Los Gatos 26/? part 1
Pairing: David Villa/David Silva (main), Sergio Ramos/Fernando Torres (???), others
Characters: David Silva, David Villa, Iker Casillas, Fernando Torres, Cristiano Ronaldo, Andrés Iniesta, Pepe Reina, Jordi Alba (this part of the chapter)
Rating: R (?)
Warnings: AU
Disclaimer: I don't claim it has ever happened.
Chapter 26
Iker’s head snapped to his office door when he heard the doorknob move. He put on a mask of polite attentiveness when he spotted Andrés’ slightly apologetic face.
“Hi”, the Manchego gingerly picked up his hand, “I’ve been wondering… You know, about everything.”
Iker couldn’t honestly say that he knew, so he settled on inquiring staring.
He had just finished interrogating Bojan and was planning to go to the crime scene or Cesc, he wasn’t yet decided on the order, that was, as soon as Torres finally arrived at the Bureau. He hadn’t thought to ask where the psychologist had been those two hours before when they had been talking but it must have been far away.
By the way, Bojan had shocked him with his calmness. Sure, he had been shaken but not nearly as pale as Messi and had been able to give him substantial, concrete information without stuttering or choking on his tongue. Which didn’t change the fact that his alibi - a supermarket receipt with the time: 16.45 - wouldn’t hold in court.
“Uhm…”, Andrés must have noticed he wasn’t with him mentally, “Remember what Xavi’s been saying? About that programme used for deleting the data?”
“That it was an amateur’s job?”, Iker bit the pen, “And that if he was to do it he’d go for something with some coding sort of thing and…”, he trailed off because Andrés was giving him that look he always got when he was trying to cite some technical stuff, “What? You said you’d just smash that drive”, and that didn’t strike him as professional.
“If there’s a code, there’s always a way ‘round it and almost certainly someone able to find it”, Andrés shrugged from his spot next to the door, “Mechanical damage if generally fool proof if you know what to, so to speak, smash. You can steal the device too and, let’s say, drown it in a river”, not too subtle allusion to the phones in the Manzanares, “Anyway, it’s indisputable that an amateur wouldn’t know that. So, an amateur? Torres being the only one who had an idea what López had been working on, and he goes missing on the night López gets killed? And then his phone just happens to be on the same street Ramos’ car gets spotted?”
“We’ve no proof it’s Ramos’ car”, Iker carefully put the pen down.
“So now we’re believing in coincidences”, the Manchego crossed his arms, “You’re the one who’s been saying the play time’s over. Don’t you see anything suspicious here?”
“Are you really suggesting that Torres killed him? He can’t even use a gun.”
“Because that’s so hard to pretend”, Andrés pursed his lips, “I’m not saying it was Torres, I’m saying you should check it. Where is he by the way? Everyone’s been breaking their backs here for almost twelve hours now and he hasn’t yet popped by to ask how we’re doing-”
“Andrés, enough”, Iker rose to his feet, “Enough”, he repeated when the Manchego made an indignant face, “It’s not Torres, okay? He was petrified when we talked last night and I’ve been in contact with him ever since. He is coming here to give his statement”, he absolutely refused to delve on the story Andrés had presented, maybe because it was just a bit too spot-on.
But it couldn’t be Torres, it was impossible. He had been already assaulted as the first of them (and came out of it unscratched, what a perfect smoke screen, a little voice in his head nagged), he didn’t have it in himself to pull a trigger… He had known Cesc’s identity all along and Cesc was still alive.
“Andrés”, he called out heavily as the technician turned around to leave, “Andrés, you do realise that giving false testimony is a crime?”, he swiftly crushed whatever hopes of reconciliation the other may have been harbouring.
The Manchego stopped in his tracks but didn’t make any outward sign of understanding what he was talking about.
“Andrés”, he began to walk up to the technician, absent-mindedly noting that he must be going for a record in the number of times he had used the guy’s name, “You weren’t with Xavi all that time you’re claiming, I saw it when I asked for your statements. He was surprised to hear you say that, though he hid it well. Did he ask you to do that?”
Andrés was staring straight at him, betraying no will to open his mouth anytime soon.
“Look”, Iker’s hand went to his hair on its own and he brought it down angrily, “You’re not helping here, not him and not yourself. Why did you do that? What the hell happened there? Was he even with you at all or have you fabricated this whole story-”
“Of course he was there, what do you think, that I’m lying to cover a murderer?”, Andrés took a step back and bumped into the door, “He went out to get us coffee, that’s why he didn’t expect me to say we never left each other’s side, that’s all there is to it”, it was all a bit too rushed.
“How long was he gone?”, Iker couldn’t take it out on Andrés. He couldn’t if he wanted to get anything out of him that would change the statements, even though he wished to bang that stubborn head on the door.
“I don’t know, twenty minutes max? He went to that coffee across the street, the one with flowery take-away cups”, Andrés’ eyes slid down to his chest.
“You sure it was twenty minutes?”, if it was true, then it was nothing but a very very embarrassing situation, with quite possibly a damning outcome for Andrés.
“I think so. It never takes longer to order coffee, does it?”, he stammered nervously.
“Dammit, Andrés, I want a clear answer: you saw it was twenty minutes with a watch in your hand or not?”, he couldn’t bang Andrés’ head, but he could punch the door, incidentally blocking the technician’s escape route.
“I-I didn’t, okay?”, the technician shook himself off like a cat, “I went down to the basement as soon as he left, I needed to replace a cable in the main power supply because the old one turned out to be incompatible with the new parts and it took me some time to come up again-”
“How long?”
“Maybe an hour”, Andrés admitted in a small voice, “I didn’t have a watch and I got kind of… Caught up with it. But even if it was an hour it wasn’t enough time to go after López-”
“It was just enough time”, Iker hit himself on the forehead simply because he couldn’t do that to the moron in front of him, “Andrés, fuck, you provided him with an incontestable alibi, you have to take it back-”
“Well, it was off the record, okay?”, the technician straightened his jumper with agitation, “Xavi didn’t do anything and besides, it works both ways: I don’t have an alibi now either”, he licked his lips, “I don’t believe anyone saw me in that basement, it’s not exactly crowded.”
“It’s not important, just let’s correct the papers”, he turned back to the desk and his heart sank when he didn’t hear Andrés following him.
“I’m sorry”, the Manchego whispered brokenly from the door, “I really am. But my statement stands until you’re able to prove otherwise.”
Iker could only stare at him, agape, as he slipped out of his office, leaving him with a heap of most likely useless testimonies, a ticking clock and the realisation that in fact, five and not three of his closest co-workers had no alibi.
....
Pepe was segregating the receipts when the door to Insomnia burst open, revealing a furious Villa.
“How can I help you?”, he cheerfully leaned on the counter, noting the absolute lack of any emotion other than ire on the hard set of Guaje’s face.
“Where’s he?”, Villa’s voice wasn’t even loud, yet it rang in the empty room like a bell of a cemetery chapel.
“Where’s who?”, Pepe pretended ignorance, hand slipping to the drawer at his thigh’s height.
Too slow. Or too obvious.
“Don’t act dumb”, Guaje’s lips contorted into a parody of a smile as he drew a gun in one swift motion, “I’m slowly getting tired of this today”, he had the nerve to sound conversational, “So let’s try again: where’s my little traitor?”
It was no time to feign further confusion, it never was when there was a gun in Guaje’s hand.
The Asturian could never grasp that human beings were supposed to hesitate to pull a trigger.
“I don’t know”, he almost picked his hands up in surrender but sudden movements weren’t the best idea he guessed, “I don’t know”, he repeated, trying to catch Villa’s eyes to let him see the truth there, “But what I know is that he’s never betrayed you.”
