Page 33 of Punishing Penelope
I don’t like this version of Peter. He’s changed… too much. I guess cop work does a number on your head. As I step inside his apartment, disappointment churns in my chest. I’ll make this as brief as I can. He’s a dick. I have to get this over with and move on.
His place is nice, tidy, clean, and very mancave-y. The colors are dark—dark green walls, deep brown leather couch and armchair, and built-in bookshelves in dark wood along two walls. A huge oriental rug covers about half the living room floor, which in turn is dark hardwood. Not a thing seems out of order. A glimpse into his bedroom shows a king-size, four-poster bed, black frame, white bed linens, and another oriental rug. The place smells slightly of his cologne and a hint of leather.
I turn a full 360 in the living room and whistle.
“Not bad.”
Peter doesn't acknowledge me and disappears around the corner, with a slight limp I hadn’t noticed.
Putting my jacket and bag on a chair, I stroll along the bookshelves, trying to figure him out. There are lots of psychology books, mostly criminal psychology, specifically on profiling and shelf after shelf of thrillers from well-known contemporary authors. I own a few of them myself. Peter seems to be a devoted collector. One shelf is reserved for a beautiful bowl made of deep green marble, which I deem is an ashtray and a wooden humidor with intarsia inlays. I put my nose to it and inhale the faint smell of cigar.
“More snooping?”
I look up, feeling guilty for no good reason. Peter carries two glasses cupped in one large hand and an almost full bottle of Glenfiddich in the other. He puts the glasses on the living room table and pours four fingers in each glass. Well, crap. I haven’t eaten in hours. I can’t have more than one glass, or I’ll get drunk as a bat.
“You invited me here. I have eyes. I didn’t touch your stuff.”
“Bet your fingers itched, though, didn’t they? Sit,” he says in a tone that makes me obey instantly, then he raises his glass. “Here’s to unexpected encounters.”
Perching on the edge of the armchair, weirdly apprehensive, I take the glass, inhale the demanding earthy scent, then sip it. The rich taste rolls over my tongue, then evaporates in my throat and burns its way down my chest.
“Nice.”
“Only the best for Miss Wilder.”
“So,” I say lightly and take another sip. “What have you been up to?”
Peter drinks while he studies my every move.
“I risk my life every day to bring the scum of this city to justice. What’ve you been up to?”
“I—”
“Wait.” He holds up a hand, takes a gulp, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I got this. You’ve spent your every waking hour finding new angles to put the cops in the LAPD in the line of fire. As if we weren’t there already.”
“Now, hold up a minute. I do good work, and I don’t go after just anyone. I hold you guys accountable, as it should be. You don’t get to play cop, judge, and executioner out there. You need to follow the law, like everyone else. That’s where I come in. The public has a right to know everything that goes on.”
“We’re not playing, Wilder. No one’s playing. You’re making things up in your twisted mind.” He drinks then points the glass at me. “You’re not as good and pure as you think you are. When you dig and dig and fucking dig through investigations, court transcripts, crime scenes, the lot, then put what you find in print, you’re endangering my men.”
“It’s public info.” I take a sip again.
Peter stands and refills my glass. I’m about to protest, but fine, I’ll play along a little while longer. Even though he riles me up enough, I want to punch the guy. He remains standing, towering over me, then leans in.
“They are people, Wilder. They’re doing what they’re trained to do. Do you know what it’s like out there? Hm? Do you?”
I gulp down a swallow. A little too large, it burns its way down my throat, and I cough.
“I’ve been in a cruiser, tagged along to crime scenes. I’ve seen the reality.”
“You did, huh? Today, I jumped out of a fucking building from the second story. Why don’t we drink to that?” He takes his glass. “Bottoms up.”
Eh… Shit. Not good. I hesitate.
“Come on. I got the bad guy. I had to run five blocks despite my knees killing me, but I got him. Isn’t that worth some celebration? Or do you want to dissect my performance?”
I wince. “Are you all right?”
“Sure, I’m all right. I’m having the time of my life tonight.” He raises his glass, stares me down until I do the same, then he empties the contents as he holds my gaze. Copying him, I promise myself this is the last drop.