And then I stopped andreallythought about it, with post-orgasm clarity.
Angelo Messina, Underboss of the Morellis, taking a self-identified federal agent into his home?
* * *
I arrivedat work still stressed and still wondering what Messina’s ulterior motive might have been. Ethan Villiers’ sharp glare at my chin as he walked past my desk reminded me I’d forgotten to shave before I’d left home.
“Late night?” he asked, as I was still pulling off my scarf.
“Yeah, actually,” I said. “I need to talk to you. In private, sir.”
The weary sigh he gave didn’t make it any easier on me. But before we could make it to his office, Captain Walsh came in, calling for attention.
“Incident room, now,” he growled to the room at large. The atmosphere in the office changed at once. Something had happened.
My scalp prickled as I wondered if it had anything to do with my night flight alongside the Morelli Underboss. Had someone—had someone seen us together?
But so what if they had, I argued internally. It wasn’t like I’d done anything wrong. Except not reporting an active shooter in Central Park.
And not reporting contact with a subject of the investigation.
And ignoring explicit instructions from my superior officer to stay the hell away from Messina.
“What mess are you in now?” Villiers asked softly as he waited for me to grab my iPad for any notes I wanted to take.
“Nothing. What?”
“Does this meeting have anything to do with what you wanted to talk to me about?”
“I don’t know,” I said, truthfully, and gave him my most innocent look.
He pressed his lips together, hard, and led the way to the meeting room where the task force kept whiteboards covered in crime scene photographs, linkages, times...anything that might help spark ideas and connections.
Captain Walsh was standing up front at the lectern, waiting for everyone to assemble. Villiers and I were among the last in, so it was standing room only for us.
“Quiet down,” the Captain said, his voice low but strong, and the noise died at once. “I’ve got bad news to share. Detective Gavin Bachman was found dead just an hour ago in Central Park.” There was an initial silence followed by a wave of protest and noises of dismay, but Captain Walsh held up his hand. “Let me get through this. As I said, Bachman was found dead—shot dead. CSU’s there now and the search of the area is ongoing. Obviously, we don’t have ballistics back yet, but from what they could tell me right away, the gun fits with the other recent shootings. Small caliber handgun.” He paused and dragged a hand across his mouth. “M.O. fits, too. Two shots to the back from a distance, then one up close through the back of the head.”
Again, a murmur of anger moved across the room, and the Captain nodded.
“There’s more, fellas. There’s more. Bachman was out on stakeout last night. I assigned him yesterday to tail one of the Morellis.” His head came up and he looked straight at me. I swallowed. “Bachman was on Angelo Messina last night. And this morning he’s in the morgue.”
Next to me, Villiers drew in a quick breath. I wished I’d gotten in here fast enough to get a seat, because my legs were beginning to tremble. The Captain was still staring at me.
“Now, we’re taking in Messina for questioning this morning,” he continued. “And I’m plenty pissed too, let me tell you, but there’s nothing we can do for Bachman now except nail these Italian fuckers to the wall. I wantallof you on the Morellis. I want a forensic accountant in, I want tails on every one of their top assholes, including and especially that motherfucker Luca D’Amato, because if Messina’s out there doing this, he’s had orders from the top.”
The details went on, but my ears felt muffled. My mind played and replayed last night in the Park obsessively. Had it been Bachman who shot at us? Or had Bachman heard the shots and ran to help, and gotten himself killed for his trouble? The guy had been an asshole, but that didn’t mean I was glad he was dead.
The only thing I knew for sure was that Messina wasn’t the one behind Bachman’s killing. But if I told the Captain how I knew, it would be the end. I’d be off the task force for sure, maybe even tied to a desk job for the rest of my career.
“Move,” Villiers said sharply in my ear, and I glanced around at the men filing out of the room around me. “With me,” Villiers added when we got back in the main room, and I followed him to his office. But just as we reached his office door, the whole room went quiet with a deep resonant silence. I turned to see what was going on.
Angelo Messina, hands cuffed behind his back and steered by two uniformed cops either side of him, was being led through the middle of the office, paraded like a captive king through the streets of Rome.
He looked mildly annoyed.
His eyes swept the room, taking in the faces, and I wondered if they realized just how dumb it was giving this guy a clear look at every member of the task force. His gaze rested on me for exactly the same amount of time as it did on everyone else, not even a flicker of recognition crossing his face.
“Get in here,” Villiers growled, yanking me into his private office. “You want to tell me why you went white the second that murderer entered the room?” he demanded, keeping his voice low. The walls in this place were thin, too thin, except for the interrogation rooms. I wished like hell I could watch the questioning, see what Messina had to say, but if heweregoing to spill anything he’d probably take me down with him, too.