“No?”, Guaje raised an eyebrow thoughtfully, “So how’s conspiring behind my back called these days, eh, Reina?”, he walked up to the counter and halted only when the barrel was just beyond Pepe’s reach.
Not that he was stupid enough to attempt to wrestle the gun out of Villa’s hands.
“I wouldn’t know-”
“Oh, because that’s not you with whom that cheating whore’s been consulting his actions?”, Guaje’s patience must be running thin as a fucking silk thread yet of course, his tone was as calm as ever, “I’m wrong as usual”, there was that little quirk of lips that bared one of his canines.
Villa wanted him to deny that. He wanted him to protest, to assure him of his loyalty and the Asturian’s ever-brilliant conclusions to any situation… To make a mistake.
He honestly wanted him to believe that he was waiting for a reason to release the bullet.
“You’re not wrong”, Guaje never cared for reasons other than his own, “Not about us ‘conspiring’, but you’re a fool to think we’ve been conspiring against you”, he allowed himself a small snort.
Villa was a ticking bomb and he almost wished to set him off and be done with it.
Gitano was right, the kid was fucking trouble and he may be the end of Guaje if he wasn’t to meet his own end first, as he undeniably was. Villa had never truly noticed people’s existence around him, not in a way that would make him call them the names of traitors and whores when they let him down.
“Speak up”, Guaje growled, black eyes quickly scanning their surroundings. No one was coming, neither Javier nor Álvaro would ever dare to stand between them, “Your last chance to enlighten me. You’ve always wanted to have influence over me so come on, I’m grating you your last wish.”
He has never wanted to that, not in a way Villa thought. It was just that when he had first met him, all brash words and challenging gestures masking the frozen eyes, he had stupidly believed that there was a human somewhere in there to salvage at least a part of.
“Speak the fuck up”, the chill running up and down his spine indicated that the command wouldn’t be repeated again, “You and that fucking whore are dead already anyway.”
....
David had never been to the Baths before nightfall but it turned out that it was one of those places that just didn’t change no matter the circumstances. The people crowding all around the place might have put on their day-time attires but there was no mistaking the sort of relationship between the middle-aged man in an office shirt and expensive loafers and the red-haired girl in a polka dots dress or the docile boy in a green tank top trailing hurriedly behind a dark guy in a hoodie.
“Hey, you!”, the hoodie called out without slowing the pace, “Want some shit too?”
David sent the dealer a customary glance and shook his head decisively.
“Not my idea of a goodtime, sorry”, he chuckled softly at the elated expression of the tank top. Probably glad that there’d be more for him left though David himself honestly doubted he would be even getting to smell his drugs that day.
The chuckles died on his lips the instant he realised that he was familiar with exactly none of the bouncers from the day shift and that unfortunately, they seemed quite keen on getting familiar with him. He ducked his head, forcing his suddenly very heavy limbs to obey him and drag him inside despite the far too friendly ogling and smacking sounds accompanying him on the way there.
And he wasn’t even wearing his night clothes.
Maybe it was his closed-off stance, maybe his looks - neither a client nor a seller, hanging somewhere in the middle - but the bouncers didn’t bother him past the leering and he could soon breath in relief when the comforting coolness of the club engulfed him.
Now all that was to do was to find Özil because he was an idiot and never in all those days of hunting for Cesc it had crossed his mind that it may be useful to actually have the slightest idea where Ramos could be found before nightfall. Alright, so it wasn’t strictly that, he hadn’t been disregarding that problem, it was more that he hadn’t envisioned that he may land in a situation that waiting for their regular meeting in Insomnia wouldn’t be an option.
It clearly wasn’t now. Fernando had somehow found out about him and he may have already alerted Casillas that the snitch had to be taken into protective custody or transported out of Madrid. He had to get to Ramos without any delay and Özil seemed to be a safe source of information. He certainly wasn’t going to call Villa now after covering for him for so long… Yeah, he guessed worrying about Villa was completely unnecessary. He had known he was busted the second Alexis had called to ask if he had been aware that his boyfriend had been looking for him at Mestalla.
“Hey”, he tried to push away a body that was suddenly blocking his way, “Excuse me.”
He did his best to ignore the goose bumps when the man not only stayed where he was but also turned to him to give him a lecherous look-over.
“Hey yourself”, the guy smirked, taking a step closer to him, “Chino, yes?”, his eyes sparkled with pleasure when David acted on some fucked-up instinct and instead of stalking away he took a step back, bumping into a wall and effectively robbing himself of any escape route.
“Yes”, he tried to imitate the voice Ramos used whenever he was tricked into talking to him, only with Ramos the ‘fuck off’ was even more prominent but that may be because he didn’t have to worry about being the regrettably smaller one in the exchange, “I’m not working right now”, he added in a more conciliatory tone, with an apologetic smile.
He started forwards and yelped silently when he got shoved back to the wall.
Oh shit. His eyes darted around in a search of the guards but fuck, he couldn’t recognise any of the faces there and the odds were they didn’t have a clue about his identity either.
“You’re never working”, the man hissed, advancing more onto him and he could see nothing but his chest and a bearded chin and God, that was getting so fucking bad.
“I’m sorry”, like fuck he was, “It’s just… It’s Mr Özil that arranges my-my jobs, he says he wants me on that private stuff for now, I’m sorry, maybe you should talk to him…”, he had to pause because his heart may simply decide to jump out through his throat if he didn’t.
“He won’t even hear about renting you out”, the man spat but moved to the left at the same time and without thinking, David bolted away, getting as far as five steps before he was slammed back into the wall with a force that made his head spin.
“I’m not finished with you”, the snarl echoed in his head with a frightening certainty and he whimpered, trying to focus his blurry sight again.
“But I’m afraid you are.”
He did know the new voice, the cultured-cool quality of the clipped words.
“Who-”, the pig swore and whirled around and David honestly couldn’t help a satisfied expression when the guy paled as he recognised Ronaldo.
“Remove yourself”, the Portuguese threw, not sparing the man any further attention after locking his eyes on David, “Now.”
Maybe he had been too fast with that happiness.
He felt a sudden urge to yell at the guy to stay as he scurried away, which was plain stupid as there couldn’t be many worse alternatives to getting pawed by some dirty businessman.
“Thank you”, he smiled sincerely when they were left alone, “You’ve saved me, Mr Ronaldo, thank you. I’ll just ehm… Go now, I have to see Mr Özil”, he babbled as he was inching away.
He wasn’t surprised when a strong arm interrupted his progress.
“He’s not here”, Ronaldo’s grin could star in a toothpaste ad, “I’m afraid.”
“Oh”, as in: ‘oh fucking shit’, “Oh”, he repeated, fighting the dangerous swaying of his knees, “Then I guess I should be going, before I get into even more trouble I mean-”
He wanted to cry when to hand just gripped his t-shirt’s front. What the hell did Ronaldo want from him?
“I don’t believe you fully understand your situation”, the man drawled and David’s reason flew out the window.
“Enlighten me then”, he gritted out snipingly, and pushed against the hand with all his strength.
His spine cracked when he collided with the wall. Fucking wall, there must be his figure pressed on it already.
“Watch your mouth whore”, Ronaldo snickered as he pinned him there by his collar, “Your days of immunity are coming to an abrupt end. Why not ease yourself into a bright new world?”, he arched an eyebrow and David was kind of grateful he was too much of a coward to kick him in the balls there and then, “Yes, darling. Your owner knows.”
It wasn’t news but rather a grim confirmation of info he already had.
