Free Murder and Mayhem by Rhys Ford Page A

mind, ravaging away his reason. He was about to call Stevens a liar when Hank’s phone rang.
    “Hold up a second. Let me get this. Don’t start anything until I get back.” Hank quickly flashed his screen at Dante. He frowned at the number, recognizing LAPD’s outgoing trunk line. Hank mouthed a “fuck” as he turned his back on the men, whispering as he went by, “Betcha this is someone yanking our asses out of here. You hold them back.”
    With Hank gone, he was outnumbered, and Dante braced for the attack he knew was coming. Unsurprisingly, it was Archibald who took the first bite, confirming what Dante would have expected from an old man who’d spent his life carving out people’s guts to amuse himself.
    “So, my grandson tells me you two have a history.” Archibald’s eyebrows danced over his beaked nose.
    Dante couldn’t help but shoot Stevens a startled look, and damned if the man didn’t quirk a cocky smile back. Their shared history was dangerous—more so if Archie was made aware of it—and Dante didn’t like the edge it gave the thief. The old man would twist anything he got into a weapon, and the case didn’t need Archibald Martin brutally dancing through it.
    “Grandpa knows you’re one of the detectives who tried to arrest me a while back. You know, when the LAPD thought I was a thief.” Rook shucked his disheveled mane away from his face, and for a second, the resemblance to the elderly man beside him was uncanny.
    “We still think you’re a thief,” Dante replied smoothly, a tingle of satisfaction warming him at Rook’s tight glare. Two could play at the mind-fuck game, and he guessed Stevens was going to hold his trump card close to his chest until he needed it. “We just know you’re a murderer too.”
    The woman who’d let them in walked in, pushing a rattling tea cart in front of her. Dante had to give the old man credit. He might have resented having cops at his front door, but he didn’t do courtesy half-assed. A silver coffee urn stood proud among a cluster of heavy white mugs, and a smattering of delicate pastries did a pretty dance on saucers around a cream and sugar set. The mugs were odd, but from the housekeeper’s practiced filling one of the mugs with a stream of steaming, fragrant black brew, then handing it carefully over to Archibald, the thick-walled cups were a house staple.
    “I’ll get my own, Rosa. Thanks.” Rook sidestepped his grandfather’s cane as the old man made a jab at his thigh.
    “I knew her name was Rosa. God, you’re a damned pain in the ass,” Martin grumbled. “Help yourself, Detective. Looks like your partner’s going to be a bit. Might as well get some Kona into you before I kick your ass out.”
    Archibald’s hand shook slightly, and the man’s fingers lost their grip on the mug’s handle. As it tumbled to the floor, coffee splashed everywhere, mostly on the floor but enough—frighteningly enough—on the old man’s trousers, probably scalding his flesh beneath the fabric.
    Rosa and Rook beat Dante by a second, the woman daubing at Archibald’s legs with a dish towel as Rook cleared the mug’s shards from the floor, folding up the edges of a runner from under the old man’s feet to catch every speck of broken porcelain.
    “I’m fine.” Archibald’s grumbles grew coarser, peppered with profanity when Rosa disagreed. “I’ll go change out of these clothes and be right back.”
    “I’ll call the nurse to see if you’ve been burned—” Rosa stepped back when Archibald hefted his cane and shook its silver-tipped head a few inches beneath her nose. “Mr. Martin, she should have a look at you.”
    “I don’t need that vulture to tell me if I’ve been cooked.” He snapped a growl at Rook. “You keep the cops entertained while I’m gone. Or better yet, let this one finish his coffee, wrap up a Danish, and kick them the fuck out of my house.”
    Stevens hovered for a second around the old man, earning himself a thump