Vegas almost squirms beneath that look, but holds out. Eventually, his shrink nods slowly.
“Work it is. For now.”
Great, skipped the bullet this time. For the first time in this conversation, Vegas allows himself to relax a bit and slides deeper into his armchair.
“Tell me about the people you work with.”
For the next 30 minutes Vegas talks about the police academy (not mentioning Tem), how he ended up in this precinct and his complicated relationship with his superiors, while artfully avoiding the elephant in the room (the Theerapanyakul family) that makes interacting with his higher-ups so delicate.
Since showing its claws during the very first session, the little black kitten—just call me Pete—has reverted back to its deceptively cute state. Trying to lull him into complacency. But Vegas doesn’t trust the peace. He remembers Tankhun’s cat used to pounce and attack his toes when he least expected it. Who knows when this human cat will decide to pounce again?
He talks about Arm and how they vibe. Two outsiders in a sea of sheep (not mentioning Tem). When Pete asks him if he ever considered inviting Arm for a drink after work to get to know him better, Vegas stares at him as if he’s suddenly sprouted a pair of tentacles from his head. Meeting Arm in private? Unthinkable. It almost makes him laugh. “Hell no, we’re not that compatible.” Besides, he has a sneaking suspicion that he isn’t weird enough to get Arm’s stamp of approval for closer personal contact.
His therapist frowns, Vegas can see doubt plainly written on his face. But Pete refrains from commenting and instead makes another note in his little leather notebook. Vegas would like to take a peek into that notebook, to see what has been written about him, though he has a hunch he wouldn’t like that information.
Actually this session is going remarkably well, with both of them dancing delicately around the mines that are his many triggers, and thus avoiding any sudden explosions.
After another lull in the conversation, Pete gives him a long, thoughtful look and then asks very gently: “Is Tem still not talking to you?”
His toes just got attacked by the cat. Fuck.
The mere mention of Tem’s name makes Vegas tense up all over, his fingers digging into the soft fabric of the armrests. His throat constricts, he swallows convulsively, at a loss of words. Once again, his gaze darts to the flowers. This is becoming his safe zone.
There is a soft sigh from his therapist. “I see.”
Yeah, Pete probably does.
“If it helps putting your mind to rest, I have been in contact with your partner. All things considered, I think he is dealing with everything reasonably well. The bite wound is healing properly and the stitches will be removed soon.” Pete pauses and Vegas can physically feel the weigh of his gaze.
Pathetic. I am so pathetic. I wish I wouldn’t care this much. But he does. And getting even this little piece of information about Tem is a balm on his wounded soul.
“Detective…?” The kitten’s voice has a soft, pleading edge, and Vegas automatically turns back towards him. The look of compassion he is met with triggers a wealth of emotions within him that he does not quite understand. He does not like feeling like this. He does not like it at all.
“It’s going to be fine, detective. Trust me. Your partner needs a bit of time to himself to process everything. If you give him some space now, he will be back working with you in no time. It’s my impression that Tem is not the kind of person who will hold a permanent grudge against you, not even after this mess.” Pete’s voice wraps around Vegas like a comforting blanket.
No, he really does not like feeling like this. Vegas’ eyes dart towards the door. Everything in him screams to get up and leave, to get away from this unexpected and unwanted compassion. Don’t you see my spikes? Leave me the fuck alone. Vegas wants to yell at the fluff ball, but his throat is too tight to get any words out. Fleeing isn’t an option either. In the end he simply nods curtly to show that he has listened.
“I understand that you are working on your own in the meantime. I suppose this isn’t easy for you? How is your workload these days?”
Thank God, they are moving on to yet another topic. This session has opened a barely scabbed-over wound in Vegas; it’s as if he is bleeding
internally. This is why he didn’t want to do therapy. He really hates feeling like this. He does not like feeling, period.
“It’s manageable,” he lies quietly. He is good at faking it. “I even manage to eat lunch, so I suppose it’s okay.”
“Excuse me for pointing this out but you look so exhausted that I have been wondering if I should offer you some coffee to ensure that you stay awake for this talk.” Pete isn’t buying it. His voice is ripe with scepticism. “Did you ask for help?” And he doesn’t even give Vegas time to answer. “Never mind, of course you didn’t.”
