Читать книгу Tough Justice Series Box Set: Parts 1-8 - Carla Cassidy - Страница 31

CHAPTER SIX

Lara spent the drive back to the office submerged in a sea of inner turmoil. Instead of the rage she’d felt after leaving Macy’s and the body of Elizabeth Grant, she felt almost exclusively shame. She’d let a man in prison—one she’d had a large hand in bringing down—mentally stun her. He’d intimidated her on the opposite side of freedom without even touching her. All within the span of five minutes.

Of course I do.

His admittance had, and simultaneously hadn’t, surprised Lara. He was a proud man. If he had a hand in something, then he would own up to it—without incriminating himself, of course. Or else he wouldn’t have lasted as long as he had running the syndicate. He was also a man who got off on playing with the people around him. His truths and lies were instruments, always working to form a larger picture. One that she hoped she wouldn’t see.

What part did he have in the murders? In the actions of the so-called Black Stamp Serial Killer? What was his next move?

Did he know about the family?

Lara should have found all the answers out during her visit, but all she’d found was regret at not being stronger. How could she keep others from dying because of her if she could barely stand her ground to a man dressed in an orange jumpsuit?

She slammed her hand against the steering wheel. The action revived her earlier anger. Was Moretti really talking to a different part of the FBI? Would they really give a man like him perks and sentence leniency for what he knew?

Lara swore beneath her breath.

Of course they would.

“Why the hell is another section of the FBI dealing with Moretti?” Lara asked, barging into Victoria’s office on a wave of anger that hadn’t moved since she’d had the thought a half hour later. Victoria looked up from her desk with no amount of surprise across her expression. It only made Lara admit to the main reason she was so pissed off about it all. “All the work I did—everything I sacrificed—to shut this man down, and now it could be undermined by bureaucracy? What’s the fucking point then?”

Lara’s chest was heaving. Her face was hot. Her hands were fisted.

Victoria’s eyes traveled to each detail before she spoke.

“Dismantling Moretti’s crime syndicate was a massive win for us—for the ‘good guys’ in general. We were able to get a plethora of criminals off of the streets as well as guns, drugs and trafficking victims. All of this is true, and all of this is in such a large part due to what you did. And for that no one within this organization or any other can fault you.” She intertwined her fingers. “However, Moretti was a supplier—a man who got people what they wanted. Narcotics, weapons, women and children. To us those people are thought of as monsters—scum—but to Moretti? They were clients.” Lara started to feel the steam of anger whistle out. The point Victoria was getting to was one she’d never considered, too caught up in the man to think about his connections. His, as he said, knowledge. “While I don’t know the extent or frequency of these other agents and their meetings with him, I have always known that even behind bars, Moretti is still of interest to the FBI.”

Lara took the seat opposite her boss with no grace. Suddenly she felt tired. They both knew Lara wouldn’t continue her outburst—if she did, Victoria wouldn’t have had it—and so Lara recounted the story of her meeting with Moretti. If she judged Lara as harshly as Lara judged herself, she didn’t voice it.

“What’s your take on him?” she asked when Lara had finished.

“My take? I honestly don’t know,” she admitted. “He’s clever, he’s connected, and he’s certainly capable. His admission of knowing the identity could be his way of playing us or he knows everything. He’s snowed me before, and this could be him doing it again.”

Victoria exhaled but didn’t lose her impeccable posture. “It was a long shot,” she said. “One we needed to take.”

Lara nodded. She may not have liked it, but she agreed they’d needed to search every avenue. Even the ones that she’d hoped to never travel down again.

“I have a meeting now, so you’ll have to excuse me,” Victoria said a moment later. Her tone hardened. She was in full work mode. If Lara thought the team was in the shit trying to find the truth and the killer, she knew Victoria was in even more with the higher-ups. The pressure she must have been receiving was probably intense. It made Lara appreciate her job versus her boss’s, despite everything that had happened. Lara followed the woman out and started to walk back to her cubicle. “And Lara?” Victoria’s tone alone would have stopped Lara. It was fully authoritative.

“Yes?”

