“They pulled the bullet out of the floor in the ballet studio,” I reminded him.
“Yeah, what was left of it,” Ian said. “You’re not getting an identification on the kind of round it was from that.”
“Maybe there are prints where the shooter set up.”
“Not according to the crime scene guys. No fingerprints, no useable shoe prints in the concrete dust kicked all over the fuckin’ place, no brass, as I said, no cigarette butts, nada. He went in, took his shot, and left. The security cameras outside and the ones across the street were both jammed, so there’s no video of anybody going in or out in that thirty-minute window.”
“So whoever it was, was certainly a pro.”
“Without question. George said it was a good shot. Not a great one because between the distance and the target, it wasn’t that hard for anyone even remotely skilled. Hell, I could’ve made that shot, and I’m not a sniper. George says the only thing that’s telling is that the head shot was big and messy. If he’d done it, he would have put the bullet in the guy’s heart, and then his family could have had an open casket.”
“That’s horrible and morbid.”
“Yeah, but true.”
“So whoever paid for the hit wanted to send a message.”
“That’s what George thinks, and he would know.” Ian took another pull on his beer and then set it down, his eyes flicking to mine.
“Okay,” I said. “Jer and I will get into it with the detectives tomorrow and—”
“Why did you really call? Is it because you’re trying to figure out how you feel about Celso?”
Thank God I was leaning on the counter because my knees went out on me and I could have dropped to the floor if I wasn’t.
“Eli?”
“I—what?”
He scoffed, then was quiet. I was about to say something when he looked up from the label on his beer bottle and into my face. “We were at Aruna’s birthday party back in January, do you remember that?”
“I remember the party, yeah.”
“We were all sitting around, playing games, and then we broke into teams for trivia because we’re big dorks. You leaned over, put your hand on Celso’s chair, and dragged him over right next to you so you guys would be on the same team.”
That I couldn’t recall. “Okay. So what?”
“You don’t drag another person’s chair right over next to yours unless they’rewithyou. I don’t care who it is.” The way Ian was looking at me, it was a lot of scrutiny for just a regular conversation between friends.
“That seems like an Ian thing to think and not a real thing.”
He didn’t even argue. “You had to lean way over and pull his chair a few feet so that he wasright next to you, and then you put your arm around the back of his chair.”
“I don’t get the importance of that.”
“For crissakes, Eli, you treat him like he belongs to you.”
“I do not.”
“Are you serious?”
“Ian, I—”
“You eat off his plate. You are constantly in his space, you touch him all the time, you put your clothes on him—scarves, hats—and I have never seen him pay for a meal when we’re all out.” Ian was smiling as he listed things. “You listen,intently, whenever he talks to you, while I have to repeat shit, like, ten times for it to sink into your brain.”
“That’s not remotely—”
“You’ve cut our nights short because he got off early and could eat dinner with you, and most importantly, when he’s with you, you don’t even see anybody else.”