Vasquez shuts down, goes into full lawyer mode, denies everything. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're suggesting, Mr. Leight?"
"You don't?" Leight looks petulant. "I thought it was fairly obvious, but no matter. Shall I make it clearer for you?"
"If you must."
All pretense of emotion disappears from Leight's face. His eyes are diamond hard, his jaw firm—he's thoroughly and completely serious.
"You decided that all of your problems would be solved if your wife was dead. You wouldn't need a divorce. You wouldn't have to worry about her achieving any great political success. And best of all, you could steal the marriage equality campaign for your own."
"You could capitalize off her death and seize her impending political stardom for yourself. And it was easy, wasn't it? All you had to do was hire an assassin with decent sniper skills. You even had a pretty excuse to have your wife's prostitute killed, too. It was so brilliantly neat. Tidy. Perfect."
Leight smiles. "I'm sorry to inform you that 'perfect' is also predictable."
Peter stares in disbelief between the two of them. Leight looks smug, as always, but Antonio Vasquez doesn't look like most of their murdering masterminds.
Usually, they're defeated or despondent or defiant or desperate or some weird combination of those things. Vasquez, however, doesn't look anything but murderous (which is only a touch ironic, considering he didn't actually murder anyone with his own hands).
There's so much tension roiling off him, his skin is as red as a tomato, he may as well be a bomb just waiting to explode. So Peter waits.
And sure enough, the explosion comes. "So what if I did it?" Vasquez screams.
He stands up, waves his arms wildly, sends his coffee mug flying into the wall with a resounding crash.
"So what if I hired the Fox to kill my wife and her whore? They deserved it, the both of them! But especially Maria. She didn't deserve it—the fame, the acclaim, the hoopla, the prestige—none of it. I did! I do! I was only taking what I deserved!"
"Where's the crime in that, Mr. Leight? I'm the victim here, and I didn't kill anyone. Of what am I guilty? Tell me! I took what I deserved! Where's the crime?"
"Oh, don't worry, Mr. Vasquez," Leight informs the red-faced man as he stands up, "there's plenty of crime in that."
He takes a few steps toward the door before turning back. "Now, don't go anywhere, Mr. Vasquez. The police will be here soon."
Then he opens the door, walks out, beckons for Peter to follow him, waits, and locks the door. He leans against it with a heavy sigh. "Well," he says, "there it is."
"Mal," Peter returns, as carefully and diplomatically as he knows how, "we don't exactly have any evidence that he did it."
"On the contrary, we have a confession. I recorded that entire conversation on my cell," Leight replies pleasantly. "Call the Captain, will you, Peter? Then let's go home."
Later that night, they lie on their bed, on top of the impossible wool blanket. Everything is right in the world.
The Captain arrested Antonio Vasquez and was confident the taped confession would hold up in court. TSA caught Cecilia Fox at the Philadelphia International Airport.
The media is portraying Maria Vasquez as a tragic hero. State senators and assemblymen, Democrats and Republicans alike, are pledging their support for the Marriage Equality Act. Everything has turned as well as possible, given the double homicide start to the story.
But Peter is still caught up on a fairly unimportant fact. This was another cheating case (sort of) that had involved the Pleasure Factory, of all places. And even if he trusts Leight now, it is difficult not to remember the first Pleasure Factory case.
He doesn't want to think about it, but he can't not. So he sighs, swallows his pride, and turns to look at Leight. He opens his mouth, knowing full well he's about to destroy that peaceful expression on Leight's face.
"Hey," he says softly, "can I ask you something?"
Leight looks skeptical. "Should I be concerned?"
"What?" Peter holds back a nervous laugh. "Why?"
"If you have to preface your question by asking for permission, your question is presumably not one I'm going to want to answer."
Peter bites his lip. "It's not like that." Except, it kind of is."
"Really."
"It's just not," he pauses, "something I know how to phrase."
"Please tell me you're not about to propose."
"What?" Peter actually does laugh at that because as funny as it sounds, even though they just investigated a case that is (sort of) about marriage, he honestly hasn't considered whether he would ever consider marrying Malcolm Leight.
"No," he shakes his head violently, "it isn't anything like that. Honestly. I just wanted to ask you a question about before—before the Case of the Cooked Lobster."
"All right." Leight shifts on his elbows. His carelessness is affected because there's no way he doesn't remember the significance of that case. "Shoot."
"Did you," and Peter's still trying to figure out the right way to phrase this when the question's halfway out his mouth, and then he realizes there is no right way to ask something so cliché, "have feelings for me before I left, or threatened to leave?"
"Peter," Leight admonishes, "of course I did."
"Then why," Peter swallows hard, the bitterness of so many lonely months of hoping beyond hope coming back to him, "did you let me think otherwise?"
"Peter." Leight's eyes flutter shut, then open again. He puts on the saddest and wryest of smiles. "There's so much you don't know about me."
His heart skips. "What do you mean?"
"About my past, I mean. My parents, my sister, Charlie—you see, historically, all the people I've loved have died. I learned an important lesson—not to love anyone because if I did, it wouldn't end well for them." He stops.
His eyes drift somewhere past Peter's forehead and lose focus. They're stormy, cloudy, threatening rain.
"I didn't want to admit what I felt for you. I couldn't—still can't, honestly—bear the thought of losing you. I thought that if I ignored the truth, it would go away."
"But then I left anyway," Peter murmurs, the revelation clear and strong and more than a little painful.
"My worst fear come true," Leight agrees. "I realized then that it wasn't worth pretending anymore. I wanted you in my life, even if it meant dealing with the fear."
"But I'm not going to leave," Peter insists. "I promise."
"You can't promise that," Leight snaps, harsh and dark. "Don't you dare promise that."
"Mal," Peter whispers, "you're scaring me."
In an instant, the storm passes out of Leight's eyes. He pulls Peter into his arms. "I'm sorry," he murmurs. "That wasn't fair. You don't understand, and I shouldn't expect you to."
"Then explain it to me."
Leight lets out a deep sigh. "I have enemies, Peter, enemies who will go to any lengths necessary to destroy me. And the clever ones—well, there's at least one who is clever enough to know that surest way to destroy me would be to go after you."
.
.