“I want you to go see Dr. Oliviero,” she said. “Now.” Lara didn’t make the fish out of water face, but she certainly felt it. Victoria must have picked up on the lengthy hesitation because she held up her hand. A physical show of her position. “This isn’t a suggestion. Don’t insult my intelligence by saying you’re fine after your meeting with Moretti,” she said, voice dropping in case anyone could hear them. “You came into my office in a blaze of emotion. You can’t do that again. You don’t need to. He’s one of the best, Lara. Use him.”

Victoria had no more to say and took her leave. Lara, on the other hand, stood still for a moment. Was Victoria right? Probably. But did that mean Lara wanted to follow orders? No. However, her feet began to take her down a path she figured might become familiar as the case carried on. They led her to a separate floor and right up to an office with a shiny silver nameplate across its wood.

Lara brushed her knuckles against the door. She tried to focus on the nameplate and not the storm of emotions that had been unleashed within her. It was true, seeing Moretti had shaken her up and now she was nursing a kind of anxious high.

One that had managed to break down her ability to compartmentalize.

One that she needed to come down from.

“Come in,” a man called after the second knock.

Lara took what was supposed to be a calming breath and pushed inside.

Dr. Luca Oliviero, assigned to help their task force with case profiles and also acting staff psychologist, didn’t show surprise at seeing her. Which was odd since she was certainly surprised that she was standing at his door. He stood from behind his desk and smiled. He was tall and imposing yet exuded a demeanor of comfort. Thick salt-and-pepper hair, silver eyeglasses over dark eyes, he was a man who looked the part of psychiatrist. One who was very good at his job.

“Lara, I hadn’t expected to see you today,” he greeted. He motioned to one of the plush chairs across from him. It was a calming gray. Like rain clouds in the distance. Far enough away that they couldn’t threaten. If he knew they were going to be talking about her specific problems and not the team’s he would have directed her to the lounge area to his right. As it was, he settled back into his chair and gave her his full attention, ready to provide his professional insight.

“I hadn’t expected to see you today,” she admitted with a small smile. “Victoria sent me.”

Dr. Oliviero titled his head to the side in question, but he never voiced it. Instead he waited for Lara to present her concerns first. Not pushing her, not applying pressure until she cracked. He was letting her open up on her terms, not his. She hadn’t spent a lot of time with him, aside from their first preliminary meeting, but she had instantly liked the man.

“You said you’d read though my file from after my time undercover?” she asked, jumping right in.

He nodded. “Yes, and before then, as well. It’s my job to read each team member’s transcripts from previous sessions. It’s important that, because of the particular high volume of stress this job can incur, each agent’s psychological health is taken care of, as well as monitored and recorded. That includes yours. It’s why they give me this office with such a great view.” He gave her an easy smile and motioned to the windows behind him. They looked out over Broadway. “But, you already knew that.”

It was true. Lara did already know the answer to her question. When she’d accepted the job on the new task force, her file—everything on her and her time at the FBI—had been transferred to NYC. But, still, she had needed him to confirm it out loud. Or else she might have not opened up at all.

“I saw Moretti today,” she started after a rush of an exhale left between her lips. “In prison, I mean. As a part of a case. Not in a dream or nightmare or whatever. I saw him. He was only a few feet away.”

Dr. Oliviero’s brows pushed together. “I take it this is the first time you’ve seen him since—”

“The trial,” she finished. “Yes. I never thought I’d see him again, truthfully, but...it was a necessary evil.”

Lara shifted in her seat. She knew the good doctor didn’t miss the movement. He had an impressive and extensive resume of dealing with the mental side of health. He was also no stranger to body language.

And Lara’s was screaming she was dancing through a part of her past she’d rather not tango with ever again.

“And now you’re having a hard time shaking the visit,” he summarized.

“Yeah.” Lara rubbed the side of her arm. She suddenly felt vulnerable. She hated it. Dr. Oliviero waited. “Moretti...” She paused trying to find the right words. “There are predators in this world. There always have been, and there always will be. People who do unimaginable things with little to no reason behind their actions, aside from the basic need to watch others suffer. I know this. During my FBI training and career I’ve been shown the most violent, senseless and heinous crimes committed by equally monstrous people. We’re told—and taught—to detach from it, to distance ourselves from the—the horror so we can seek out justice. To rid the world of the bad and to protect the rest. But...” The words she’d found became lost.