“Actually, I did,” Vegas corrects him tiredly. Coffee sure sounds nice.
“You asked for help? Well, if that isn’t progress.” And again Pete makes a note in his notebook. “So your request was denied. Does that have anything to do with your current case?”
This comment snaps Vegas temporarily out of his bout of tiredness. “You know about my current case?”
And the smile is back on Pete’s face. The dimple too. Damn that dimple. “Heard it through the grapevine,” he announces cheerfully. “Sounds quite nasty.” And the way his dark eyes suddenly sparkle with unbridled enthusiasm sets off Vegas’ inner alarms bells. This is exactly the way Arm was looking when he talked about how refreshing it is to have a smart suspect, for a change. What is wrong with the people around him? Have they all gone collectively insane? This is not a game or a movie, this is bloody reality, and they’re hunting some unhinged killer who most likely has killed before, or will kill again! This is not something to be excited about!
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
And now the kitten has unexpectedly morphed into a wannabe Clarice Starling, on the hunt for his very own Hannibal to fawn over. Pete’s sense of self preservation must be non-existent.
Vegas narrows his eyes. “Anything pertaining to my current case is confidential information that cannot be shared with civilians.” Take that, fluff ball. There will be no spilling of gruesome details on Vegas’ watch.
“I am employed by the police department, so technically I am not a civilian,” the fluff ball points out stubbornly. Brownie points to him for being persistent.
“You are a shrink. You are not a detective,” Vegas corrects him immediately.
“True.” And Pete leans leisurely back into the depth of his armchair, spreading his legs and extending them carelessly, and that damn shirt is now riding up way higher than is decent. Vegas swallows hard, and has to blink in astonishment. Is the guy even real? Who sits like this? This is not proper at all. And distracting as hell.
The Cheshire Cat is smiling again, slow at first but then the smile widens —not looking at that dimple, no, not happening—and there is a wicked gleam in the depth of his eyes. “I am a shrink with a degree in criminology.”
Vegas feels beads of sweat at the back of his neck. “Good for you, but I don’t care.” Back to looking at the flowers it is. Damn, it’s hot in this room, isn’t it? Maybe the AC has stopped working.
There’s obvious amusement in his voice when Pete speaks again. “I even have a degree in forensic psychology.”
That does it. Vegas turns back and gives this nuisance of a man an incredulous look. “You got to be kidding me! Are you for real? Two degrees? You are way too young for having this many degrees!” And for good measures he throws up his hands in frustration. “Impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible when you are smart, detective.” His therapist chuckles softly. “And I am fairly smart, if I may say so.”
“Whatever!” Vegas is fed up. He is not going to play this game, whatever it is. Show me yours, I’ll show you mine? Not happening! How did they end up talking about this in the first place? Time to put a stop to it, so he smiles condescendingly. “Who even studies forensic psychology these days? There’s nothing you can do with it unless you live in the USA and join the FBI. Such a waste of your time.”
Speaking of time… isn’t their time almost up? They have been talking for what feels like an eternity. He shoots a longing glance at the door.
“Oh, but I think my degrees come in very handy right now, wouldn’t you say?” The way kitten phrases it sends a shiver of dread down Vegas’ spine. He does not like where this is going.
“Maybe we should talk about my family next time,” he suggests out of sheer desperation.
The kitten is not to be distracted though. It has pounced on this idea and now it is unwilling to let go.
“In fact, I would say this is perfect timing. I need better insight into your day-to-day work routine in order to devise a plan of action regarding what sort of therapeutic approach would suit you best. And you need someone to temporarily help you out with your current case.” Then he adds quickly: “Only menial work of course.” And Pete actually rubs his hands in glee. “In addition, I am sure I could give you some valuable insight into the mindset of your suspect while I am at it.”
At this point Vegas feels as if he has been run over by an out-of-control freight train. It is surreal. One moment they were talking about how exhausted he is and now his shrink seems to think he is about to join the cast of Criminal Minds. Unreal.
