Chapter Seven
Grace didn't say anything when Rigsby emerged from the bathroom wearing a t-shirt and jeans early the next morning. As good as he looked, his expression was made up of annoyance and bad grace. She cringed inwardly. Ordinarily, he loved wearing his weekend clothes. And he'd loved it even more when he found out that it drove Grace crazy. Even now, as he began loading his pockets up with keys and change from the dresser, she couldn't stop the memories of petting him through those tight layers of fabric, stroking and teasing until he moaned and vibrated with need. She'd scrape her nails along his biceps. She'd fan her fingers into the seam of his jeans. Her favorite memory was their first real date. He'd taken her to a pool hall after she admitted never having played. He'd picked her up wearing jeans and a snap-button shirt that made him the instant object of lust to women everywhere they went. She'd been so glad that she'd gone with a slightly naughty little skirt, tank top and jean jacket. As she opened the door, his eyes were magnetically pulled to her legs and she heard his breath hitch. At the pool hall, the warm air gave her the excuse she was looking for to take off her jacket. Suddenly, she was the object of lust for every man as she bent provocatively over the table and looked over her shoulder at him.
"Show me?" she asked sweetly.
He had gulped and smiled nervously, spooning behind her and leaning into the cue to help line up her shot. She didn't bother screening her sigh as his hands covered hers and his hips pressed her firmly into the table. He gasped into her hair as she pushed her hips back into him gently.
"Is that good?" she whispered. She meant the shot. She really meant their closeness. She pushed into him again.
He groaned softly, his hands tightening over hers. "So good, baby."
It was the first time he'd ever called her baby.
She turned her head slightly and caught his eye. "It will be." She proceeded to clear the table without even giving him a shot. That night, naked and thrusting frantically against each other, he'd whispered hotly that she'd lied about never playing pool. She moaned in response and yanked him closer.
So maybe she'd taken two semesters of billiards as part of the recreational requirement for her BA. The point was that she got him to bend her over a table and let him know in no uncertain terms that she wanted him.
But that memory felt faded and useless now.
He was dressed like this because Cross told him to. There would be no pool lessons or teasing today.
Sitting on the bed, Grace picked up her brush and quickly smoothed out her tangled mane before slipping on her trainers and standing up. In a show of solidarity, she too wore her jeans and a green baby tee. Rigsby turned away from the dresser and smiled gently at her.
"You look adorable."
She snickered. "Gee, just what I was going for. Cross will fold like a sheet the minute he sees scary, 'adorable' me."
"Of course he will," he teased lightly, walking over and looping his arms around her waist. "I fold when I see you every day."
"Baby," she murmured softly, using the pet name she loved so much as she twined her arms around his neck. "I want you to promise me you won't let him get to you. Okay? He's been captured. He's bored. He's looking for something to entertain him until he goes to trial. He's fucking with you. Please?" She paused and looked at him beseechingly. The soft, fragile butterfly was back, fluttering in his hands. "Don't let him."
Rigsby sighed heavily and dropped his head, his dark hair inches from her face. "I hate him," he muttered.
"He's not important enough to hate," she counseled.
Head still lowered, he nodded slightly. "What the fuck does he want, Grace?"
She slid her arms further up his neck and moved around his head, hugging him as his nose automatically buried in her neck. "I don't know," she answered quietly. "Maybe he wants to tell you about your mom. Maybe he wants to apologize. Maybe, in some sick way, he's trying to get to know you." She pulled back and looked at him. "Maybe nothing at all."
She didn't want to sugarcoat. This man was an unforgivable asshole in her opinion, no reason to make excuses for him.
"The important thing is that we get our confession."
He sighed again against her. "Any chance we can just crawl under the covers and stay here all day until it's time to drive home?"
She laughed softly and stepped away from him. "When we get back, that's exactly what we're going to do."
He snorted and grabbed his jacket. "All right. Let's go." He paused and turned to her. "Did you want to throw your stuff in your room?"
She grabbed her jacket too and shook her head. "It'll just end up back in here anyway. It's not like the maid service is going to report back that we didn't use two rooms, right?"
He held the door open for her as they walked out. "Another fraudulent use of taxpayers' money; hiding our relationship."
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Cross was already chained loosely to his chair when they walked in. Still in his biker leather, Grace wondered briefly why they hadn't made him change into prisoner garb. Looking at his ropey, muscled hands, she supposed she wouldn't want to be the one to force him into an orange jumper. Whatever the reason, they'd left him alone. Perhaps they were hoping the CBI would take him off their hands.
