Читать книгу Tough Justice Series Box Set: Parts 1-8 - Carla Cassidy - Страница 13
ОглавлениеIt was nearly eleven o’clock when Nick and Lara finally headed back to 26 Federal Plaza. Two NYPD detectives working the Tina Cole murder case had been summoned to take Sheila into custody, and Nick and Lara had spent a couple of hours out on the streets around Dunst’s house, asking questions and reconfirming impressions they had already received.
Dunst was known in the neighborhood as a blowhard, a wannabe. He was a loser whose only claim to fame was that he’d supposedly once had ties to the Moretti crime syndicate. But according to Cass and people they talked to on the streets, there was absolutely no evidence to support that Sean had ever been anything but a petty criminal and dope dealer.
“I’d like to know who orchestrated Tina’s kidnapping and set up her potential sale. Aside from the fact that somebody killed him, I don’t believe Dunst had the brains to pull something like that off on his own,” Lara said as they crossed back over the Brooklyn Bridge.
“He obviously didn’t have the stomach for it, either,” Nick replied. “Guilt apparently drove him to that ledge this morning.”
“And a highly skilled sniper made sure he wouldn’t give us any real information once he got off that ledge,” Lara replied in frustration. “If I’d known about the stamp while I was up on the ledge with him, I would have definitely asked him a lot more questions.”
Although fear simmered deep inside her, she refused to give into it until they had more concrete information. She’d learned to live with fear the entire year she’d worked deep undercover. In many ways the feeling, coupled with a hard edge of anger, had become a familiar, almost comforting emotion.
“Who kills a kid to save her?” Nick asked incredulously. “And what kind of a woman thinks something like that is okay?” His deep voice was rife with judgment.
Lara had once had a black-and-white sense of judgment, too. But, during her year undercover she’d met too many people who were not necessarily evil, but rather lost souls whose backgrounds had never given them a chance to do much of anything other than make bad choices. She’d learned how easy it was to fall off the straight and narrow.
“Maybe a woman who is already living a fate worse than death,” she replied thoughtfully. “We know Sheila is a stripper. I would guess that she probably also prostitutes on the side. Who knows what her childhood might have been like? It’s obvious she lost her self-respect and any sense of worth she might have had a long time ago.”
“Are you defending her actions?”
“Not at all.” She felt his eyes on her, but she remained staring straight ahead. Still, she felt the need to say something more. “I just saw a lot of bad things when I was undercover. I can’t begin to explain the depravity, the utter soullessness of some human beings.”
“That’s why I love what I do, getting the evil off the streets and into prisons. Isn’t that why you do it? Or is it because of your father? I heard somewhere that he was a highly decorated New York detective?”
“He was.” The last thing she wanted to talk about, the very last person she wanted to think about was her father, who had passed away several months ago, four years after he’d been diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s disease.
“Then I guess crime fighting runs in the family,” Nick replied.
“That’s about all that runs in the family. At least Dunst didn’t stamp her,” Lara said, not so subtly letting Nick know that she had no interest in a conversation about her personal life and wanted to stick strictly to the facts of the case.
“We need to dig deeper into Dunst’s life,” Nick replied, obviously getting the message.
“Whoever he was playing with weren’t just petty criminals. The shooter who took him out wasn’t some shmuck with a rifle and a little bit of good luck. That shot took an extraordinary amount of skill.” Lara looked out the passenger window. The darkness outside seemed to creep into her soul.
“You know, it’s very possible that this had nothing to do with Moretti,” Nick said. “It could be the work of another gang trying to gain territory control and deliberately misleading us with the stamp.”
“I suppose that’s possible.” She hoped that was the case. She had too much to lose if Moretti decided to seek revenge against her.
“Want to grab something to eat before we get back to headquarters?” Nick asked. “There’s a great bar and grill not far from here.”
“No, thanks. I don’t mix business with pleasure,” she replied.
His lips turned up in what was quickly becoming a familiar grin. “It’s nice to know that you think eating a meal with me would be pleasurable.”
She frowned at him with a hint of irritation. “I’ve had a long day, I could be in a really pissy mood if I thought about it for too long, and I just want to get home and get a good night’s sleep before starting again in the morning.”
Boundaries. She definitely needed to set strict boundaries with Nick, especially tonight when she was feeling uncharacteristically vulnerable.
She’d hoped to never hear the name Moretti again, and she’d been immersed in horrendous memories and terrifying questions about him and his potential reach from prison for most of the day.
“All right then,” Nick said when he’d parked his car in the underground garage dedicated to FBI and other official vehicles. “Then we’ll start fresh in the morning?”
“Sounds like a plan,” Lara agreed. She got out of his car and walked away from him without another word.
* * *
As the train whooshed from station to station toward her Upper West Side apartment and the lights flickered off and on, Lara refused to think about anything until she was safe at home and behind closed, locked doors.
She departed the subway and then walked the two blocks to her apartment building. “Evening, Jerry,” she said to the night doorman who stood just outside the front entrance.
“Good evening, Ms. Grant,” he replied and unlocked and opened the door for her.
“Have a nice night,” she said as she slipped inside and headed for the elevators. Thankfully, she met nobody on her way up to her twenty-fourth floor apartment. She didn’t make nice on the best of days, and this definitely hadn’t been a stellar day.
She breathed a sigh of relief only after she’d unlocked her apartment door, deposited her keys on the small table in the foyer and stepped onto the thick beige carpeting in the large living room.
