“Hey,” Karofsky said testily, fidgeting in his plastic seat in the waiting area. His eyes widened with irritation and disbelief when Santana continued past him, escorting Puckerman to an interrogation room. “Hey! Where the hell are you going? You going to make me sit here all day while you talk to every Tom, Dick and Harry around? Lopez? Damn it, Lopez, I know you can hear me!”

“Don't let him leave,” Santana said to the officer that was standing guard, motioning to Dave. “And if his cell phone rings, I want you to interrupt us immediately.”

Dave sputtered with indignation as Santana continued down the hallway, Ryerson on her heels.

“Who's the asshole?” Puckerman asked, jerking his head back toward Karofsky.

“That's Mr. Karofsky-Anderson's husband,” Santana answered, ushering Puckerman into the small room. “Sit.”

“Well, shit twice and fall back in,” Puckerman muttered, throwing himself into a chair. “That fucking figures.”

Santana sat down across the small wooden table from Puckerman, Sandy settling beside her.

“Where did you get the $2500 in cash?” Sandy demanded without preamble. Santana raised an eyebrow at him, but turned to look at Puckerman and gauge his reaction to the question.

“A friend,” Puckerman said evasively, not meeting either set of eyes across the table from him.

“Interesting,” Santana replied. “The money clip it was in had 'Kurt Hummel' engraved on it. Would that be the friend?”

“Ummm...hmmm. I believe that was the guy driving the car,” Puck answered, leaning back in his chair. “He did give me the money clip now that I think about it, yeah. Said he didn't want it anymore.”

“Did he,” Santana responded tonelessly.

“That he did,” Puckerman replied, one foot landing heavily on the table in front of him as he leaned back even further in his seat.

Santana and Sandy exchanged glances.

“Are you aware that Mr. Hummel and Mr. Karofsky-Anderson are wanted in connection with a murder?” Ryerson asked.

Puckerman's smug bravado faltered slightly. “Murder? What, Blaine? Damn.”

“Did they ever indicate that they might be on the run from the law?” Santana pressed.

“Weeeeeell...you know, now that you mention it, they may have seemed a little bit jumpy. Hey, you think you could get me a cigarette or something, sweetheart? Maybe a cup of coffee?”

Santana simply stared at Puckerman for a long moment. She leaned forward in her chair. “You know what?” she asked.

“What?”

“You're starting to irritate me.”

“Yeah, me too,” Sandy said, narrowing his eyes and utterly failing to intimidate Puckerman.

“Yeah, that'll happen,” Puckerman replied easily, stretching his arms and cupping his hands behind his head.  “You know, you two seem to have an awful lot in common. Maybe I should just step out of the room for a sec, let you have some private time.” He shot Santana a filthy wink.

Santana glared at Puckerman. She was working up a pretty satisfying dislike for this man, and she didn't need Ryerson cramping her style.

“I've got a better idea,” Santana said sweetly. “Can I speak to him alone for a minute?” She asked Sandy. He smiled at the request, because it was well known that Santana had a particular talent for breaking assholes like the one in front of them.

“I'll just wait with Karofsky,” he said, as he got up to leave.

When they were finally alone in the room, Santana fixed Puckerman with a deep, cold stare. When he began to fidget, she didn't even blink.

“What?” he finally groused, crossing his arms over his chest. “What the hell did I do? Nothing, that's what. This whole thing is just a crock of shit.  Fucking pigs.”

“All right,” Santana said, her eyes not wavering. “I'm going to ask you something.”

Puckerman groaned. “For fuck's sa–”

“Do you think Blaine Karofsky-Anderson would have committed armed robbery if you hadn't taken all their money?” Santana cut in sharply, standing up and pinning Puckerman in place with her eyes.

Puckerman swallowed, something almost like guilt flitting across his face.

“Get your foot off that table,” Santana commanded, her voice low and terrifying.

Puckerman slid his foot to the floor silently.

“Cat got your tongue?” Santana asked.

“No,” Puckerman defended sullenly. “Now, I...how do you know I took it? How do you know they didn't–”

But that was it. That was just fucking it, and Santana did not have the patience for this shit, did not have the patience for waste-of-space punks like Puckerman who were only good for clogging up the legal system and making life harder for people that didn't deserve it.

Santana strode over to Puckerman and ripped the dirty, ugly, fucking White Sox baseball cap from his head, and smacked him with it. When Puckerman yelped, she did it again. And again. It felt so good that she just kept on smacking him with the bill of the hat until he threw his hands up in front of his face defensively.

“Don't you fucking lie to me,” Santana hissed, leaning in close and throwing the baseball cap to the floor.  “There's two boys out there that had a chance. They had a chance. And now you've completely fucked it up for them.”

“No, I–” Puckerman protested weakly.

“And now they're in some serious trouble, and I'm going to hold you personally responsible for at least part of it if anything happens to them,” Santana continued. “I don't give a shit about you. You're just some asshole with a chip on his shoulder who's still confused that high school ended. As far as I'm concerned you're nothing, understand?”

Puckerman stared at her, anger battling with fear in his eyes. Santana knew exactly which emotion was going to win, because this asshole was fucking bush league, and she'd crushed better men waiting in line at the grocery store.

“Now,” she said, very quiet, her voice almost no more than a disgusted whisper in his ear, “you're going to tell me everything – everything – you know, so there's a small chance I can actually do them some good, or I am going to dedicate the rest of my life to causing you as much misery as possible. And don't you dare fucking doubt me on this one, asswipe, because I've made scumbags like you disappear before, and I've got surprisingly little left to lose.”

“Y-yes, Ma'am,” Puckerman managed, his eyes wide and his voice a hoarse whisper.

“I'm sorry, what was that?” Santana asked, standing up.

“Yes, ma'am,” Puckerman repeated loudly.

Santana smiled. “That's better. We understand each other, then?”

Puckerman swallowed audibly. “Yeah.”

“Mr. Karofsky, if you'd just hold on another couple of minutes, I'm going to wrap some things up here and then we'll bring you back home,” Santana said distractedly, thumbing through her phone. She was starting to have an idea, and she was fairly certain it was a really, really bad one.

She glanced up just in time to see Puckerman lean toward Karofsky with a filthy smile on his way past.

“I liked your husband,” he said with a wink. “And so did Hummel, if you get my drift.” Puckerman wagged his eyebrows, laughing when Karofsky's face twisted into a mask of pure rage.

As Puckerman was led further down the hallway, Karofsky leapt to his feet, barreling toward Puckerman with a roar. Ryerson and another of the local officers immediately moved to hold him back, but Karofsky was a very large man.

“Come back here!” Dave bellowed, as yet another officer moved to restrain him.

“You know, they fucked so hard one of the pictures fell off my wall and I was in the room across the hall from them,” Puck called over his shoulder, still laughing. “Sounded like Blaine hadn't had a fuck that good in years, and looking at you I believe it.”

“You little – I will kill you, you fucking punk!” Dave screamed, trying desperately to break through the wall of police officers holding him back. “I will fucking destroy you, you goddamned little – just wait until I introduce you to the fury! You get back here! I will fucking kill you!”