"Mornin', Wayne. Miss…Vanderlei, was it?" Cross mused as they settled across from him.
"Van Pelt," she corrected politely. "You can call me Grace, if you'd prefer." He seemed to hate formalities. Wanting him comfortable, she gave him a small piece of information that was on her business card anyway. No big concession.
"Graaace," Cross flicked the syllable across his teeth. Grace flinched inwardly again. She often heard her name hissed in that dark, sandpapery voice. Except she was in the arms of his son when she heard it. She kept her eyes steady, her reaction be damned. This man was not Rigsby in any way, shape or form. DNA could go take a flying leap.
"How would you like to start this, Mr. Delacroix? Or do you rather I call you Cross?" she began.
"Cross is dandy. Thank you for asking, Grace." Her name caressed again.
"Cross. Are you willing to begin with your confession to the murder of James Archer, aka Diamondback, on April 3rd, 2004 outside of the Sidewinder Saloon?" She paused, letting the words settle between the three of them.
Cross appraised her through lowered lids. He seemed amused by her. His eyes flickered to Rigsby. "What do you think, son? Think I killed ole Jimmy?"
"Yes." No hesitation. No accusation. Honesty.
"Why's that? You remember him from the old days?" Cross leaned forward slightly, genuinely curious.
Rigsby hadn't moved since they sat down, his back settled firmly against the chair, his arms on the rests. He gave the impression of laxity. Anyone other than a girlfriend or father might have been fooled. "Tall guy? Light brown hair? Cajun accent?"
Cross nodded, slight surprise registering in his dark blue eyes. "Yeah, that was him. You remember his accent, huh?"
Rigsby gave a stiff nod. "He called me 'meenoo'."
Cross guffawed heartily. "He did at that. I'd forgotten. Little cat, he said. Thought you had excellent reflexes for such a young'un."
Rigsby didn't react. "Did you? Kill him?"
The smile slipped from Cross's face and he regarded his son very carefully. Another stare down ensured. Grace sat quietly. Respectfully. Even an idiot could feel the tangle of good guy/bad guy and father/son issues strangling the very air. She would not add to it by pressuring their suspect.
At last, Cross spoke.
"Yes."
Rigsby cocked his head. "You freely admit to killing James Archer?"
"Correct."
"Can you tell us what happened?" Grace ventured her question.
Cross smiled almost kindly at her. "For you, pretty Grace, anything. Jimmy used to truck with us until he broke off to form his own gang. Fuckin' ingrate. He'd been with us a long time. His lack of loyalty was…unfortunate. We ran into him at the Sidewinder and he started taking some cheap potshots." He looked Grace dead in the eye.
"That shit doesn't hold much water with me, Miss Van Pelt."
Grace nodded, her eyes wide. He continued.
"I called him out. We fought. I got the upper hand and I knifed him in the lower back," he said in a chillingly conversational tone. "Liver, if I had to guess where I hit him. The blood was almost black. He bled out in minutes." He watched her reaction in with distant curiosity. "How does that sit with you?"
Grace swallowed, but never broke eye contact. "Factually, it fits the coroner's report and eye witness accounts."
He chuckled darkly. "How does it sit with you, Grace?" She wasn't sure what he was trying to get at, but it felt like he wanted her to admit that she found his lack of remorse disturbing. She shrugged.
"It sits fine, Cross. Someone knifed James Archer and let him bleed out. That fact that it was you means nothing to me."
Grace couldn't be sure, but she could have sworn she saw admiration slowly building in the old man's eyes. Her answers seemed to please him. Her lack of fear and casual politeness seemed to entertain him. As his middle finger swept suggestively over the tabletop, she kept her relaxed, indifferent mien. He watched her for several seconds before suddenly turning to Rigsby.
"Son, I want you to take a walk."
Rigsby stiffened noticeably in his chair. "What?"
"You heard me. Quid pro quo. I gave you Jimmy, now I want my turn. And I want to talk to your lady friend, here. Alone."
"Abso-fuckin-lutely not." Rigsby hissed low across the table. His tenuous hold on his rage broke like a toothpick. He'd been a good boy for the whole of this conversation, but leaving Grace alone with this murdering bastard wasn't in the cards…or in the entire casino. He stood up and leaned over into Cross's face. "I stay with her. Period."
Cross, unconcerned, barely cocked his head upwards. "Jack Ripley," he drawled. "Pedro Sanchez. Cody Croydon. Wild Bill Defrane. Iggy Detweiler…and so forth."
"Who are these men?" Grace asked.