“… Uhm…” He doesn’t even know where to start to stop this madness. Perhaps being blunt is the best solution.
“No,” Vegas states emphatically. “Oh no. Don’t even think about it.”
Pete looks like an advert for ‘Innocence Incarnate’. The mere thought of this little fluff ball of joy going anywhere near the horror that is his current case makes Vegas’ stomach twist into knots. Sadly, it does not seem that the kitten has heard a word of what Vegas just said—he sits there lost in thoughts, smiling happily, so pleased with himself that he is positively beaming.
“Hello? Earth to Pete? Are you even listening?!” In desperation, Vegas snaps his fingers before Pete’s face, and he is instantly rewarded with his full attention once more. And that attention scorches him. Damn, it’s hot in this room, isn’t it?
Pulling himself together, Vegas does his best to channel his uncle—everyone is terrified of Uncle Korn—pinning his therapist with cold eyes and repeating in the most serious tone of voice he has to offer:
“Read my lips: This is not going to happen! Nope.”
The kitten smiles—Cheshire Cat—and that gleam of utter determination in Pete’s dark eyes does not bode well for Vegas.
----------------------------------------
A few hours later and it turns out that it is, in fact, happening. So much for that.
It has only been four days and two sessions since he started his therapy, and Vegas has to grudgingly admit that he has lost complete control of his life. It’s bewildering. How did this even happen?
His therapist is turning out to be frighteningly efficient when he puts his mind to it, way more efficient than Vegas expected him to be. The cogs in this police department move ever so slowly, but somehow the kitten has managed to circumvent all the usual red tape in record time.
Vegas stands in front of the desk of his captain and wants to scream. Loudly.
“You got to be kidding me! He’s a civilian. He cannot tag along during an ongoing investigation! What if there’s a situation? He is going to put everyone, including me and himself, in danger. This is insane! He doesn’t even have a gun, or know how to use one! He probably doesn’t even know how to use his fists!”
Okay, so he is throwing a little tantrum, but this is warranted. Has everyone around him gone completely insane?
Unperturbed by this outburst, his superior leans further back in his chair. He has know Vegas for a few years, he knows how conversations like this go.
“He is a psychologist with a degree in criminology, and an employee at the police department, so technically he’s not a civilian,” the captain calmly states the facts—again. It must be the 4th time he is saying this. Vegas simply refuses to accept it.
“His degree is worth nothing out there in the real world! He has no training as a police officer whatsoever,” Vegas fumes. Can no one see the towering storm cloud above his head?!
“I don’t have time to babysit the department’s pet shrink! I asked for help, real help, and this is what I get?! This is no help, this is torture, plain and simple! How am I expected to work efficiently if I have to divide my attention constantly to watch this kid and keep him safe?!”
“Language, Vegas, language,” his superior reproaches him mildly. “This ‘kid’ is your age and no matter how much you protest, nothing is going to change; this decision is final.”
“Captain!” Vegas positively growls now.
“Oh, do shut up.” The captain starts rubbing his eyebrows again, a sure sign that he has a headache. “Listen, even if in principle I agree with your objections, the sad fact is that this is not my decision to make. I have been overruled, all right? Care to argue with the commissioner? Because I don’t.” He shrugs, knowing his limitations.
Vegas becomes slack-jawed with disbelief. “How did the commissioner get involved in this?!”
“It’s all about connections, Vegas. You should know.” And the captain gives him a pointed look. “Who would have thought our little psychologist has such connections, right? Intriguing. Anyway…” He glances at his expensive wrist watch and decides to wrap things up.
“Just chill and play along, Vegas. Your current case means you are working in a good neighbourhood, not the slums, so that is a relief. Allow let him tag along for some of the door-to-door interviews, and if you are lucky perhaps he will get bored quickly. Now, stop arguing with me, you are giving me a headache. Just take him along. After all, what could possibly go wrong?” His captain shrugs nonchalantly and waves him off.
Famous last words, Vegas thinks gloomily as he leaves the office and shakes his head. Famous last words.
----------------------------------------
To lose patience is to lose the battle. Vegas is losing the battle.