“In a way”, Ronaldo’s thumb lightly massaged his collarbone, “He knows about you lying to him. I fear he may still be unclear about your objective”, he snorted, “I guess you’re branded a traitor then”, he made a face that was probably supposed to feign deep thinking but to David resembled someone with a constipation problem more, “And yes - your blonde friend ratted on you. You shouldn’t really have trusted him.”
“You beat or raped it out of him?”, David knew how to arch eyebrows too.
He got his answer in a form of swift slap.
He had never been hit on the face - or anywhere for that matter - before and it petrified him more than hurt at first.
“You’ve no idea how convincing certain substances can be.”
It dawned on David that the prospect of losing Villa for good made him suicidal.
“You’re right, I don’t”, he grinned in Ronaldo’s amused face, “But since you do, isn’t it kind of stupid of you to use him as a spy?”
Okay, so this slap did sting. Like hell.
It was kind of lame still that Ronaldo needed to physically harm him to, what? Assert his dominance? With David? He wasn’t exactly a rival for the man.
“Let’s set some ground rules”, the Portuguese shook him until his head struck the concrete, “I do the asking, you do the talking.”
Provoking the man further would lead to nothing but more bruises. And more delay he couldn’t afford.
He slowly nodded.
“Good”, another fake grin, “So, Silvitita, why are you here?”
“I’m looking for Mr Özil-”
“Why?”
As if he couldn’t fucking guess with the info he’d supposedly got from Fábio.
“Do you know where Ramos lives?”, he asked instead, then remembered he wasn’t allowed to do it.
Apparently Ronaldo had forgotten too.
“Ramos?”, he actually seemed to be taken aback for a second. Then his face broke into one of the most hideous smiles David had ever had the un-pleasure to see, “Ah, Ramos. So we’re still driven by some romantic motions to help the man restore his honour? How sweet”, he trailed an index finger down David’s cheek, applying too much pressure for it to even pretend to be a caress.
“Are you going to tell me or not?”, he didn’t jerk away despite the deepest desire to do so. Maybe he was getting it all wrong, but maybe not and Ronaldo really was so dependent on physical manifestations.
“That’s not how it works and you know it”, the man tut-tuted but didn’t strengthen his hold or rake a nail into his flesh, “That kind of info is classified, top-secret I’d say”, he drawled, eyes gleaming with something that made David want to openly tremble with disgust, “It’ll cost.”
So the man did fear for his hide as every other sensible being. There were petty internal wars and there was the threat of Casillas hauling his slick arse to prison.
David hid a smirk.
“Name a price”, he still wasn’t so sure about his negotiation position. He didn’t technically own any money aside from a small account with his Mestalla earnings that he mostly used to take Fábio out for dinner and sometimes cinema. It felt wrong to do that with Villa’s money made on people like Fábio himself.
He didn’t know how he’s going to achieve that, but he swore that he would live to see that smirk getting wiped off Ronaldo’s face permanently when the man’s hand confidently slid down to tug at the waistband of his jeans.
“That?”, he pretended to be bewildered, “You know it’s not mine to give.”
He hissed in pain when his testicles got crushed like some fucking fruits.
“Neither is Ramos’ address mine to tell you”, Ronaldo leaned over to whisper maliciously in his ear, “So: deal or no deal?”, his wet tongue touched the shell of his ear, the big bulk of his body pressing him to the wall like some sort of gigantic snake.
His jacket fell open in the process and David’s fingers twitched when he caught the sight of the right holster. Villa had taught him how to snatch a gun out of it and it would be just so easy to dart his hand there and give the bastard what he deserved.
He stared stubbornly ahead as the hand made its way into his jeans, probing and pinching and Virgin, no, he couldn’t take the gun. He needed Ramos’ address. He didn’t exactly worry about the consequences of drawing a gun at Ronaldo, maybe most people would see it as a favour anyway.
“There’s surly an empty room upstairs”, the Portuguese drawn back to lick his lips.
David wished to bite him.
Instead, he laughed.
He just kept on laughing, meeting Ronaldo’s eyes gleaming with lust with his own unabashedly, wondering whose insanity was being reflected in the black irises.
“Oh that’d be so fitting”, he didn’t stop giggling, “Great Ronaldo going down in a bed. Because his cock’s been always so much more important than business”, he quirked his mouth at the man’s growing annoyance, “Every second now values more than a cargo of your fucking coke. The snitch can be gone like that”, he snapped his fingers, “And yet, all you care about is getting me under you because you just can’t take losing to Villa like a man. Every. Single. Time”, he finished in a whisper, blowing into Ronaldo’s neck.
Then, he waited. The worst the man could do was beat him, fuck him and then kill him. But he couldn’t really do that, at least not the latter. He still was the only one who knew Cesc’s identity and something was telling him that Ronaldo realised that he would never be able to force that information out of him.
Check-mate.
He pivoted down when the man shoved him off the wall like a vile piece of trash, then stalked after him to haul him up again.
“I will have you”, he stated so simply and calmly David didn’t doubt it for a moment, “I will have you, whore, make no mistake”, his hand on David’s neck squeezed hard enough to make him gasp and trash some, “Now, move. We’re going”, he pushed him towards the exit.
....
Fernando guessed that there shouldn’t be many things left able to shock the hell out of him after the last twenty-four hours but Casillas waiting for him in the hall next to a lift did the job.
“We need to talk”, the DI steered him to the closest office in a way of greetings, “I’ll take your statement about yesterday in a second”, Casillas glanced at him as if daring him to inquire.
He didn’t. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that after learning what had been López’ main goal during his days as the team’s boss they would all find themselves on the list of suspects.
“But first”, Casillas side-stepped so that they were standing face to face, “I want to ask for your professional opinion.”
Fernando feared that his gulp was audible in the whole room. He had had enough of giving ‘professional opinions’ for life, thank you very much, look where his professional opinions had got López! Besides, he was such an invaluable asset to the Force that they hadn’t even deemed him worthy of murdering alongside the DI as they had apparently rightly realised that he didn’t even know what he’d been working on.
“What about?”, he asked faintly before Casillas decided he had gone into delayed shock.
“Ramos”, came a fast reply and yeah, he may be going into that shock. Didn’t help that the criminal had been present when he had got the news about López - the mention of one triggered the memories of the other and brought back the emotions and he definitely wasn’t supposed to associate Ramos with any kind of emotion and certainly not remembering the attempts of comfort the man had tried to provide-, “I’ll be frank”, Casillas must be blissfully unaware of his influx of thoughts, “I want to bring him in. He hasn’t been of any help and he’s fishy. There’s something off with the guy and I’m fed up with guessing what it is. You’ve been seeing him”, Fernando’s world stopped for the second before the DI carried on, running a hand through his hair, “Had those ‘sessions’ with him”, he made the citation marks and Fernando began to breathe again, “His act has been nothing but perfect around us, but he might’ve lowered his guard with you. So, I want to know: do you think he’s nothing but a small-time pimp we can allow to run loose and arrest when we’re sure he won’t be of any use ever to us or is there something more to him that should be thoroughly investigated and he put away right now without any further delay?”
There. It was the opportunity he had been waiting for, to turn Ramos in without automatically damning himself. He could finally get away from his irritating shadow and carefully plan how to point Casillas in the direction of fucking Silva… With Ramos in prison he could make it look as if the DI got no help from him, therefore rob Silva of any weapon against him, plus if he was the one testifying against Ramos right here and now, even if the little fucker ratted on him no one would question his loyalties.