Cross gazed up through lowered lids at Rigsby. Smug. "Oh, men that are no longer among us. Men who succumbed to occupational hazards. Sad, sad stories all."
"Other people he's murdered," Rigsby informed Grace without looking at her, his eyes glued to the man in front of him. His biceps, without the camouflage of his suit, rippled angrily in his t-shirt. His neck muscles flared. He looked that close to killing his father with his bare hands.
"Perhaps," Cross mused. "Perhaps they are. Leave me with Grace and I'll attempt more fuckin' transparency on the subject upon your return."
Grace stood up. "Give us a minute." Cross nodded with exaggerated graciousness as she pulled Rigsby into the observation room. He yanked his arm from her grasp and stomped across the room, his hands scrubbing hard into his hair.
"No fuckin' way is he talking to you alone!" he spat angrily. His eyes were huge and flashed furiously at her. He looked positively murderous. Grace centered herself and stayed calm.
"Five people, Wayne. He named five possible murder victims and insinuated that he was responsible. We need to explore it. Me interrogating him alone isn't a serious compromise."
"Of course it fucking is!" Rigsby's voice echoed off the recording equipment.
Her chin jutted angrily. "You wouldn't think so if he were asking for Cho. Or Jane. Am I so incapable?" Her calm was making a quick exit. Did he really think she wasn't able to question Cross properly? That she needed his protection?
Rigsby lunged at her and took her roughly by her shoulders. "I'm not crazy in love with fucking Cho or Jane, goddammit! You! You are all that I have and he's asking to be alone with you!" He shook her with each sentence. "This man, he destroys everything he touches. He broke me. He broke Sarah. He broke dozens of others and he doesn't give a shit. He's a sociopath and a bastard and he can't have you, you hear me? He CAN'T have you!" Rigsby yanked her hard against his chest and crushed her in his arms. "He can't," he murmured in her hair. His hands splayed wide across her back, shielding her from Cross, from the contamination that Rigsby was certain he'd bring into their lives.
Grace put her arms around him and held him close. His t-shirt was soft under her fingers and she immediately began tracing the ridges of his back, like she'd done many times before. "I have to," she whispered softly. She felt rage pulsing through him.
A few seconds ticked by.
"I know," he choked angrily.
"Hey," she chided, looking up from his chest. "What did we agree on, huh? He can't hurt us here, right? He's just playing with us because he's bored. We'll play along and hope we get more information. We already have one confirmed homicide. Yay us. Now let me go in there and get some more."
Rigsby snorted as he ran his fingers along the nape of her neck. "I have half a mind to pull rank on you, rookie. Forbid you from talking to him."
Grace smiled wanly. He'd never pull rank, she knew that much. And him joking about it was an encouraging sign. "Stay in here. You can watch the whole time. Hey," she cupped his cheek. "You're stronger than this, okay? That guy in there?" She pointed her finger at Cross. "Only proves how hard you fought to become the man you are. Just stay strong," she smiled. "For me."
She watched reason and fury battle for dominance in his eyes before he stepped back, signaling his agreement. "I'm right here," he said. "The second you need me, I'll be right here."
Grace exhaled slowly and nodded. "I know."
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Grace walked back in. Alone.
Cross gave her a nod of approval as she walked back to the table and sat down.
"My boy continues to amaze. I never thought he'd allow you to come back in here all by your lonesome."
Grace felt herself rile up at the suggestion that Wayne 'allowed' her to do anything, but since he was her superior, it was begrudgingly a fair comment. She pushed down her annoyance. "He has no reason to worry, does he Cross?" she asked innocently.
His hands splayed open on the table. "Exactly. Just two people havin' a conversation." His eyes sparkled, telling her that he meant no such thing.
"So," he began coolly. "Now that I've given you Jimmy, mind if I pose a question or two? Seein' as how I may have information on others and all? I imagine they sweeten the deal, so to speak."
Grace nodded politely. "You may ask. I can't guarantee any answers. I hope that's acceptable to you."
Cross ran his tongue over his teeth. She still wasn't comfortable with the almost perfect exactness of his and Rigsby's facial features. It was almost as if her lover's lips and tongue were in front of her, moving in foreign, bold mannerisms. The same eyes, only a slightly darker shade of blue, regarding her with the same naked appreciation. The same formidable jaw line, the same muscles working back and forth as he clicked his teeth in the exact same way that Rigsby did. And he was using them on her.
That was the biggest difference, despite the age gap.
Cross was confident enough to use his looks as part of his thrall. Rigsby was far too shy to even realize he had that kind of power. Many women could easily be seduced by Rigsby if he'd fallen closer to the tree, just as many women had no doubt fallen for Cross's charms in the past.