It’s Friday and he is unsure how much more he can take. Spending one single therapy session in the presence of his enthusiastic therapist is already so exhausting that Vegas feels in acute need of a vacation afterwards. And that is just after one hour. Now he has been stuck with the little ray of sunshine for most of the day, with no end in sight, and there is really only so much he can endure. He is approaching his limits fast.
The one good thing about this is that Pete at least had the good grace not to gloat about his victory. Maybe he has a sense of self-preservation after all. They have been doing door-to-door interviews in Beam’s apartment building for hours and by now Vegas feels his world has turned into a bizarre parallel dimension. Pete is glued to his side, literally bouncing with excitement, his energy levels seemingly unlimited. ‘Maybe he will get bored quickly?’ Fat chance! The fluff ball is wearing another one of his atrocities, a lavender-coloured dress shirt with actual lavender prints all over it, an assault on Vegas’ prim and proper fashion sense. Vegas is wearing his uniform, of course. As always. Someone has to look like the adult after all.
The most bewildering thing is how people react to the fluff ball. Usually Vegas can barely get a foot in the door, and people are very tight-mouthed about sharing any details with him.
Not this time though, oh no. It’s an eye opening experience to say the least. Everyone only takes a look at little Mr Sunshine and practically drags him into their apartments—totally ignoring Vegas, who tags along in a state of constant puzzlement.
The tenants are so friendly it’s astonishing. Never before has Vegas been offered so much tea, coffee, juice or other refreshments while doing interviews.
“Would you like some cookies?”
“Here, have a sandwich.”
“Some fruits, perhaps? Very fresh, directly from the market.”
“Poor dear, you must be so hungry, let me share some lunch with you.”
Internally, Vegas screams. Very, very loudly. Thankfully, no one can hear him.
And while Pete is offered a seat and is being fussed over (Again and again and again and then some more), Vegas manages to sneak in his questions about the day of the murder and the days leading up to it, and the tenants answer him without even a second thought since they are so distracted by the fluff ball smiling at them, illuminating their bleak lives.
Amazing. Simply amazing. And infuriating.
He resents his shrink for being so easily likeable.
He resents him for always finding the right questions to ask when there’s a lull in the conversation.
He resents how the tenants fall all over themselves in order to please him.
He resents those dark eyes constantly observing him when he thinks Vegas is distracted (but Vegas notices).
He resents not being able to relax.
He resents looking all sweaty and exhausted in this heat while Pete looks as if he getting ready for a fashion magazine photoshoot with not a single bead of sweat in sight.
My life really sucks, he thinks, wishing he were elsewhere. Then he remembers Beam and the duty he has to find his killer and plasters another pleasant smile on his tired face to continue with the interviews.
Towards the end of the afternoon they are finally done. Hurrah! As expected, Vegas now has a notebook with a ton of information, but no real useful clues. If only he could call it a day. But alas, there’s still one more thing he needs to do, and he is wondering how to get rid of his passenger, who is currently sitting beside him humming cheerfully along to some song from the car radio.
“Where should I drop you off? The station?”
“Oh, are we done? I got the feeling there is still more…” And again those dark eyes settle on Vegas, making him feel as if Pete can read his very thoughts. Creepy.
Vegas’ nerves are raw, and he is tired. So his mind draws a blank when it comes to finding a reasonable excuse. He would prefer to go to the bar without Mr. Sunshine tagging along, but the world isn’t going to end if he accompanies him either.
“Fine. Suit yourself. This should not take all that long anyway,” he simply mutters, his eyes on the traffic.
“No worries, I’ve got all the time in the world,” his nemesis responds cheerfully. I bet you do. Vegas wants to hiss at him like an agitated cat. “So where are we going now?”
“We need to make a quick stop over at a bar to collect their CCTV tapes. It’s best to go there now, before they open for business later today.” Automatically, he treats the kitten like one of the academy cadets that he now and then has to supervise as they ‘job train’ with real police offers.
“Is this connected to your current murder case?” the fluff ball asks innocently.
Danger, Will Robinson, danger! The kitten must not watch these tapes. “No, it’s for another case I’m working on. I do have other cases, you know?” Vegas brushes him off, lying through his teeth.
