“Organized terror’s not really my jam, but I’ve heard the name, sure. You thinkhemight be behind this?”
Angelo’s long finger tapped out the rhythm to a song only he could hear. “It’s possible the organization he’s affiliated with might have something to do with it.”
I’d asked Angelo about the recent throw-down between the Boston Irish and the Morellis, and while he’d hedged, I was pretty sure I knew more about it than most other law enforcement officers now. “That stuff with the Donovans was personal, though, right? And I thought you had the Irish under control now.”
“Anyone who ever thinks they have the Irish under control is in for a nasty surprise.”
“Maybe.” I wasn’t convinced. “What makes you think it’s O’Sullivan?”
The dramatic pause before every response was going to drive me crazy. “I had some intel sent my way. And I’ve heard your friendsdohave him down as a viable suspect.”
“My friends?”
“The task force.”
I frowned. “How do you know that?”
“That’s not important. Anyway, the Morelli Family is still the number one focus, but there are other parts of the task force following up on O’Sullivan. He’s been known to make threats against some of the Italian Families before, and he was in Manhattan for at least two of the shootings. No one seems to know where he was the night Hanson was killed. His organization would have their reasons to set up the Morellis—ifthat’s what this killer is doing.” He glanced at me. “Though I’m not sure why they’d setyouup, Special Agent Baxter Flynn. Flynn’s an Irish name, right? You piss anyone off recently?”
“Only Captain Walsh. Yeah, my dad’s side was Irish stock, but way back, and by way of Canada. My mom’s heritage, well, she called it American Mutt.”
Angelo said nothing.
“So, the Irish, huh?” I tried. “You really think it’s them? Itkindof fits, psychologically. Terrorists sometimes act as lone wolves. This O’Sullivan, does he work in a cell or alone?”
The only answer I got was a shake of the head, a silentWho knows?I gave up talking for a while, until Angelo sent a sidelong glance my way and asked, “If you’re not a field agent, why do you look like that?”
“Like what?” I was busy studying street signs, hoping I could bringsomethingback to the FBI when I got out of this.IfI got out of this.
“Like you spend all your spare time in the gym.”
Several street signs went by unmemorized as his remark ran around in my brain. “‘Agents must meet mandatory fitness levels,’” I said at last, quoting the handbook.
“You’re a damn sight more cut than most FBI profilers I’ve seen.”
Was Angelo Messinaflirtingwith me? It was hard to tell. And terrifying, either way. “Behavioral analyst, not profiler. Anyway, I like weights. They’re something real. Solid. You can track your progress, you can prove how much better you’re getting with the raw numbers, compare how much you can bench.”
“If you’re so scientifically-minded, how come you went into psychology?”
“Bite me,” I said before I could stop myself.
He smiled, but he tried to hide it.
Chapter Thirteen
Baxter
“Okay. Stakeouts are officially fuck-ass boring,” I announced around nine that night. I wasdying. We’d spent all afternoon and early evening sitting there in the car, eating shitty gas station sandwiches and staring at a bar where Angelo said O’Sullivan sometimes hung out. When I asked why we’d had to get there so early, he gave me a brief lecture about becoming part of the scenery. I’d been let out to go piss once, and my bladder was starting to complain again. Noting that Angelo had barely touched his mega-jumbo-size soda, I wondered if he’d gotten them just to watch me squirm in the car beside him.
“Yep,” Angelo replied, still slumped in his seat, arms folded, turned away from me and towards the bar.
“When are they coming?”
“When they come.”
“When do theynormallycome?”
No answer. I sat up straight, brushing crumbs off my shirt onto the floor. Angelo gave me a glare. “So you’re still telling me you don’t know who killed Sam Fuscone?” I tried.