“This case—Moretti—has gotten to you.”

Lara nodded. She didn’t know what else to say.

“Let’s talk about what seeing him triggers for you,” he continued. She readjusted herself again. Victoria’s stern order blared in her head. Though Lara didn’t like to open up about her past, her boss had been right. She needed to find a way to sort out her tumultuous emotions, and Dr. Oliviero was going to help show her how. “Your father was a powerful NYPD cop, a sergeant before he retired. Correct?” Lara felt herself nod, but it was a clipped, jerky movement. Her willingness to delve into her life quickly took a turn.

“Yes. He passed away recently,” she said. Words cold even to her ears. “Alzheimer’s.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Lara gave a small nod of acknowledgement while an onslaught of memories assaulted her. Among them, always accompanying thoughts of Bartholomew Grant, was a pain that stretched across Lara’s heart until sinking to the pit of her stomach. An image of the man wasn’t the cause.

It was the memory of a woman that pulled at her heart strings.

Anna Grant’s body, photographed crumpled on the floor, surfaced behind Lara’s eyes.

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about my father,” Lara said into the quiet. “Can we focus on Moretti instead?”

Dr. Oliviero interlaced his fingers. His dark eyes softened. There was no way he didn’t know her family’s past.

“Sure,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“So, why don’t you tell me about Moretti? Or, should I said, his organization.”

Lara shifted in her seat. “What do you mean?”

“Recount your infiltration into the syndicate. Tell me the details that you remember clearly and, therefore, hold them more closely. Technically, we were supposed to do this when you resurfaced from undercover, but with the trial and your father’s passing, etc... I was giving you a bit of time.” When Lara didn’t say anything, he added on, “Relaying a story—a very challenging, emotionally and physically, story—to another person can be proven to be very telling. Not to mention, therapeutic. Seeing Moretti, a man who has become such an invasive part of your life, can trigger emotions and stress that you might not even realize are there, flowing beneath the surface. Walk us through the beginning, and let’s see how you feel once you’re done. Okay?”

The beginning.

Lara sat straighter in her seat.

She’d told this story before—had to as part of the job—but still she hesitated. Her time undercover felt like a dream.

One that had turned into a nightmare.

The words came slowly at first.

It wasn’t as if she’d never told the story before. She’d had to tell it many times over. However, now, when faced with the realization that her retelling might somehow betray herself, she found the clipped, rehearsed words she’d told her superiors didn’t want to come.

It wasn’t that she was ashamed of what she’d done. In fact, she’d been told before that she should be proud. It wasn’t every day one undercover agent was able to orchestrate the downfall of an infamous crime leader like Moretti.

Yet, how could she brag after what she’d done?

“Moretti’s organization ran three things,” she started, building up to the memory she was supposed to recount. “Drugs, guns and humans. All three veins were expansive, strong and thriving. I originally requested I go undercover in the human trafficking side—I wanted to save as many as I could—but was told that’s why I couldn’t. I wasn’t there to save people in the short-term. I was supposed to find a way to get to Moretti. Cut the head of the snake from the body and save everyone in the long-term. Dealing directly with hard stuff like heroin and meth was also something everyone decided I would avoid. That left running guns. Smuggling ammo and weapons would put me in direct line with the top tier of the syndicate if I played my cards right. So, that’s what I did.”

There was a man named Spike, and he was waiting for her inside the bar. It was a total dive and had more drunken customers outside on the sidewalks than in. All huddled together, talking loudly and smoking one last cigarette before they stumbled back to wherever they came from.

She knew all of this because “Eve” had been coming to the bar for months. She recognized the people who frequented the joint just as quickly as she recognized the people who didn’t. Faces became familiar to her and vice versa. So when she saw a man with an aged fedora sitting at the edge of the bar, head bent low over a pint, she breathed a sigh of relief. Not only was he finally there, but he was sitting in her spot.