Since Pete doesn’t ask for more information, Vegas stays silent as well, focusing on driving through the late-afternoon traffic chaos. This is actually a great distraction; he can almost forget about the other man sitting awfully close to him in the car. Just a little bit longer, then the day is over and he can be alone again. Vegas has this weekend off and he longs for solitude with every fibre of his being. Soon.
Eventually, they arrive at the Hum Bar. Vegas pulls into the staff parking lot; he has been here so many times, he could find his way in the dark. “You want to wait in the car?” he offers. Fat chance of that happening, but it’s worth a try.
Instead of answering, Pete is already exiting the car. Yup, that’s what I thought. Vegas rolls his eyes and follows.
He leads Pete through the side entrance, since the front door remains closed until opening time in a few hours. This place is quite unique. There is a bar of considerable length at one side, the wall behind it holding a tastefully displayed assortment of bottles and glasses. Directly across a dance floor is an equally long, red leather bench stretching along that wall, directly underneath an enormous print of some obscure, Western historical painting depicting a scene from another century, with people in uniform and ships. The ceiling decoration consists of a dazzling cloud of hanging glasses of all sizes and shapes, interspersed with crystal chandeliers. Towards the back of the bar, in a separated area, there are a variety of comfortable seats, arranged in small groups. In short, it looks amazing.
Pete’s expressive eyes get very large, then a look of sheer delight spreads over his face—and there is that dimple again.
Vegas rolls his eyes and walks further into the bar, only to stop after a few meters, when he becomes aware that he is on his own. Where is…? Oh, there he is. His therapist is looking at the painting in a way one would expect someone to admire the Mona Lisa in the Louvre. This won’t do. Vegas returns to his side just in time to reach out and smack Pete’s fingers as they reach out towards the painting. “Don’t touch.” Then he simply drags him along to the back of the room. Pete is like a child in a candy store; it feels unsafe to let him wander around unsupervised.
“Vegas!” Yok greets him enthusiastically when she notices him. “And who is this friend of yours?” She gives Pete a once-over and clicks her tongue in approval, obviously drawing some very wrong conclusions in her mind, which Vegas hurries to correct.
“We are here on business. This is a colleague of mine.”
Pete still seems to be in a daze, slightly overwhelmed by the sheer opulence of this place. Nevertheless he readily graces Yok with that signature smile of his.
“Pete Phongsakorn Saengtham, a pleasure to meet you. Just call me Pete,” he introduces himself. Then he turns towards Vegas and gestures towards the painting, bubbling with excitement. “This is a replica of ‘The Death of Nelson’ by Benjamin West, isn’t it amazing?”
“Whatever. It’s only san ugly painting, get over it.” It’s too late in the day for Vegas to retain any sort of diplomacy or patience towards the kitten. He wants the damn tapes, and to get rid of this cheerful bundle of happiness so he can go home, take a shower and sleep.
“Vegas!” Yok reproaches him and then pats Pete’s hand. “That is correct, it’s a replica of the famous West painting. You are a fellow art lover? How delightful. Just ignore Vegas, he wouldn’t recognise a Picasso if he ever saw one.”
Seems Pete and Yok hit it off, the way they are now talking animatedly about art. Blah blah blah. Stylistic periods. Classicism. Postmodernism. Cubism. Lots of -ism’s. Whatever. He doesn’t have time for this.
“Yok, I need access to the CCTV tapes.” He turns to Pete, instructing him curtly: “You. Don’t touch anything while I am gone.” Then back to Yok. “Don’t let him touch anything.” Vegas is in full grumpy-babysitter-mode and doesn’t even wait for a reply, just stalks away to the office in the back of the bar, where he knows the CCTV equipment is stored. He can feel both Yok and his therapist staring at his retreating back. Whatever.
It takes him a few minutes to find the hard drives for the evening he was here, meeting Beam. He simply pockets them and makes a mental note to reimburse Yok for them at a later date. Then he takes a few more drives that hold footage from the days leading up to the murder. He needs to make sure that those tapes showing him hooking up with Beam disappear before anyone can ever see them. And who knows? Maybe he will get lucky this time, maybe they also hold a clue to the murderer. Who knows.
