Julie took Villiers’ order as well and once she was well out of earshot, he said, “So, Flynn. What’s going on in that head of yours?”
I gave a snort. “You’re the psych. You tell me.”
“Ah, you don’t play a player,” Villiers said with a wink. “Come on, now. I told you before we started on this task force that it’d be difficult. Our work isn’t always respected, and then sometimes it’s revered far too much. We’re neither of us the psychics Captain Walsh would prefer, but there are still plenty of avenues to explore.”
“No, there aren’t,” I said bullishly. “He’s got his mind set on the Morellis.”
“Because Hanson was seen by a reputable witness speaking to the Morelli Underboss the week before he died,” Villiers said pointedly, and then added with an air of tired patience, “andthey’re the only major Family who hasn’t lost someone in these attacks.”
“Exactly.” I slapped my hand down on the table, rocking my coffee cup in its saucer.
“Yes,” Villiers said. “Exactly.”
I grabbed a handful of napkins to mop up the spill. “You don’t think it’s all a littleconvenient?That suddenly the ascendent Family in town is the only one not losing any blood? Hanson thought—”
“Hanson got himself killed,” Villiers broke in sharply. “Whatever he may or may not have thought about the Morellis, and whether they are or are not behind these murders, it was stupid and unethical of him to go palling around with their Underboss.”
It was exactly what I’d said to Hanson myself, but hearing it come out of Villiers’ mouth didn’t sit right. “He was making one last play, seeing if Messina would spill anything.” It sounded like an excuse to my own ears, and I could tell Villiers thought the same. “At least I got to observe the subject in the wild,” I added.
“I don’t want you anywhere near that psychopath,” Villiers said gravely.
“Oh, he’s a psychopath now, is he?”
This was an old argument that Villiers and I had been having since we first met when I was an undergrad at one of his guest lectures. Definitions and diagnoses were always changing as new theories, new practices, were born and died. But as far as we both agreed, there was quite a psychological difference between the lackeys, the associates, even the low-level made men running around in gangs under a so-called Capo, and the rulers at the top. The small fry were psychologically boring, in fact: of average or lower intelligence, motivated merely by greed or a desire for personal power, but without the strategic cruelty and violence that infected the minds of those at the top.
“I have never wavered in my opinion that Messina is a stone-cold killer and I don’t see any evidence of conscience with him,” Villiers said firmly. “And you, Flynn, are in danger of losing your objectivity.”
I sat back in the chair and really looked at him. “You’re serious,” I observed.
“You’re damn right I am. Things don’t get much more serious than killing a cop. And then he turns up at the funeral to gloat?” He shook two sugar packets together, ripped them open simultaneously, and dumped them in his coffee. “If someone in LCN is feeling cocky enough to get away with that kind of thing, there’s no telling what else they’ll do. And the last thing I need is you deciding that Messina is some deep and tortured soul.”
I would have objected, but my interest was caught by his use of the blanket term, La Cosa Nostra, rather than naming the Morelli Family straight out. I leaned in and said in a low voice, “Youdon’t think it’s the Morellis, either.”
At that moment, Julie came back with our food and set the plates down in front of us. “I saw you in here once with that guy with the pretty eyes, didn’t I? He likes it this way,” she said, nodding at my focaccia sandwich.
Villiers gave me a long, hard look. I muttered my thanks and Julie left us. Villiers stirred the sugar into his coffee, the spoon scraping and scraping along the bottom of his cup. “I’ll say it again, hanging around that monster got Hanson killed. I advise you to steer well clear of Angelo Messina, unless you want to be buried next to Hanson.”
“You taught me yourself, there’s no such thing as monsters, only people with disordered thinking.”
Villiers reached over and grabbed my wrist as I raised one sandwich half to my mouth, and gave me a hard look from under his brows. “Listen to me, Flynn. You don’t fuck around with these people. They will not hesitate to use you, and when they’re done, they’ll kill you.”
“Use me?”
He let go of my wrist. “You’re smart, but notstreet-smart. And Angelo Messina is not above using every weapon at his disposal if he thinks it might help his Family. That includes his sexuality.”
I flushed. “That’s not fair. Just because I’m gay—”
“It’s entirely fair, based on my assessment of that first draft you gave me of the profile. There was more than a hint of hero worship.”
“Guess the final draft still had some too, based on what Walsh said.” I gave him a defiant grin and then tucked into my sandwich.
Villiers leaned in close, his voice lower but no less forceful for that. “Let me be perfectly clear. I know you have an interest in the man, and I know you have an astounding capacity for self-delusion when it comes to thinking you’re doing the right thing in the face of opposition. That’s not what this is. When the Captain tells you—whenItell you—to stay in your lane, it’s not because we’re old and stupid and can’t see the same things you see. It’s because you areyoungand stupid and can’t see the same thingswesee. These are dangerous people and they will kill you if they think you’re a threat. If I hear a single word of you associating with anyone in the Morelli Family outside of sanctioned work protocols, I will kick your ass out of this task force so fast it’ll make your head spin.”
With that, Villiers set to work on his own lunch, while my barely-toasted focaccia turned dry in my mouth, the crisp prosciutto shards stabbing at my tongue.
Chapter Three
Angelo