“I’m being serious here”, Casillas must have misinterpreted his silence, “I’m at wits ends with Ramos, so I’m going to heed your opinion. One word, yes or no and his case’s closed”, the DI opened his hands in an encouraging gesture, looking Fernando in eyes with utter sincerity.
“No”, he smiled tightly, “I don’t think it’s necessary to get rid of him yet, he may still bring some valuable news. He’s just a small-time pimp and I have a feeling he’s not even good at his job...”
Casillas nodded with a satisfied expression and Fernando thought that if they were looking for the biggest damn idiot on Earth, the signs should all point to him.
....
Iker tiredly turned the key in the lock of Andrés’ flat, resting his forehead on the surprisingly cool wood for a second to gather his thoughts.
God, he sounded pathetic: gather his thoughts. What the fuck was there to gather? He was screwed, in every sense of that word, and the ones doing the screwing were his own co-workers. Not to mention that one of them must be having the fun of his life watching him rushing and trashing around blindly like a fish taken out of water.
He had interrogated Torres only to learn that he had spent those two hours with his step-brother Alberto which had been confirmed by both the teenager and his mother Pilar Menéndez Olano who had also added that their father had been supposed to be there too but some important business had forced him to stay at his company. Poor woman had sounded so embarrassed on his behalf that Iker had felt like a bastard for not interrupting her and changing the subject.
He hadn’t broached the topic of Torres’ later escapade though, only because he had really had to leave to check up on Cesc and hadn’t wished to give Torres a head start on preparing an excuse. Unlike Andrés, he hadn’t believed for a second that the psychologist might have anything to do with López’ murder - no, he just wasn’t cut for that. Tell him all you wanted about killers living deep inside everyone or criminals masking their true nature, Torres didn’t have it in himself to go and pull the trigger with cold blood.
Which didn’t mean he didn’t have it in himself to get tangled in other kind of equally shitty mess and Iker was planning to determine once and for all what it was as soon as he made sure Cesc was alright.
He was dropping in the flat to change a shirt after the whole night at the Bureau and was stepping out a shower stall when he heard the first knock on the door. Knowing this joke of an apartment building it was most likely a pissed-off neighbour coming to hurl curses at him for flooding him, after all leaking pipes would be the most fitting culmination of the broken lock, two electricity accidents, a burnt pot and a fucking pigeon shitting on the window Iker had just cleaned.
He threw a new shirt on, grabbed a gun just in case - López had been killed in his own flat - and stalked to the door, an explanation that he wasn’t the real estate’s lawful owner ready on his lips, next to a comment that banging on the door hardly made a person inside hurry up, unless you counted ‘hurry up to hit the cretin on the other side’-
Alba.
Oh fuck it, it was so not his day. The little prick must be determined if he’d made the effort to come there and thrice-damn Sara for giving him the address in the first place.
He put the gun back behind the waistband and started unlocking the door to give the fucker a piece of his mind when it hit him that it was exactly what López had done: put the gun away because he had recognised the person at his door.
Okay, so this was slightly crazy, Alba couldn’t possibly have a reason to want López gone, but the fact was he had known about Cesc and had been suspiciously persistent about sticking his nose into their business. He wasn’t baby-pink innocent either, the guy had quite impressive record of trespassing, had been already detained once for an affray with a bodyguard twice his size and had been sued by the manager of Real Madrid for slander (which case Alba and his newspaper had regretfully won as the coach had got so furious at the sight of the Catalan that he had attacked him in the middle of the courtroom. Not that Iker could blame him, Alba was just one of those people you hated without the ‘or loved’ part.)
Ignoring the loud bangs, Iker slowly slipped the gun out of its place again, turned the last lock and carefully pushed to doorknob, opening the door.
Whatever Alba had been expecting as a greeting, it definitely wasn’t a gun trained on his head given his startled expression.
“Uhm… Hi”, the Catalan frowned, peeking somewhere behind Iker, “You’re waiting for someone else? If that’s this urgent I’ll just come later or something.”
He had just enough time to turn back when Iker yanked him inside.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”, Alba demanded furiously but let Iker manhandle him so that he had to walk first with a gun between his shoulder blades, “Finally snapped? All that suspension too much for your fragile little mind?”
Iker noted with no small satisfaction that the Catalan was actually pretty scared.
“Don’t worry about me, I’m back on duty”, he smirked, looking for a good place to check the guy for weapons.
“Cool”, Alba didn’t sound too cheerful, “Good for you, you get to play with guns again and all that really fun stuff, somewhere else, not with me present”, he growled out the last part pointedly.
“Stay here, don’t move”, Iker pushed him into a corner.
“Jeez, if you wanted to show me the flat you should’ve said so”, Alba pouted when he was arranging him in a safe position, “It’s neat. I mean, the criminal hideout vibe is a nice touch.”
Iker hid his scowl professionally, picking the Catalan’s arm up so he could feel his sides. The limb remained so stubbornly stiff that he had to pull it like a weed and ended up bumping his elbow into Alba’s chest.
“Sor-”, he began to mumble when the guy kind of lost his balance and seemed to be diving straight to the ground.
Iker darted forwards to catch him, stupidly forgetting to watch out and the next thing he knew he was groaning on the floor, wondering distinctly if that searing pain in his back signified a broken spine.
“You little prick”, he rolled over, catching a fleeing Alba’s ankle, bringing him down next to him.
Till the end of his career and longer, Iker would claim that no, they didn’t tumble around Andrés’ sitting room like monkeys, knocking on the furniture and slapping each other like drunk teenage girls.
The main problem was that his gun had been kicked of his hand pretty early on, and while his heart stopped for a moment, Alba simply kicked it away so it vanished under a couch rather than picked it up to shoot him.
In the end, no matter how viciously the fucker fought and how many punches to the head Iker got, he was the bigger, stronger and a better-trained one there and he managed to pin the cursing, spitting and biting Catalan to the floor.
“Let me fucking go you psycho”, Alba made the last attempt to butt him in the stomach.
“Shut up”, Iker had to busy his hands with the body search otherwise he would just punch the guy again, probably giving him some opening, “You’re not armed”, he hated how surprised it came out.
Oh fuck.
“What?”, Alba all but shrieked, then went blessedly still, “What? Armed? Oh forgive me, I must’ve left my bazooka at home”, he snapped and rolled his eyes, “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I’m so sorry”, Iker could do nothing but stutter, desperately pushing himself off Alba as if he burnt, “I didn’t mean to attack you, I mean, I did but I was mistaken and I’m honestly so, so sorry”, why the fuck was it taking so long to pick himself up? Did he truly have to bump his hands into every part of Alba’s anatomy on his way up?, “I’m sorry.”
All of his teeth rattled when Alba punched him. Hard.
“Sorry?”, he jumped up, sending Iker onto his butt, “You’re sorry? Fuck!”, he must have finally found his bleeding temple, “Again? Well, I’m not sorry!”, he glared at Iker as he brought his bloodied palm down to inspect, “You were molesting me, man!”
“I barely even touched you for Pete’s sake”, Iker flexed his jaw and grimaced, “I just wanted to check you for weapons, you didn’t have to start a fight over it like a little diva!”
“I just wanted to talk to you!”, Alba screamed back, slightly red and not only from blood seeping down his face, “You didn’t have to ambush me like some fucking commando!”
It wasn’t the best moment to laugh. Alba might yet bite his head off. All in all, they both hadn't been acting too rationally.
“Then, uhm… Talk”, Iker cleared his throat and prompted the Catalan to sit on the couch.
Alba took a gulp of air like a man drowning, made a wild gesture with his hand and winced at the pain in the temple, but did plop down as invited.
