I left without another word.
Chapter Seven
Baxter
Once I got back to my apartment after Villiers had suspended me, I spent the morning lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I should just pack my bags now and book a flight back to Quantico. But then, Quantico wouldn’t want me back either. New graduates were assigned to a field office somewhere, but while I was on special assignment, my ultimate destination remained unknown. Besides which, as Villiers had pointed out, I might not get the chance to be assigned anywhere, not after the events of last night.
I’d typed out my account of the events of the night in a statement ready to go, to make sure I captured everything. But I couldn’t help going over and over the events of the previous night in my head, trying to picture where I’d dropped my gun. Ithadto have been right after Messina had pushed me down, because I remembered taking it out with the intention of firing back if I could get a clear shot at our attacker. In that case, it would be somewhere in the trees.
Or had I dropped it while we were running? I flexed my hand, trying to trigger any muscle memories of holding and releasing the gun.
Nothing. Nothing but more frustration with myself. I tried to distract myself by looking through my mother’s old photo album, filled with pictures of me and my brother as kids, our family trip to Disneyland, and other vacations. But all I could think of when I saw my family’s smiling faces was how much I’d managed to let them down.
I put the photo album away, and my mind returned to Angelo Messina. Had he spilled about Central Park? I thought again about how he had protected me. Instantly and selflessly.
Why had he done it?
And why could I not identify the feeling that churned up inside me when I thought about it? I knew my emotions inside out, but whatever this one was, it was new to me.
I tried to sit with it, let the uncomfortableness become familiar, but I was too restless. I got off the bed and prowled around my small apartment. It was a shoebox, made smaller by my general messiness, although since moving back to New York I’d worked long enough hours that coming home had meant only sleep and a shower—and for that, the place was adequate. Ethan Villiers had taken a similar apartment a few floors up, and at first I’d been annoyed, like he thought he needed to chaperone me while we were here. But I’d never even passed him in the lobby during the whole time we’d been resident. I’d invited him over to my apartment once for a drink after work, and he’d come, but the whole thing had been incredibly awkward.
I’d felt tentative for a few days after that, like I’d breached the boundaries of professional and personal. Villiers was my mentor at work and an inevitable father figure. Having him in my home was inappropriate, and although he’d been too polite to point that out, I hadn’t asked him around again.
I thought about Messina’s place last night.Thatplace sure hadn’t felt like a home. Even in my short time here, I’d put out photographs, chipped a few mugs, hung up a calendar on the wall. It made sense that Messina would keep his place clean, and he could hardly hire help with cleaning. But his apartment had been more than justtidy. It had lacked any sense of the man himself.
I couldn’t stand being cooped up inside anymore, wondering about my future, wondering about Messina, what he’d said during questioning—Ihadto get out. I still felt deeply guilty about losing my firearm, so I figured that was a place to start. If I went down to Central Park I could give CSU a heads up if they’d found it.
I knew Villiers wouldn’t like me going down to the crime scene, and the thought gave me pause, but only for a moment. I wanted him to beproudof me. I wanted to contribute. Maybe finding my registered gun and helping CSU rule it out as the weapon that had committed the crime would be one way to get back into his good books. It was a long shot, but it was all I had right then.
And I just couldn’t sit around all day thinking about Angelo Messina.
* * *
Central Park,when I reached it that afternoon, was buzzing with law enforcement activity around the area I’d been in last night. Members of the public were lined up at the edge of the crime scene tape, and ninety-five percent of them were filming on their phones. There was more than one news media crew there as well. When I walked up to the tape, I recognized my fellow task force member, Gina Garcia, keeping the crowd under control. She was NYPD, but she was one of the few detectives I’d managed to get along with. Or rather, she hadn’t outright ignored me like the others.
I waved at her to get her attention, and she gave me a blank look before coming over. “What are you doing here?”
I ducked under the tape and walked with her a little ways from the crowd. “I need to talk to CSU. I don’t have my badge on me—”
“Yeah, because you’re not on the task force anymore,” she pointed out. Her face was stony. “You’ve been associating with the enemy, Flynn.”
Apparently Villiers hadn’t wasted time in informing everyone about my suspension. “Listen, Garcia, that was just a misunderstanding,” I tried.
“You know what they’re calling you?” she asked. “The Plague. Because everyone you come in close contact with ends up dead.”
I snorted, until I saw she wasn’t joking. “That’s not true,” I insisted. “Anyway, it’s the Captain who assigned Bachman as my partner. We hadn’t even really worked together. He’s been out of the office most days or leaves me behind every time he goes somewhere. I don’t think he liked me much.”
“Bachman was a good officer. Maybe he didn’t like you, but it’s not like you gave him any reason to.” She narrowed her eyes and looked me up and down. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
As she asked me, I realized that most of the chatter amongst the LE milling around the crime scene had ceased. They were all looking at me, and among them, near the treeline, was Ethan Villiers.
He did not look happy to see me.
Garcia saw him heading our way, and shrugged at me. “You shouldn’t have come down,” she told me. “Everyone was suspicious enough, now you’re hanging around the crime scene like you want to inject yourself into it?”
“I’m a federal agent on the task force assigned to these cases,” I snapped. “I’m not injecting myself anywhere. I’m doing my job.”
“It’s not your job anymore,” Villiers hissed at me as he reached us. Garcia stalked off after giving me one last dirty look. “I’ll ask you what I’m sure Detective Garcia asked you, Flynn: what the hell are you doing here?”
