The car came to a stop, a little more jerky than Angelo’s usual driving style. I could hear traffic around us, impatient honks, a train running overhead.
“I wasn’t hiding who I was.” There was something too-precise in his voice. “I was the Boss’s man, through and through. Still am.”
It was still strange to me to hear him admit something like that. He’d been so careful for so long. Maybe he was tired of being careful. Or maybe he figured that whatever he told me didn’t matter, because when he was done with me, he’d dispose of me.
I shifted in the warm chair of the car. Whatever it was, it was one of those expensive ones with built-in ass-warmers in the seats. Nice. “Why are you bringing me with you?” I asked. “You said I had nothing to offer last night. Nothing you needed, anyway.”
The car moved off smoothly, picking up speed. “You have a law enforcement eye. I can make use of that.”
“Not a great one, according to Villiers.”
“Who’s Villiers?”
“My supervisor. And mentor. They have this program in the FBI where—”
“Fools mentoring fools,” he muttered.
I snorted. “Okay, then.” I shut up for the rest of the ride, but I thought hard. And it occurred to me then that I had never sent my witness statement to Villiers. I hadn’t had the chance. I’d fallen off the face of the planet right after he’d suspended me—and I was willing to bet CSU had found my gun, too, at the crime scene. It was the only thing that made sense as to why they were suddenly so hell-bent on me as a suspect.
If I could just get word to Villiers, explain my side of the story…but how could I explain all this? Going willingly with the Morelli Underboss to God knew where, todoGod knew what…
Things had spun way out of my control, and into Angelo’s instead.
* * *
“You can take that off now,”Messina said, pulling in somewhere. I didn’t have to be told twice. I ripped off the blindfold and looked around at—a service station. In Queens, judging by the cross streets, just as he’d said.
“What’s here?” I asked.
“Gas and supplies.” He’d dressed in sweats and a hoodie again today, and made sure to pull the hood up before he got out of the car. With his sunglasses and his head down, he wouldn’t be recognizable to cameras or inquisitive eyes. I waited in the BMW. It had tinted windows, dark as they’d legally go, which meant people outside couldn’t see in; I figured the plates were fake or stolen.
It was a damn nice car, I’d give him that.
He was back in minutes, having filled the car and bought a whole pile of convenience food. “What’s this for?” I asked as he got back in and handed the bag to me. He set two enormous cups in the cupholders.
“You spill anything, you’re dead,” he said casually.
“Sure, but what’s itfor?”
“We’re going on stakeout, Bax.”
As he pulled out of the garage, I started grinning wide at him. “Shit. Really?”
He glanced over. “You’ve never been on stakeout before?”
“Nah, like I said. I’m not a field agent. Never done anything fun like that.”
“You’re in for a rude awakening if you think this will be fun.”
“Who are we staking out?”
After a pause, Angelo said, “A man named Colin O’Sullivan. Heard of him?”
It took a second, but I remembered hearing that name floated around the task force. “Shit. Yeah. The IRA guy?” I hadn’t paid much attention, because I’d been more interested in the LCN possibilities. The Morellis, in particular.
Angelo.
“O’Sullivan’s not IRA. He belongs to a much more violent group. Nationalist separatists.”