“Okay, soldier”, he opened his bag and rummaged through it until he located a USB drive, “But I want coffee first. Strong.”
....
Characters: David Silva, David Villa, Iker Casillas, Fernando Torres, Cristiano Ronaldo, Andrés Iniesta, Pepe Reina, Jordi Alba (this part of the chapter)
Rating: R (?)
Warnings: AU
Disclaimer: I don't claim it has ever happened.
Chapter 26
Iker’s head snapped to his office door when he heard the doorknob move. He put on a mask of polite attentiveness when he spotted Andrés’ slightly apologetic face.
“Hi”, the Manchego gingerly picked up his hand, “I’ve been wondering… You know, about everything.”
Iker couldn’t honestly say that he knew, so he settled on inquiring staring.
He had just finished interrogating Bojan and was planning to go to the crime scene or Cesc, he wasn’t yet decided on the order, that was, as soon as Torres finally arrived at the Bureau. He hadn’t thought to ask where the psychologist had been those two hours before when they had been talking but it must have been far away.
By the way, Bojan had shocked him with his calmness. Sure, he had been shaken but not nearly as pale as Messi and had been able to give him substantial, concrete information without stuttering or choking on his tongue. Which didn’t change the fact that his alibi - a supermarket receipt with the time: 16.45 - wouldn’t hold in court.
“Uhm…”, Andrés must have noticed he wasn’t with him mentally, “Remember what Xavi’s been saying? About that programme used for deleting the data?”
“That it was an amateur’s job?”, Iker bit the pen, “And that if he was to do it he’d go for something with some coding sort of thing and…”, he trailed off because Andrés was giving him that look he always got when he was trying to cite some technical stuff, “What? You said you’d just smash that drive”, and that didn’t strike him as professional.
“If there’s a code, there’s always a way ‘round it and almost certainly someone able to find it”, Andrés shrugged from his spot next to the door, “Mechanical damage if generally fool proof if you know what to, so to speak, smash. You can steal the device too and, let’s say, drown it in a river”, not too subtle allusion to the phones in the Manzanares, “Anyway, it’s indisputable that an amateur wouldn’t know that. So, an amateur? Torres being the only one who had an idea what López had been working on, and he goes missing on the night López gets killed? And then his phone just happens to be on the same street Ramos’ car gets spotted?”
“We’ve no proof it’s Ramos’ car”, Iker carefully put the pen down.
“So now we’re believing in coincidences”, the Manchego crossed his arms, “You’re the one who’s been saying the play time’s over. Don’t you see anything suspicious here?”
“Are you really suggesting that Torres killed him? He can’t even use a gun.”
“Because that’s so hard to pretend”, Andrés pursed his lips, “I’m not saying it was Torres, I’m saying you should check it. Where is he by the way? Everyone’s been breaking their backs here for almost twelve hours now and he hasn’t yet popped by to ask how we’re doing-”
“Andrés, enough”, Iker rose to his feet, “Enough”, he repeated when the Manchego made an indignant face, “It’s not Torres, okay? He was petrified when we talked last night and I’ve been in contact with him ever since. He is coming here to give his statement”, he absolutely refused to delve on the story Andrés had presented, maybe because it was just a bit too spot-on.
But it couldn’t be Torres, it was impossible. He had been already assaulted as the first of them (and came out of it unscratched, what a perfect smoke screen, a little voice in his head nagged), he didn’t have it in himself to pull a trigger… He had known Cesc’s identity all along and Cesc was still alive.
“Andrés”, he called out heavily as the technician turned around to leave, “Andrés, you do realise that giving false testimony is a crime?”, he swiftly crushed whatever hopes of reconciliation the other may have been harbouring.
The Manchego stopped in his tracks but didn’t make any outward sign of understanding what he was talking about.
“Andrés”, he began to walk up to the technician, absent-mindedly noting that he must be going for a record in the number of times he had used the guy’s name, “You weren’t with Xavi all that time you’re claiming, I saw it when I asked for your statements. He was surprised to hear you say that, though he hid it well. Did he ask you to do that?”
Andrés was staring straight at him, betraying no will to open his mouth anytime soon.
“Look”, Iker’s hand went to his hair on its own and he brought it down angrily, “You’re not helping here, not him and not yourself. Why did you do that? What the hell happened there? Was he even with you at all or have you fabricated this whole story-”
“Of course he was there, what do you think, that I’m lying to cover a murderer?”, Andrés took a step back and bumped into the door, “He went out to get us coffee, that’s why he didn’t expect me to say we never left each other’s side, that’s all there is to it”, it was all a bit too rushed.
“How long was he gone?”, Iker couldn’t take it out on Andrés. He couldn’t if he wanted to get anything out of him that would change the statements, even though he wished to bang that stubborn head on the door.
“I don’t know, twenty minutes max? He went to that coffee across the street, the one with flowery take-away cups”, Andrés’ eyes slid down to his chest.
“You sure it was twenty minutes?”, if it was true, then it was nothing but a very very embarrassing situation, with quite possibly a damning outcome for Andrés.
“I think so. It never takes longer to order coffee, does it?”, he stammered nervously.
“Dammit, Andrés, I want a clear answer: you saw it was twenty minutes with a watch in your hand or not?”, he couldn’t bang Andrés’ head, but he could punch the door, incidentally blocking the technician’s escape route.
“I-I didn’t, okay?”, the technician shook himself off like a cat, “I went down to the basement as soon as he left, I needed to replace a cable in the main power supply because the old one turned out to be incompatible with the new parts and it took me some time to come up again-”
“How long?”
“Maybe an hour”, Andrés admitted in a small voice, “I didn’t have a watch and I got kind of… Caught up with it. But even if it was an hour it wasn’t enough time to go after López-”
“It was just enough time”, Iker hit himself on the forehead simply because he couldn’t do that to the moron in front of him, “Andrés, fuck, you provided him with an incontestable alibi, you have to take it back-”
“Well, it was off the record, okay?”, the technician straightened his jumper with agitation, “Xavi didn’t do anything and besides, it works both ways: I don’t have an alibi now either”, he licked his lips, “I don’t believe anyone saw me in that basement, it’s not exactly crowded.”
“It’s not important, just let’s correct the papers”, he turned back to the desk and his heart sank when he didn’t hear Andrés following him.
“I’m sorry”, the Manchego whispered brokenly from the door, “I really am. But my statement stands until you’re able to prove otherwise.”
Iker could only stare at him, agape, as he slipped out of his office, leaving him with a heap of most likely useless testimonies, a ticking clock and the realisation that in fact, five and not three of his closest co-workers had no alibi.
....
Pepe was segregating the receipts when the door to Insomnia burst open, revealing a furious Villa.
“How can I help you?”, he cheerfully leaned on the counter, noting the absolute lack of any emotion other than ire on the hard set of Guaje’s face.
“Where’s he?”, Villa’s voice wasn’t even loud, yet it rang in the empty room like a bell of a cemetery chapel.
“Where’s who?”, Pepe pretended ignorance, hand slipping to the drawer at his thigh’s height.
Too slow. Or too obvious.
“Don’t act dumb”, Guaje’s lips contorted into a parody of a smile as he drew a gun in one swift motion, “I’m slowly getting tired of this today”, he had the nerve to sound conversational, “So let’s try again: where’s my little traitor?”
It was no time to feign further confusion, it never was when there was a gun in Guaje’s hand.
The Asturian could never grasp that human beings were supposed to hesitate to pull a trigger.
“I don’t know”, he almost picked his hands up in surrender but sudden movements weren’t the best idea he guessed, “I don’t know”, he repeated, trying to catch Villa’s eyes to let him see the truth there, “But what I know is that he’s never betrayed you.”
