A flush crept up my neck. “Yes, sir.”
I slid into a seat at the opposite end of the table, pad flat and pen poised to write. Except Brody was looking at me, as if waiting for me to talk. It felt vaguely like a nightmare, walking into class and realizing I’d completely forgotten about the assignment that was due. I wished I hadn’t worn this pale pink blouse I’d fallen in love with at an artisan fair. Even if it was covered by yards of stiff suiting to guard against any idea that I favored form over function.
Self-consciously, I tugged at the drop pearls hanging from my earlobes, wishing I’d skipped those too. I wanted to wash myself in professional bleach so they’d know I belonged at the table. I looked down, letting my hair brush across my face—hiding, wondering. What the hell did Brody want me to say?
Brody leaned forward, a predatory glint in his eyes. “Agent Holmes, I’m sure you know why we’re here.”
The only thing I was sure about was that my palms were sweating. The pen was slippery in my hand. “Sir?”
“Laguardia,” he said impatiently. “The most wanted man in the United States? Surely you’ve heard of him.”
“Yes, sir. Of course.”
Shit. His stare was intimidating. It made me want to confess crimes I hadn’t even committed yet. Yet? Where had that thought come from. I didn’t even have a speeding ticket. I would never be a criminal. I would never be like my father. But secretly, fearfully, I’d always wondered if that was just a lie I told myself.
Brody tossed a manila folder onto the table, and a small stack of papers fanned out in front of me. “In the past year, twelve major players near Laguardia have been killed. Some of them were loyal partners. Others were competitors. In-fighting within the organization. Power struggles. They’re killing each other off.”
Since he seemed to be waiting for a response, I said, “Well…that’s convenient for us.”
A soft sound came from the man at the window, like a snort of amusement. Brody’s eyes raised like I’d said something inappropriate, and I supposed I had. Only, I suspected he wasn’t annoyed they were dying. Instead, he preferred we were the ones doing the killing. Or capturing.
“This is our best chance to bring them down,” Brody said. “We move hard and fast. While they’re licking their wounds, too busy to pay attention to what we’re doing.” He jerked his head toward the other man. “So I’ve brought in Ian Hennessey.”
The man at the window inclined his head in what I assumed was a greeting or acknowledgment. But he didn’t face us, even then, leaving me to make a noncommittal sound in my throat. What did any of this have to do with me? Maybe Ian Hennessey—his name spoken with a certain weight—was so important he warranted his own personal coffee-fetcher. Who would be me.
When Hennessey continued to stand there, Brody cleared his throat. “Ian is one of our best agents. He’s closed a hell of a lot of cases. The Di Mariano family. And the Mencia? Maybe you’ve heard of it. Big jewel heist in Manhattan. A lot of high profile cases, and now he’s going to give this one a try.”
“I’m not going to try,” Hennessy said quietly. “I’m going to close the case.”
A shiver ran down my spine at the certainty in his voice. The ferocity.
My third foster mother had a thing for the stage. Plays would come on the public programming channel, and she would watch them late at night in between requests for donations. I would huddle in the hallway in my pajamas, watching with her. To this day I wasn’t sure if she figured out I was there or if she cared.
I didn’t know why those plays had caught my interest, when other kids my age were into boy bands and Nickelodeon. But there was something beautiful about the music and the drama, something pure. Even when they’d dealt with cold subjects like prostitution and death, it had all seemed far more elevated than the real-life version of Cops my childhood had been.
Just now, with Hennessey so focused, I was reminded of Les Miserables. Police Inspector Javert had been bent on capturing a man who had been a thief in his former life. He became obsessed with it. Except the police inspector wasn’t the hero of the story. The criminal was.
Brody cleared his throat and turned to me. “So what do you think?”
“Oh. Me?” My mind raced, trying to figure out the question. What did I think of what? Hennessey closing the case? “It’s good. I mean, I think he will. Close the case.”
“Good. And you,” Brody said, his gaze clashing with mine, “are going to be his partner.”