“If just for the f**k of it, why didn’t you fly?” Peña asked. “You had the cake. Here to LA and back again, sit a table and kill a man… that’s a lot to fit in in three days.”

Walker didn’t respond.

Peña wasn’t looking for a response. Peña was happy to deliver a monologue.

“Though you take a flight, they got records. You sit your ass in a car, no one knows.” He paused; Walker gave him nothing so he kept going. “Couldn’t see why it was for the f**k of it either. You don’t care the company you keep at a game, that’s true enough, but they at least have to bring something to the table.”

Walker kept silent.

Peña pressed on. “You sit with men who got tens of thousands of cash and collateral on the line, you walk away a winner, a big winner, every time. Then you sit with men who got shit, who are not known to sit a game of cards, total amateurs, you lose huge? How’s that happen?”

Walker didn’t move or say a word.

Peña kept going. “Lose so huge, it pisses you off. You, a seasoned player, a seasoned player who had to walk away down from some tables somewhere along the line. You knew the score. Never an incident but you lose to some scumbag drug dealer in LA, you get so pissed, you track his ass down, shoot him four times and a part-construction worker, part-mechanic smart enough to get himself a Snake is dumb enough to leave his prints at the scene. How’s that happen?”

Walker turned fully to him and crossed his arms on his chest.

Peña held his gaze.

Then he took a step forward and said quietly, “Got a source says some preliminary witness statements were buried. You know that?”

He didn’t. He had no idea. That would have been big, huge, years ago.

Now it didn’t matter.

Therefore, he still didn’t speak.

“Conflicting accounts on a variety of things. Your description, the amount you lost at the game, time line. Seems the witnesses hadn’t been thoroughly briefed,” Peña dropped that bomb, gave a bit of it away, paused for a reaction then when he didn’t get one, he pressed on. “Got their stories straight in the end, though.”

Fuck him. Fuck him. Under six weeks and Peña got further than Tate. A lot further.

Walker made no reply.

Peña didn’t need it. “Two of those men who sat that table with you were CIs to a Detective Chet Palmer, LAPD.”

Walker said nothing.

Peña continued. “And Detective Chet Palmer works in a different precinct but still, he’s godfather to Gene Fuller’s daughter.” He held Walker’s eyes and kept talking quietly. “You gettin’ the connection I’m givin’ to you?”

Walker finally spoke. “This is not news.”

“Jackson.” This time, Peña guessed correctly that Tate had uncovered the last part years ago.

Walker didn’t confirm. He didn’t need to.

“You want real news?” Peña asked.

“If you got it,” Walker answered.

Peña studied him and he did this awhile.

Then he laid it out.

“Your gun, the murder weapon was never recovered.” He ignored the tightening of Walker’s jaw at the mention of “his gun” something he knew his way around but he’d never owned until Shift gave him one, and Peña kept going. “But it didn’t disappear. Know this because another dealer done in LA had a ballistics match to that gun, took me a bit to uncover that, even my source out there balked ‘cause that information was buried so deep. I’m sure it won’t surprise you that another brother got fingered for that, witnesses, prints at the scene, motive, opportunity, overwhelming evidence even if the murder weapon was never recovered. He was goin’ down but he’d been down before. Gang shit. Small time he didn’t enjoy. Learned his lesson. Got out. Kept clean.” Peña leaned in, lost it for a moment and hissed, “Volunteered at the local Boy’s Club to keep kids outta gangs.” Peña leaned back, sucked in breath to pull it together again before he finished, “Didn’t like his time, knew he was facin’ more, maybe knew why, definitely knew who he was up against. Wasn’t gonna go down and found his way to run away from that forever and he did it hangin’ from a beam in his Momma’s garage.”

Walker sucked in breath and looked away. It wasn’t the only reaction he exposed. He knew his body expanded because he knew most of his muscles had tightened reflexively.

Another brother down. Fuck.

He forcibly released his muscles and looked back.

“Been busy, Peña,” he noted.

“Told you, got an interest in Alexa Berry.” When Walker’s eyes narrowed he corrected swiftly, “Walker.”

Walker made no comment.

Peña still wasn’t done. “You copped a plea. Gave you a lotta time to think, I reckon. About what, I don’t know. I could guess, five years of my life rotted away, I know what I would be thinkin’. And, gotta say, Tyrell, wouldn’t normally give a f**k what you do. Problem is, what you do won’t be what you do. What you do will affect others and not just those who it needs to affect. And that’s where I got a problem.”

“This is not your business,” Walker informed him.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Peña shot back and Walker misread him, partially.

“My garage where she parks her Charger, Peña. My bed she’s sleepin’ in. The bouquet of flowers I bought her before I put my ring on her finger that she tore up and pressed the petals between two squares of glass and she hung that shit in my window in the kitchen so she can see them when she does the dishes. This means I am not wrong.”

He’d scored again, this hurt worse and Peña didn’t hide it.

But he denied it. “You don’t get where I’m comin’ from.”

“I get you want a piece of my wife. What you need to get is every inch of her is mine,” he leaned in, “Every inch. You don’t get a piece of her.” He leaned back. “No one does. No one but me.”

“Like I said, you don’t get where I’m comin’ from.”

Fuck, but he wanted to be home with his f**king wife.

Therefore, to get this done, he invited, “Educate me.”

“I got an interest in Alexa Berry Walker, Tyrell, but I’m also a cop. You are not my brother. I do not know you. I do not give a f**k about you. What I do give a f**k about is what’s goin’ on in your head. And I also give a f**k about brothers goin’ down in two states in two ways neither of them f**kin’ good for shit they did… not… do.”