“No?”, Guaje raised an eyebrow thoughtfully, “So how’s conspiring behind my back called these days, eh, Reina?”, he walked up to the counter and halted only when the barrel was just beyond Pepe’s reach.
Not that he was stupid enough to attempt to wrestle the gun out of Villa’s hands.
“I wouldn’t know-”
“Oh, because that’s not you with whom that cheating whore’s been consulting his actions?”, Guaje’s patience must be running thin as a fucking silk thread yet of course, his tone was as calm as ever, “I’m wrong as usual”, there was that little quirk of lips that bared one of his canines.
Villa wanted him to deny that. He wanted him to protest, to assure him of his loyalty and the Asturian’s ever-brilliant conclusions to any situation… To make a mistake.
He honestly wanted him to believe that he was waiting for a reason to release the bullet.
“You’re not wrong”, Guaje never cared for reasons other than his own, “Not about us ‘conspiring’, but you’re a fool to think we’ve been conspiring against you”, he allowed himself a small snort.
Villa was a ticking bomb and he almost wished to set him off and be done with it.
Gitano was right, the kid was fucking trouble and he may be the end of Guaje if he wasn’t to meet his own end first, as he undeniably was. Villa had never truly noticed people’s existence around him, not in a way that would make him call them the names of traitors and whores when they let him down.
“Speak up”, Guaje growled, black eyes quickly scanning their surroundings. No one was coming, neither Javier nor Álvaro would ever dare to stand between them, “Your last chance to enlighten me. You’ve always wanted to have influence over me so come on, I’m grating you your last wish.”
He has never wanted to that, not in a way Villa thought. It was just that when he had first met him, all brash words and challenging gestures masking the frozen eyes, he had stupidly believed that there was a human somewhere in there to salvage at least a part of.
“Speak the fuck up”, the chill running up and down his spine indicated that the command wouldn’t be repeated again, “You and that fucking whore are dead already anyway.”
....
David had never been to the Baths before nightfall but it turned out that it was one of those places that just didn’t change no matter the circumstances. The people crowding all around the place might have put on their day-time attires but there was no mistaking the sort of relationship between the middle-aged man in an office shirt and expensive loafers and the red-haired girl in a polka dots dress or the docile boy in a green tank top trailing hurriedly behind a dark guy in a hoodie.
“Hey, you!”, the hoodie called out without slowing the pace, “Want some shit too?”
David sent the dealer a customary glance and shook his head decisively.
“Not my idea of a goodtime, sorry”, he chuckled softly at the elated expression of the tank top. Probably glad that there’d be more for him left though David himself honestly doubted he would be even getting to smell his drugs that day.
The chuckles died on his lips the instant he realised that he was familiar with exactly none of the bouncers from the day shift and that unfortunately, they seemed quite keen on getting familiar with him. He ducked his head, forcing his suddenly very heavy limbs to obey him and drag him inside despite the far too friendly ogling and smacking sounds accompanying him on the way there.
And he wasn’t even wearing his night clothes.
Maybe it was his closed-off stance, maybe his looks - neither a client nor a seller, hanging somewhere in the middle - but the bouncers didn’t bother him past the leering and he could soon breath in relief when the comforting coolness of the club engulfed him.
Now all that was to do was to find Özil because he was an idiot and never in all those days of hunting for Cesc it had crossed his mind that it may be useful to actually have the slightest idea where Ramos could be found before nightfall. Alright, so it wasn’t strictly that, he hadn’t been disregarding that problem, it was more that he hadn’t envisioned that he may land in a situation that waiting for their regular meeting in Insomnia wouldn’t be an option.
It clearly wasn’t now. Fernando had somehow found out about him and he may have already alerted Casillas that the snitch had to be taken into protective custody or transported out of Madrid. He had to get to Ramos without any delay and Özil seemed to be a safe source of information. He certainly wasn’t going to call Villa now after covering for him for so long… Yeah, he guessed worrying about Villa was completely unnecessary. He had known he was busted the second Alexis had called to ask if he had been aware that his boyfriend had been looking for him at Mestalla.
“Hey”, he tried to push away a body that was suddenly blocking his way, “Excuse me.”
He did his best to ignore the goose bumps when the man not only stayed where he was but also turned to him to give him a lecherous look-over.
“Hey yourself”, the guy smirked, taking a step closer to him, “Chino, yes?”, his eyes sparkled with pleasure when David acted on some fucked-up instinct and instead of stalking away he took a step back, bumping into a wall and effectively robbing himself of any escape route.
“Yes”, he tried to imitate the voice Ramos used whenever he was tricked into talking to him, only with Ramos the ‘fuck off’ was even more prominent but that may be because he didn’t have to worry about being the regrettably smaller one in the exchange, “I’m not working right now”, he added in a more conciliatory tone, with an apologetic smile.
He started forwards and yelped silently when he got shoved back to the wall.
Oh shit. His eyes darted around in a search of the guards but fuck, he couldn’t recognise any of the faces there and the odds were they didn’t have a clue about his identity either.
“You’re never working”, the man hissed, advancing more onto him and he could see nothing but his chest and a bearded chin and God, that was getting so fucking bad.
“I’m sorry”, like fuck he was, “It’s just… It’s Mr Özil that arranges my-my jobs, he says he wants me on that private stuff for now, I’m sorry, maybe you should talk to him…”, he had to pause because his heart may simply decide to jump out through his throat if he didn’t.
“He won’t even hear about renting you out”, the man spat but moved to the left at the same time and without thinking, David bolted away, getting as far as five steps before he was slammed back into the wall with a force that made his head spin.
“I’m not finished with you”, the snarl echoed in his head with a frightening certainty and he whimpered, trying to focus his blurry sight again.
“But I’m afraid you are.”
He did know the new voice, the cultured-cool quality of the clipped words.
“Who-”, the pig swore and whirled around and David honestly couldn’t help a satisfied expression when the guy paled as he recognised Ronaldo.
“Remove yourself”, the Portuguese threw, not sparing the man any further attention after locking his eyes on David, “Now.”
Maybe he had been too fast with that happiness.
He felt a sudden urge to yell at the guy to stay as he scurried away, which was plain stupid as there couldn’t be many worse alternatives to getting pawed by some dirty businessman.
“Thank you”, he smiled sincerely when they were left alone, “You’ve saved me, Mr Ronaldo, thank you. I’ll just ehm… Go now, I have to see Mr Özil”, he babbled as he was inching away.
He wasn’t surprised when a strong arm interrupted his progress.
“He’s not here”, Ronaldo’s grin could star in a toothpaste ad, “I’m afraid.”
“Oh”, as in: ‘oh fucking shit’, “Oh”, he repeated, fighting the dangerous swaying of his knees, “Then I guess I should be going, before I get into even more trouble I mean-”
He wanted to cry when to hand just gripped his t-shirt’s front. What the hell did Ronaldo want from him?
“I don’t believe you fully understand your situation”, the man drawled and David’s reason flew out the window.
“Enlighten me then”, he gritted out snipingly, and pushed against the hand with all his strength.
His spine cracked when he collided with the wall. Fucking wall, there must be his figure pressed on it already.
“Watch your mouth whore”, Ronaldo snickered as he pinned him there by his collar, “Your days of immunity are coming to an abrupt end. Why not ease yourself into a bright new world?”, he arched an eyebrow and David was kind of grateful he was too much of a coward to kick him in the balls there and then, “Yes, darling. Your owner knows.”
It wasn’t news but rather a grim confirmation of info he already had.
