I looked at Villiers once the door had banged shut once more. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Maybe not.”
“But they’re wrong about the Morellis.”
“Yes.”
“So why can’t we—”
“Flynn,” Villiers sighed, “youwerea psych major as well as criminology, right? Can’t you just accept that sometimes making friends is more useful than being right?”
I rolled my eyes at that. “You brought me here to disrupt organized crime, not to make nice with people.”
“And a good thing I didn’t,” Villiers said. “Can’t you just show a little respect now and then? The Captain’s not wrong about these men putting their lives on the line. Look at Hanson.”
I didn’t want to look at Hanson. Thinking about him stung in a way that I still had to fully process. “But they’rewrong,” I insisted again. “And this task force isn’t about egos, or it shouldn’t be. It’s about cleaning up Central Park—making the citysafe.” Unlike some members of the task force, Villiers and I were both New York natives. It wasn’t just the usual New York crime stats to us. We actuallycaredabout the city.
And so had Hanson, which made me feel like I owed it to him to find the fucker who’d killed him. Before he’d died, Hanson had told me he could feel something else going on underneath all the random violence. A strategy, a direction. He just didn’t know where it was headed yet, or who was behind it.
But there was one thing he’d been sure of, and I was, too. “It’s not the Morellis,” I said again stubbornly.
Villiers looked me over and then gave a tired smile. “Come and have some lunch. How about that diner you like so much?”
I swallowed. “Yeah, okay.”
Chapter Two
Baxter
Villiers and I never ate in the lunchroom, because we were unwelcome. Even the other federal appointees preferred to avoid us. No—the head shrinkers, or spacey psychics depending on who you asked, were more likely to clear a room than join it. So Villiers and I had taken to having lunch outside the office most days.
Today, when Villiers asked me where I wanted to go, I named the diner that Hanson had put me on to. I liked to think he’d get a kick out of me going there if his ghost was still around—not that I believed in ghosts. That diner also happened to be the same place I’d first met Angelo Messina, though I’d never mentioned that to Villiers.
I thought about that day again as we took our seats. Villiers preferred the booths to sitting at the counter, but as I glanced over at the waitress, Julie, I could just about see Hanson and Angelo sitting there in front of her, just as they had that day.
I hadn’t liked the idea of that meeting from the start, but Hanson, the only detective in the task force who’d ever given me the time of day, hadn’t cared about my opinion on that matter.
“Messina’s alright,” was all he’d grunted when I objected. “Compared to some of them, anyway. He’s old school. A man of honor, in the real sense.”
“It’s a breach of ethics,” I’d argued, “having lunch with the same guy you’re trying to take in.”
But Hanson had only laughed. “You get a few years on you, Babyface, get to know a few of these men you’re trying to take down, and you’ll start to see the shades of gray. They’re all crooks and thieves and murderers, sure. But some of them do it with ethics of their own. And others are just…”
“Just what?” I’d demanded. And now, as Villiers picked up the menu, even though he ordered the same thing every time, I whispered Hanson’s reply under my breath. “Animals.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Villiers said, his blue eyes looking at me over the top of the menu. “The NYPD officersarejust trying to do their jobs, the same as we are.”
“What? No. I wasn’t...” I trailed off, staring again at Angelo Messina’s empty seat at the counter.
The day I’d met the Morelli Family Underboss had been a turning point. I’d seen photographs of him, fewer than I would have liked, and mostly from surveillance. He wasn’t one of those flashy types who put their own faces up on social media. I’d heard a lot about him, too; how attractive he was, how competent, how deadly.
None of those pictures and none of those words prepared me for the reality of the man, leaning back against the counter and letting his eyes run over my body. My skin had tingled from his gaze despite the distance, the pane of glass between us, despite the cold hard rain emptying down on me as I stood there.
All at once I’d felt warmer, my chest hot, my face burning.
“…getcha, hon?” a female voice interrupted me.
I came back to the present in a rush and had to blink at the menu a few times before I saw it. I usually had the bacon, egg and cheese bagel. But today… “I’ll have the focaccia.”
