Her eyebrows quirk in interest. “What’s the catch?” She’s already flipping through the first few pages.
“No catch. I just don’t have enough hours in the day.”
“That’s not what your billables said last week,” she says airily, but I can see I’ve won her back over. “Okay. Fine. I’ll do you thisonefavor.”
“Thanks, Miranda.” I give her a grin on the way out, and she gives me a nod. It’s as warm as I’ll ever get from Miranda Winter.
* * *
Miranda wasn’t lying;there are Feds from more than one agency milling around when I arrive at the precinct where Fontana’s being questioned. I recognize some of them from the old Operation Safe Center Task Force, which has so far failed to catch up with Angelo Messina and Baxter Flynn, still their top suspects in the Central Park slayings from many moons ago.
Detective Gina Garcia is the one who takes me into the room where Fontana is waiting with an FBI agent, and I know Garcia wasdefinitelyon the task force. Looks like they’re branching out from the Central Park killings to other things. Not a good sign.
When I enter the room, Fontana doesn’t even look at me, and irritation prickles the back of my neck. But I don’t let it show. I give Garcia and her federal friend my best white-toothed grin and greet them like old friends. “Shall we?” I say.
“Your client’s refused to say a word so far,” the Fed grunts. “Maybe you can explain to him why it’s in his best interest to help us out here.”
“I very much doubt that,” I say pleasantly. “But hey, maybe you’ll surprise me. Let’s get started.”
The questions are too vague for them to have anything sticky on Nick, and I allow him to answer one or two, including “Where were you last night from the hours of ten p.m. to the early hours of this morning,” if only because there’s some small masochistic part of me that wants to hear if he’s been out getting his dick wet.
“Asleep,” is his answer, and no, no one can confirm it. But no one will have to because, as I point out quickly, the cops have jack-shit on my client, and they’re wasting everyone’s time with a fishing expedition.
“Is my client being charged with anything?” I ask.
The two detectives stare blankly at me and say nothing.
“Okay, then. Well, it’s been as much of a pleasure as always, by which I mean, not much.” I wink at the male Fed and he scowls. “Detectives, if this keeps happening, Iwillbe forced to file a charge of harassment against you. It was fun at first, but there are so many things I’d rather be doing than sitting here in a small room with such ungracious hosts. Mr. Fontana, let’s take our leave, shall we?”
They don’t stop us. They can’t. They have nothing and they knew it—this was just another one of the annoying little drag-ins they like to perform from time to time on Morelli members. It’s an abuse of their power and they know it, I know it, Nicky most certainly knows it, but it’s the way the game is being played right now. New York is on edge. Something bad is coming.
If only these fool cops understood that the Morelli Family was their best shot at stopping a war before it starts.
“Town car’s waiting,” I say to Nick outside. “Need a lift?”
He gives one short nod. He still hasn’t looked me in the eye. I don’t mind so much; it allows me to look him all over. The man isfine. If anything, he’s gotten finer over the last two weeks.
“Ms. Winter told me you asked for me,” I say once we’re in the car, the privacy screen up between us and the driver—this one’s a Bianchi and Associates hire, not a Morelli, so I know better than to start demanding answers. But I really want to know why he called me out specifically. “I was under the impression that you preferred different representation. I can assure you, she would have handled this as easily as I did.”
“Keep quiet ’til we get to my place,” he says in a low voice. “I need to talk to you.”
Not for the first time, I wonder if Nick’s sudden need to see me is related to the unfortunate incident at the Hamptons. It sounds like some murder mystery novel when I put it like that, and that’s how I try to think of it most days. Like some harmless fiction that happened to someone else. But when I’m sitting next to Nick in the car, my knee pressed up against his despite the fact that the back seat could fit another Nick-sized person in it comfortably, it’s hard to pretend that nothing happened. That those hands of his, the ones that brought me such pleasure for so long, were also the hands that killed someone right in front of me.
To save my life, sure. I never forget that part, either.
The whole thing is complicated.
Chapter Fourteen
Carlo
Ishut up like he told me to, and we ride in silence to Nick’s apartment. He lives on Riverside Boulevard, thirty minutes’ pleasant walk through the Park from the D’Amato townhouse—or so I’m told. Nick’s place, which I’ve never been inside of before, though I’ve dropped him off plenty of times post-cop-interview, is one of four in a lavish building with a 24-hour doorman and a private elevator to each dwelling. I can practically hear the real estate agent’s write-up.
I tell the driver to wait for me, although I don’t know how long I’ll be, and I follow Nick into the lobby. The doorman, an older guy with watery eyes, greets him with a genuine smile, and Nick gives a nod back. “How’s the granddaughter, Jonesy?” he asks.
“You know what, Mr. Fontana, she just gives melife. She’s the prettiest little thing. She just loved that doll you gave her. Won’t sleep without it.”
“Good to hear.” Nick actually smiles back, and then the elevator arrives and I’m saved from letting my jaw hit the marble floor of the lobby.