“In a way”, Ronaldo’s thumb lightly massaged his collarbone, “He knows about you lying to him. I fear he may still be unclear about your objective”, he snorted, “I guess you’re branded a traitor then”, he made a face that was probably supposed to feign deep thinking but to David resembled someone with a constipation problem more, “And yes - your blonde friend ratted on you. You shouldn’t really have trusted him.”
“You beat or raped it out of him?”, David knew how to arch eyebrows too.
He got his answer in a form of swift slap.
He had never been hit on the face - or anywhere for that matter - before and it petrified him more than hurt at first.
“You’ve no idea how convincing certain substances can be.”
It dawned on David that the prospect of losing Villa for good made him suicidal.
“You’re right, I don’t”, he grinned in Ronaldo’s amused face, “But since you do, isn’t it kind of stupid of you to use him as a spy?”
Okay, so this slap did sting. Like hell.
It was kind of lame still that Ronaldo needed to physically harm him to, what? Assert his dominance? With David? He wasn’t exactly a rival for the man.
“Let’s set some ground rules”, the Portuguese shook him until his head struck the concrete, “I do the asking, you do the talking.”
Provoking the man further would lead to nothing but more bruises. And more delay he couldn’t afford.
He slowly nodded.
“Good”, another fake grin, “So, Silvitita, why are you here?”
“I’m looking for Mr Özil-”
“Why?”
As if he couldn’t fucking guess with the info he’d supposedly got from Fábio.
“Do you know where Ramos lives?”, he asked instead, then remembered he wasn’t allowed to do it.
Apparently Ronaldo had forgotten too.
“Ramos?”, he actually seemed to be taken aback for a second. Then his face broke into one of the most hideous smiles David had ever had the un-pleasure to see, “Ah, Ramos. So we’re still driven by some romantic motions to help the man restore his honour? How sweet”, he trailed an index finger down David’s cheek, applying too much pressure for it to even pretend to be a caress.
“Are you going to tell me or not?”, he didn’t jerk away despite the deepest desire to do so. Maybe he was getting it all wrong, but maybe not and Ronaldo really was so dependent on physical manifestations.
“That’s not how it works and you know it”, the man tut-tuted but didn’t strengthen his hold or rake a nail into his flesh, “That kind of info is classified, top-secret I’d say”, he drawled, eyes gleaming with something that made David want to openly tremble with disgust, “It’ll cost.”
So the man did fear for his hide as every other sensible being. There were petty internal wars and there was the threat of Casillas hauling his slick arse to prison.
David hid a smirk.
“Name a price”, he still wasn’t so sure about his negotiation position. He didn’t technically own any money aside from a small account with his Mestalla earnings that he mostly used to take Fábio out for dinner and sometimes cinema. It felt wrong to do that with Villa’s money made on people like Fábio himself.
He didn’t know how he’s going to achieve that, but he swore that he would live to see that smirk getting wiped off Ronaldo’s face permanently when the man’s hand confidently slid down to tug at the waistband of his jeans.
“That?”, he pretended to be bewildered, “You know it’s not mine to give.”
He hissed in pain when his testicles got crushed like some fucking fruits.
“Neither is Ramos’ address mine to tell you”, Ronaldo leaned over to whisper maliciously in his ear, “So: deal or no deal?”, his wet tongue touched the shell of his ear, the big bulk of his body pressing him to the wall like some sort of gigantic snake.
His jacket fell open in the process and David’s fingers twitched when he caught the sight of the right holster. Villa had taught him how to snatch a gun out of it and it would be just so easy to dart his hand there and give the bastard what he deserved.
He stared stubbornly ahead as the hand made its way into his jeans, probing and pinching and Virgin, no, he couldn’t take the gun. He needed Ramos’ address. He didn’t exactly worry about the consequences of drawing a gun at Ronaldo, maybe most people would see it as a favour anyway.
“There’s surly an empty room upstairs”, the Portuguese drawn back to lick his lips.
David wished to bite him.
Instead, he laughed.
He just kept on laughing, meeting Ronaldo’s eyes gleaming with lust with his own unabashedly, wondering whose insanity was being reflected in the black irises.
“Oh that’d be so fitting”, he didn’t stop giggling, “Great Ronaldo going down in a bed. Because his cock’s been always so much more important than business”, he quirked his mouth at the man’s growing annoyance, “Every second now values more than a cargo of your fucking coke. The snitch can be gone like that”, he snapped his fingers, “And yet, all you care about is getting me under you because you just can’t take losing to Villa like a man. Every. Single. Time”, he finished in a whisper, blowing into Ronaldo’s neck.
Then, he waited. The worst the man could do was beat him, fuck him and then kill him. But he couldn’t really do that, at least not the latter. He still was the only one who knew Cesc’s identity and something was telling him that Ronaldo realised that he would never be able to force that information out of him.
Check-mate.
He pivoted down when the man shoved him off the wall like a vile piece of trash, then stalked after him to haul him up again.
“I will have you”, he stated so simply and calmly David didn’t doubt it for a moment, “I will have you, whore, make no mistake”, his hand on David’s neck squeezed hard enough to make him gasp and trash some, “Now, move. We’re going”, he pushed him towards the exit.
....
Fernando guessed that there shouldn’t be many things left able to shock the hell out of him after the last twenty-four hours but Casillas waiting for him in the hall next to a lift did the job.
“We need to talk”, the DI steered him to the closest office in a way of greetings, “I’ll take your statement about yesterday in a second”, Casillas glanced at him as if daring him to inquire.
He didn’t. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that after learning what had been López’ main goal during his days as the team’s boss they would all find themselves on the list of suspects.
“But first”, Casillas side-stepped so that they were standing face to face, “I want to ask for your professional opinion.”
Fernando feared that his gulp was audible in the whole room. He had had enough of giving ‘professional opinions’ for life, thank you very much, look where his professional opinions had got López! Besides, he was such an invaluable asset to the Force that they hadn’t even deemed him worthy of murdering alongside the DI as they had apparently rightly realised that he didn’t even know what he’d been working on.
“What about?”, he asked faintly before Casillas decided he had gone into delayed shock.
“Ramos”, came a fast reply and yeah, he may be going into that shock. Didn’t help that the criminal had been present when he had got the news about López - the mention of one triggered the memories of the other and brought back the emotions and he definitely wasn’t supposed to associate Ramos with any kind of emotion and certainly not remembering the attempts of comfort the man had tried to provide-, “I’ll be frank”, Casillas must be blissfully unaware of his influx of thoughts, “I want to bring him in. He hasn’t been of any help and he’s fishy. There’s something off with the guy and I’m fed up with guessing what it is. You’ve been seeing him”, Fernando’s world stopped for the second before the DI carried on, running a hand through his hair, “Had those ‘sessions’ with him”, he made the citation marks and Fernando began to breathe again, “His act has been nothing but perfect around us, but he might’ve lowered his guard with you. So, I want to know: do you think he’s nothing but a small-time pimp we can allow to run loose and arrest when we’re sure he won’t be of any use ever to us or is there something more to him that should be thoroughly investigated and he put away right now without any further delay?”
There. It was the opportunity he had been waiting for, to turn Ramos in without automatically damning himself. He could finally get away from his irritating shadow and carefully plan how to point Casillas in the direction of fucking Silva… With Ramos in prison he could make it look as if the DI got no help from him, therefore rob Silva of any weapon against him, plus if he was the one testifying against Ramos right here and now, even if the little fucker ratted on him no one would question his loyalties.
“I’m being serious here”, Casillas must have misinterpreted his silence, “I’m at wits ends with Ramos, so I’m going to heed your opinion. One word, yes or no and his case’s closed”, the DI opened his hands in an encouraging gesture, looking Fernando in eyes with utter sincerity.