When he exits the office again, he finds his baby shrink at the bar, watching Yok with avid fascination as she prepares a colourful drink. Like a kid in a candy store. Oddly endearing. No wait. Irritating. Very irritating. He is irritated with Pete, yes.
Gesturing to the drives in his hand he announces: “I’ll bring them back as soon as I’ve made copies.” Then he turns towards Pete and his mind goes blank again for a moment, because the guy looks so damn happy it’s unreal. There is that dimple again. Vegas feels something, and he is very sure he does not want to feel whatever this is. He doesn’t even want to analyse what he is feeling. Let’s not go there, moving on.
“Time to go, Sunshine.”
He pointedly ignores Yok’s protest.
He pointedly ignores the disappointed look on Pete’s face when he has to leave before being able to sample the drink Yok has prepared for him.
He pointedly ignores it when Pete talks enthusiastically about the bar and reveals that he has never been in a place like this nor tasted any cocktails.
He pointedly ignores Pete on the whole way back to the police station, simply pretending he isn’t there.
This is sheer self-preservation on his part.
He needs to get away or something’s gonna give.
Let’s not go there, moving on.
Weekend, here I come.
----------------------------------------
The phone is ringing. What the heck? It’s Saturday night and he is off duty. Vegas has been sleeping so deeply that it takes him longer than usual to pull himself back to the land of the living. This better not be about work. Blindly, he fumbles on his nightstand until he finds his mobile and connects the call.
“Mmmm…?”
The first thing he hears is loud music. Did someone call the wrong number? This definitely does not sound like work, which is good. Maybe he can go back to sleep now.
“Vegas darling, are you there? Hello?” The sound of the music is muffled somehow and now he can hear that someone is talking on the other side.
Oh.
He knows that voice. Vegas groans, just wanting to bury his face back into his pillow.
“What do you want, Yok? I’m off duty, let me sleep.”
“Oh, there you are.” Yok sounds as upbeat as always. She must be at work, judging from the background noises. “Vegas, be a sweetie and come and pick up your friend, will you? He’s had a bit too much to drink, I think it would be best for him to go home now.”
“Huh?” He is still half-asleep, his brain in a fog. “Porsche’s drunk? Call Kinn and let me go back to sleep,” Vegas mumbles into the phone and snuggles deeper into his blanket.
“Not Porsche. Why would I call you about Porsche? Vegas, are you awake? Hello?”
All of this is making no sense and Vegas is damn tired and feels he has been on the phone way too long already. “No, I’m asleep. Stop talking to me. Call someone else.”
He can literally hear Yok roll her eyes on the other end. “There’s no one else to call! He is your friend, so come and take care of him.”
What did Yok say again? Friend? Friend means… Tem? Huh? Tem needs help? Tem isn’t even talking to him—or is he now? If only all of this would make sense to his sleepy brain.
“Tem’s drunk?” he murmurs into the phone.
There’s a very loud exasperated sigh from the other side. “Vegas! Wake up already and listen!”
“I am listening! You are not making any sense!” Vegas groans with growing frustration.
“I am not talking about Tem either. I mean your other friend!”
“What other friend? I don’t have any other friend. I have Porsche and Tem and that’s it! And Tem’s not even speaking to me!” he snarls into the phone.
“Fine! Your colleague then. The puppy, remember?”
This conversation is getting more and more absurd. Why are they talking about pets now? Damn, he is too tired for this!
“I am begging you, Yok. Have mercy…” he groans pitifully. “I am way too tired to make sense of this, please tell me in plain English. Who do you want me to rescue?”
Yok sounds equally grumpy now. “Your colleague. The one who looks like a lost little puppy. The one who accompanied you to the club that afternoon. That friend. Come and pick him up before someone else does. He seems to be quite popular, if you know what I mean…” And then she simply hangs up.
It takes a precious 15 seconds for that information to filter into Vegas’ brain to be processed, then a few more before realisation finally hits and immediately he jerks up into a sitting position and is suddenly wide awake.
You got to be kidding me!
Fuck!