“Hey, Shorty,” Eve greeted the bartender, leaning against the bar. Shorty, real name unknown, gave her an appraising look and a nod. She wasn’t wearing a low-cut blouse or a high-rise skirt but a skintight black shirt and form-fitting leather pants. Her body may have been covered, but still she caught attention from the locals as soon as she walked in. “Who’s the hat in the corner?” she followed up. “He’s in my seat.”

Shorty paused his pouring to glance over to the man.

“He was a local way before you,” he answered. “Though I haven’t seen him in a while.” He shrugged. His bar might have been a hotbed of criminals converging, but Shorty was clean among all the scum. He ran his business right, serving whoever had the cash to pay. “They call him Spike, if I remember right.”

The man was called Spike and was nastier than the scabs grown on the inside of some of the patrons’ arms. Thin, tall and with pale blond hair that was perpetually greasy, Spike also had a twitch. Even in the dim light of the bar, Eve could see that. She supposed she’d form one, too, if her job entailed gun-running for the infamous Moretti.

Then again, that’s exactly what her goal was.

Eve ordered a beer on tap and pulled a pen from her bag. She took two of the paper coasters no one used and scribbled on the top corner of one when Shorty turned away. When her beer was ready, she took it and the coasters over to the bar stool next to Spike. She sat down with a twinge of excitement.

“This seat taken?” she asked. His eyes, a dull blue, scanned her body, pausing on her more intimate areas before returning to her face. She met his stare with smile.

“It is now,” he replied, perking right up.

Spike had been profiled as a man who craved attention from beautiful women but had gotten turned down by so many that he’d grown a complex against them. He’d eat up the attention, fall over himself to please his target, but the moment something didn’t go his way, he’d resort to violence. Aside from drug charges on his record, he’d also had two nasty past assault charges.

Eve sat on the bar stool and slid the unmarked coaster beneath her drink. The other remained in her hand.

“I haven’t seen you around here before,” she started. “But Shorty says you’re a local? Must have been on vacation the past few months.”

“You could say that.” His eyes narrowed. “I’ve never seen you here before. You’re no local.”

Eve had been ready for his suspicion. It was well deserved, but he wouldn’t know that for a while.

“I had to relocate recently,” she said, pausing to take a big swig of her beer. “Let’s just say my career took a turn, and now I’m looking for new opportunities.” She half shrugged. “I heard this was a good place to start.”

Eve knew how Spike operated within the syndicate. He was low on the totem pole, a physical mover of product between transactions, but he knew the people who could connect her to the higher-ups. She also knew that Spike rarely stayed in one place long, only cycling back to his favorite bar between jobs. This might be her only shot at getting an introduction in the foreseeable future. Before he could reply, she put the other coaster on the bar top and slipped it over slowly, tapping the top corner with her index finger. Spike’s eyes widened as he took the symbol she’d drawn in. He put his glass over it.

“And what kind of business are you in?” he asked, voice lowering. “In a place like this it can’t be anything good. Unless you’re a cop.” Even as he said the word, fear and anger moved across his expression. It was her turn to snort.

“I’m definitely no cop,” she defended. “I’ve got the arrests to prove that.” She contorted her face into obvious resentment.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Apparently cops don’t appreciate unregistered guns.”

Spike’s suspicion didn’t ebb, but his interest did grow.

“So what? Now, outta all the bars in the city, you’re here talking to me?”

She gave him a sly smile.

“Let’s just say we have a mutual friend that said this bar has the best beer on tap on this side of the city.” She winked. Spike sat up straighter, his chest slightly puffing out.

“Really? Did our mutual friend tell you what that is?” He pointed to the scribble on the coaster. The MM looked distorted, cut off by the bottom of his glass.

“I didn’t need him to. I’ve known what that is for a while.” Spike’s eyebrow rose. “It’s a rumor,” she explained. “It’s a promise. It’s stability and power. It’s a career someone like me craves.” She dropped her volume. “It’s why I’ve been coming to this shithole bar for months. I have product, I have experience, and now I’m looking at you.”

Spike appeared surprised, yet still intrigued.

“And who the hell are you?”

“Eve,” she said, outstretching her hand. “Now, let’s talk business.”

And so Eve Johannsen was born.