“No”, he smiled tightly, “I don’t think it’s necessary to get rid of him yet, he may still bring some valuable news. He’s just a small-time pimp and I have a feeling he’s not even good at his job...”
Casillas nodded with a satisfied expression and Fernando thought that if they were looking for the biggest damn idiot on Earth, the signs should all point to him.
....
Iker tiredly turned the key in the lock of Andrés’ flat, resting his forehead on the surprisingly cool wood for a second to gather his thoughts.
God, he sounded pathetic: gather his thoughts. What the fuck was there to gather? He was screwed, in every sense of that word, and the ones doing the screwing were his own co-workers. Not to mention that one of them must be having the fun of his life watching him rushing and trashing around blindly like a fish taken out of water.
He had interrogated Torres only to learn that he had spent those two hours with his step-brother Alberto which had been confirmed by both the teenager and his mother Pilar Menéndez Olano who had also added that their father had been supposed to be there too but some important business had forced him to stay at his company. Poor woman had sounded so embarrassed on his behalf that Iker had felt like a bastard for not interrupting her and changing the subject.
He hadn’t broached the topic of Torres’ later escapade though, only because he had really had to leave to check up on Cesc and hadn’t wished to give Torres a head start on preparing an excuse. Unlike Andrés, he hadn’t believed for a second that the psychologist might have anything to do with López’ murder - no, he just wasn’t cut for that. Tell him all you wanted about killers living deep inside everyone or criminals masking their true nature, Torres didn’t have it in himself to go and pull the trigger with cold blood.
Which didn’t mean he didn’t have it in himself to get tangled in other kind of equally shitty mess and Iker was planning to determine once and for all what it was as soon as he made sure Cesc was alright.
He was dropping in the flat to change a shirt after the whole night at the Bureau and was stepping out a shower stall when he heard the first knock on the door. Knowing this joke of an apartment building it was most likely a pissed-off neighbour coming to hurl curses at him for flooding him, after all leaking pipes would be the most fitting culmination of the broken lock, two electricity accidents, a burnt pot and a fucking pigeon shitting on the window Iker had just cleaned.
He threw a new shirt on, grabbed a gun just in case - López had been killed in his own flat - and stalked to the door, an explanation that he wasn’t the real estate’s lawful owner ready on his lips, next to a comment that banging on the door hardly made a person inside hurry up, unless you counted ‘hurry up to hit the cretin on the other side’-
Alba.
Oh fuck it, it was so not his day. The little prick must be determined if he’d made the effort to come there and thrice-damn Sara for giving him the address in the first place.
He put the gun back behind the waistband and started unlocking the door to give the fucker a piece of his mind when it hit him that it was exactly what López had done: put the gun away because he had recognised the person at his door.
Okay, so this was slightly crazy, Alba couldn’t possibly have a reason to want López gone, but the fact was he had known about Cesc and had been suspiciously persistent about sticking his nose into their business. He wasn’t baby-pink innocent either, the guy had quite impressive record of trespassing, had been already detained once for an affray with a bodyguard twice his size and had been sued by the manager of Real Madrid for slander (which case Alba and his newspaper had regretfully won as the coach had got so furious at the sight of the Catalan that he had attacked him in the middle of the courtroom. Not that Iker could blame him, Alba was just one of those people you hated without the ‘or loved’ part.)
Ignoring the loud bangs, Iker slowly slipped the gun out of its place again, turned the last lock and carefully pushed to doorknob, opening the door.
Whatever Alba had been expecting as a greeting, it definitely wasn’t a gun trained on his head given his startled expression.
“Uhm… Hi”, the Catalan frowned, peeking somewhere behind Iker, “You’re waiting for someone else? If that’s this urgent I’ll just come later or something.”
He had just enough time to turn back when Iker yanked him inside.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”, Alba demanded furiously but let Iker manhandle him so that he had to walk first with a gun between his shoulder blades, “Finally snapped? All that suspension too much for your fragile little mind?”
Iker noted with no small satisfaction that the Catalan was actually pretty scared.
“Don’t worry about me, I’m back on duty”, he smirked, looking for a good place to check the guy for weapons.
“Cool”, Alba didn’t sound too cheerful, “Good for you, you get to play with guns again and all that really fun stuff, somewhere else, not with me present”, he growled out the last part pointedly.
“Stay here, don’t move”, Iker pushed him into a corner.
“Jeez, if you wanted to show me the flat you should’ve said so”, Alba pouted when he was arranging him in a safe position, “It’s neat. I mean, the criminal hideout vibe is a nice touch.”
Iker hid his scowl professionally, picking the Catalan’s arm up so he could feel his sides. The limb remained so stubbornly stiff that he had to pull it like a weed and ended up bumping his elbow into Alba’s chest.
“Sor-”, he began to mumble when the guy kind of lost his balance and seemed to be diving straight to the ground.
Iker darted forwards to catch him, stupidly forgetting to watch out and the next thing he knew he was groaning on the floor, wondering distinctly if that searing pain in his back signified a broken spine.
“You little prick”, he rolled over, catching a fleeing Alba’s ankle, bringing him down next to him.
Till the end of his career and longer, Iker would claim that no, they didn’t tumble around Andrés’ sitting room like monkeys, knocking on the furniture and slapping each other like drunk teenage girls.
The main problem was that his gun had been kicked of his hand pretty early on, and while his heart stopped for a moment, Alba simply kicked it away so it vanished under a couch rather than picked it up to shoot him.
In the end, no matter how viciously the fucker fought and how many punches to the head Iker got, he was the bigger, stronger and a better-trained one there and he managed to pin the cursing, spitting and biting Catalan to the floor.
“Let me fucking go you psycho”, Alba made the last attempt to butt him in the stomach.
“Shut up”, Iker had to busy his hands with the body search otherwise he would just punch the guy again, probably giving him some opening, “You’re not armed”, he hated how surprised it came out.
Oh fuck.
“What?”, Alba all but shrieked, then went blessedly still, “What? Armed? Oh forgive me, I must’ve left my bazooka at home”, he snapped and rolled his eyes, “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I’m so sorry”, Iker could do nothing but stutter, desperately pushing himself off Alba as if he burnt, “I didn’t mean to attack you, I mean, I did but I was mistaken and I’m honestly so, so sorry”, why the fuck was it taking so long to pick himself up? Did he truly have to bump his hands into every part of Alba’s anatomy on his way up?, “I’m sorry.”
All of his teeth rattled when Alba punched him. Hard.
“Sorry?”, he jumped up, sending Iker onto his butt, “You’re sorry? Fuck!”, he must have finally found his bleeding temple, “Again? Well, I’m not sorry!”, he glared at Iker as he brought his bloodied palm down to inspect, “You were molesting me, man!”
“I barely even touched you for Pete’s sake”, Iker flexed his jaw and grimaced, “I just wanted to check you for weapons, you didn’t have to start a fight over it like a little diva!”
“I just wanted to talk to you!”, Alba screamed back, slightly red and not only from blood seeping down his face, “You didn’t have to ambush me like some fucking commando!”
It wasn’t the best moment to laugh. Alba might yet bite his head off. All in all, they both hadn't been acting too rationally.
“Then, uhm… Talk”, Iker cleared his throat and prompted the Catalan to sit on the couch.
Alba took a gulp of air like a man drowning, made a wild gesture with his hand and winced at the pain in the temple, but did plop down as invited.
“Okay, soldier”, he opened his bag and rummaged through it until he located a USB drive, “But I want coffee first. Strong.”
....