She’d decorated the space minimally...a black sofa and chair, glass-topped coffee and end tables and a large flat-screen television mounted to the wall.
There were no photos, no sentimental knickknacks, nothing to personalize the place she now called home. That’s the way she liked it. No pictures or trinkets to evoke memories of her childhood or anything from her past. There was really nothing much there worth remembering.
She headed for the bathroom, wanting more than anything a long hot shower and then a good night’s sleep. Hopefully, she wouldn’t suffer one of the nightmares that had plagued her since she’d stopped her undercover work.
After soaking beneath a pulsating spray of hot water for a sinfully long time, she got out, toweled off and changed into a short navy nightshirt and then headed into the bedroom.
As with the living room, this space was equally impersonal. A king-sized bed, a black lacquered dresser and two matching nightstands that sported contemporary lamps in shades of black and beige, and that was all. The only time it became more personal was when she placed her badge, her gun and her cell phone on the nightstand on the side of the bed where she slept.
She turned off the overhead light and crawled beneath crisp white sheets and closed her eyes, but her tense body refused to relax into the pillow top mattress.
Her brain was in overdrive. Who was behind Dunst’s actions? Who was the mastermind behind his kidnapping of a young, innocent girl? He was obviously supposed to stamp her with the Moretti insignia and then sell her. To who? And who had killed him?
She tossed and turned for several minutes and then got out of bed, knowing from experience that sleep would be elusive until her brain quieted down. She left her bedroom and poured herself a glass of whiskey and then, as an afterthought, carried not only the glass but the bottle as well with her to the sofa.
Was it possible, as Nick had suggested, that another gang was at work and trying to throw off the investigation by mimicking the trademark tattoo? She made a mental note to herself to ask Cass to research all of the gangs working in the area and which one might be following in the footsteps of the Moretti operation.
She took a deep drink from the glass, the burn of the alcohol spreading welcome warmth through her. Unable to sit still, she sprang to her feet and began to pace.
Back and forth she walked in front of the coffee table. The events of the day fired off in her head like a fast-paced movie, only she didn’t have the luxury of a vicarious thrill. This was her life and not a Hollywood blockbuster with a predictable plot and a happy ending.
She’d gone undercover to infiltrate the syndicate in an effort to locate the elusive leader known only as Moretti. For five long years the FBI had chased dead ends in an effort to find the man whose name was whispered with both fear and adulation by the men and women who worked for him.
In the year she’d been undercover she’d cultivated a closeness with the handsome arms broker, Andrew Moore, in an effort to gain the information she needed.
As her undercover role of arms dealer, rising up the ladder from running guns, she’d finally learned of the place and time when Moretti and both high-level and some medium-level operatives were meeting. She’d contacted the FBI, who had swept in and successfully made the arrests.
Lara had gone to a safe house for almost a year, and she’d believed she’d never have to worry about any Moretti operatives still working in either Chicago or New York or anywhere else.
She moved to the window and cracked her blinds to peer out and down at the streets below. Were there people out there right now plotting her destruction...her death?
She twirled the blinds back closed, refilled her glass and slumped down on the sofa. She hoped Nick was right, that this was all some sort of a copycat thing going on.
She frowned as she thought of her new partner. She wished she had a better read on him. Throughout their time together that day he’d exhibited a faint lack of trust in her and her abilities. She had a feeling his brief displays of flirtatiousness came easily to him and was a default that hid far deeper secrets.
Could they work together as an effective team? She didn’t know. It was too soon to tell. All she did know for sure was that she wasn’t at a place in her head to trust anyone. There were times she didn’t even know if she could trust herself.
With this troubling thought in her head she downed her drink and headed back to bed.
* * *
“Eve.” The name she’d used while undercover echoed in her brain. “Eve!”
She came awake and bolted to a sitting position with a sharp gasp. She fumbled for her gun, and at the same time her cell phone rang, and she realized that somehow in her dream the ringtone had become Andrew Moore’s deep voice calling her by her undercover name.
She grabbed the phone and saw that it was just after seven in the morning. Russo’s number. “Victoria?” she said as she answered.
“Lara, I need you to go to a crime scene in Central Park.”
Lara turned on her bedside lamp, opened a drawer and pulled out a pen and paper. “Where?”
“By the reservoir on a jogging trail around Ninety-Third Street. Local authorities are already on the scene but have been instructed not to touch anything until you and Nick get there. I’ve already contacted Nick.”
“What kind of a crime?” Lara wasn’t sure why she’d be sent out to Central Park on another case instead of continuing to work the Dunst case.
“A murder, and from what little I got from the officers on the scene, it’s probably tied to Dunst.”
Lara’s heart dropped to the floor. “On my way,” she replied. She wanted to ask Victoria a hundred more questions, but the only way to get answers was to get to the scene as quickly as possible.
Within minutes she was clad in a long-sleeved white sweater that hugged her slender body and a pair of her expensive black jeans that fit her like snakeskin, but also had enough stretch to allow her to move easily.
With her gun in a shoulder holster and her badge and cell phone fastened on her belt, she grabbed a black suede jacket and left her apartment.
Her heart thundered in time with every quick step she took toward the elevator. The murder was tied to Dunst? How? Dunst was dead. What was going on? Somehow, someway she had the terrible feeling that a thread of something evil had begun to unravel.
She touched the butt of her gun beneath her jacket for reassurance. Where would the thread lead? And how much of the fabric of her life would be destroyed as it continued to unstitch?