But Grace wasn't most women. Male seduction methods, by and large, gave her the creeps. Another reason she was grateful that the man before her had passed on his handsome features to his son…and that was all.
He leaned forward slightly and used a hushed, deep timbre. "You in love with my boy, Grace Van Pelt?"
Grace didn't blink. She did, however, thank God that she'd turned off the cameras on the way back in. If Cross blabbed to the local PD about their relationship, she'd simply deny it. "Yes."
"Aaaaaah, honesty." Cross nodded approvingly. "I'll say it again, he did good by you, little girl." He tipped back in his seat and propped his heavy boots onto Rigby's empty chair. She felt it rattle under their weight. "Tell me why."
"Why do I love him?"
He nodded.
Grace kept her eyes wide. Non-judgmental. Factual. "Because he's everything you're not."
His lack of response surprised her. She expected him to get angry. Instead, he seemed to carefully consider her answer. She remembered from yesterday that she felt he had no vanity. Perhaps she'd been right on the money. He had no ego to bruise.
"Elaborate."
Grace couldn't help her half-smile. He might be a sociopath. And a bastard. But his mixture of liberal swearing, deliberately poor grammar, and five-dollar words was…amusing.
"Fine. By all accounts, Wayne should be dead. Or in jail. Or a wanted fugitive riding a '53 Indian and gutting other thugs over bullshit territory disputes. Instead he's…" Grace paused, looking for a word that encompassed everything about his kindness, his bravery, his innate goodness. "…he's absolutely pure."
She leveled a colder gaze at him. Copper met sapphire. She didn't flinch. "You dragged him through a childhood of ungodly abuse and misery and he managed to emerge shiny and perfect on the other side." Still factual. Infinitely more accusatory.
"That's why I love him."
Cross sat, processing. Grace found her surprise rising again. No anger or defense met her indictments. Just quiet thought. She decided to turn the tables.
"May I ask a question, Cross?"
His brows arched and his chin dropped in subtle agreement.
"Why did you beat him? Why keep him with you at all? Why let Sarah drag him all over the state chasing you? I mean, Jesus," she shook her head in sickened awe. "Did you feel anything for him? At all?"
She hated asking these questions knowing that Rigsby was watching, but for chrissakes, she just had to know.
Cross surprised her yet again. Something akin to regret crossed his features. Not shame. Certainly not remorse. But a pale, third cousin of regret, definitely. It disappeared, quick as a lightening strike.
"Jack Ripley. Small-time shithead out of San Bernadino who ran dope. Sold some bad horse to my crew. Really fucked us up. Frank Zapato, one of my best guys, OD'd on it. I shot Jack twice in the neck. A .38 Special, if I recall."
Fuck! Grace panicked. The cameras were still off. "Will you submit that in writing?"
Cross jerked his hand dismissively. "Fuckin' naturally."
Grace paused, wanting more details about the murder, but also annoyed that he'd deflected her questions. Should she ask again? Her eyes swept over Cross's impressively large body. It broke her heart to imagine him hitting a six-year-old boy. There was far too much power in those limbs. And little boys were so small. So small. She chose the job.
"And the others you mentioned? Four other names?"
"Tomorrow," he grated, sounding irked despite the change of subject.
"Tomorrow? Cross, we can't keep dragging this out. We're needed back in Sacramento. We're grateful for your cooperation, but we need answers and we need them now."
Cross waved a finger at her. "I'd suggest you call your superiors in Sac, then. Ask if an extra day or two is worth wrapping up four unsolved murders on the California books. I'm happy to wait."
Grace sighed heavily, resting her elbows on the table. She knew—just as he knew—that her boss would tell her to stay and continue to question him, especially if the Archer and Ripley confessions held water. Grace was positive they did.
"You win." She rested her chin in her hand and gazed at him candidly. "But why? Why keep us here? Why torture Wayne like this?"
Cross also settled his elbows on the table and leaned forward. His face only six inches away from hers. Grace knew she should be frightened. This man was a killer. Remorseless. He dangled women like her for fun. He beat them. He beat children. And he used this charm technique on hundreds; she was the latest in the chain.
And yet. Grace looked carefully into the eyes right in front of her and felt a bizarre, reckless and completely unwanted emotion.
Affinity.
She couldn't understand it. She definitely didn't like it. There was no reason to feel anything but abhorrence for him. But Cross, like Grace, was a straight shooter. But it made sitting with him and talking to him honestly so much easier. She couldn't swear to it, but he seemed equally willing to speak to her for that reason. It bothered her that it didn't bother her more.
"My asking for my boy was for my own reckoning. Reasons, like everything else in this fuckin' world, are personal. But you get that, don't you, Grace?" Was he always going to hiss her name so sensually? Just like Rigsby? Nothing like Rigsby?
"All right then. We'll come back tomorrow. Can you assure me that you'll discuss the other men you mentioned? Please?" Grace knew it was silly, but maybe Rigsby's helplessness against her pleas was hereditary. Worth a shot, anyway.
Cross smirked indulgently. "You have my word."
"Then I'll see you tomorrow."
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Rigsby waited outside of the LAPD building while Grace ran to the bathroom. When she came out, she had the biggest canary-eating grin he'd ever seen. He wasn't in the mood to return it after watching that gut-wrenching interview, but his brows went up in curiosity anyway.
She held her hand up and jingled a strange set of keys between her fingers. "Wanna piss your dad off?"
His snorted softly and shook his head in confusion. She bit lip playfully and dropped the keys in his hand. "His bike is still in impound behind the building." She dipped her eyes shyly and looked up at him from under her lashes. "Wanna take me for a ride?"
Rigsby's eyes widened in surprise at he looked at the keys in his hand more carefully. Sure enough. He remembered these old, worn keys as they danced back and forth in the ignition during their long, hot hauls across the state. Cross often carried Wayne in those days. Told him that unless he was the lead dog, the scenery never changed. Wayne hadn't understood at the time. The scenery never changed anyway. Just endless stretches of highway and an old keychain bouncing endlessly in front of him. He had stared at them for hours, just as he was staring at them now.
He dropped the keys back into her hand.
"No."
Her face fell a little. She looked down at them before glancing back up. "How come?"
"Because I hate bikes, Grace. You know I do." He tried to keep his voice calm.
"Just like you hate the woods," she countered softly. She wasn't trying to push him. She just wanted to make a point.
"Exactly. I hate these things. Look, baby, this case is hard enough. I don't need more shit I can't stand being thrown at me. Take them back." He gestured to the set.
She looked absolutely crestfallen. "Okay," she murmured, looking down at her hand again. Rigsby instantly felt like a heartless bastard. His gut twisted again when she looked up at him with a hurt expression. "So you didn't like yesterday? In the forest? It made you unhappy?"
Oh, god. His chest squeezed painfully at her small, heartrending words. She couldn't seriously think that. Not after she stroked his body into a frenzy of mind-blowing pleasure, giving to him what—until recently—he would never have dared to even hope for. She knew that, surely. …..Didn't she?
He closed his hands over the keys in her palm and pulled her close. "Yesterday was amazing. You're amazing. Didn't you hear me upstairs? You're everything to me. Everything. That's why I can't let Cross poison us, just like he poisons everything else."
Grace pushed back slightly from his chest. "Rigsby," she started uncertainly. "You know what you're supposed to do when you're bitten by a snake, right?"
He cocked his head at her. "You mean, like on the leg? Don't they say you need to slice the wound and suck the poison out?"
She nodded quickly. "Exactly. You're so worried about getting bitten again that you're not sucking out the poison that's already there. The forest is beautiful, sweetheart. Bikes?" She jangled the keys in front of him again. "Are fun. Instead of hating these things because of Cross and your bad memories of them, maybe you should start making new ones." She looked down shyly. "With me."
Rigsby frowned, but mulled her words.
Grace. His beautiful, wise, wonderful angel. Her red hair fell over her eyes as she continued to gaze downward. Of course she was right. Fuck, it was probably already working. He wasn't sure he'd ever be able to look at a redwood forest again without getting a hard-on. That was definitely a new development. He looked at the keys in her hand. Those fucking keys. He stomped his anger down and looked at them properly. Keys. They're just keys. Little pieces of metal that didn't emote or inflict pain. They just started the engine to a bike. A cherry of a bike.
Yes. She was absolutely right. Cross wasn't allowed to ruin things for him anymore. Especially things that Grace loved. And she loved trees. Just like she loved big engines and lots of speed. She wanted to look for witches in gingerbread houses and hold him tight on the back of a bike. Yeah, those were good things. Fuckin' fantastic things.
A smile spread slowly across his lips. His fingers tipped her chin up to look at him. She saw his smile and smiled back in relief. Without breaking eye contact, he took the keys from her hand.
"Baby? Have you ever seen a 1977 Harley Davidson Low Rider?"
She smiled wider. "Show me?"
