CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The minute I’m on the street again, suffocated by the Manhattan crush of bodies, I start walking toward the subway, aware that I’m being followed, the weapon at my ankle like a cozy, cuddly blanket on a November eve. I weave through the crowd, aware of a figure to my right rear side. With a turn of a corner, I gain a glimpse of him: average height, dark hair, unattractive, and rather hard-looking from a distance. I don’t have a handle on nationality, but since I have a feeling he’ll be my shadow for the rest of the day, I’m sure I’ll get my chance to figure it out. Kane, no doubt, is behind this, but then again, his employee died the night I arrived. Someone is afraid of the path I’m leading law enforcement—and perhaps Kane—down.
That someone could easily be a member of the Romano family, who’d have access and resources to hire an assassin, but like Kane, I’d think they’d have their own people. Unless . . . Fuck. I stop walking. Both the Romanos and Kane himself might hire an outsider because it’s not what would be expected. It’s not Kane, I remind myself. He was sideswiped by those photos this morning, but I’m damn sure not going to start that war I feared when I first heard the Romano name by telling him they could be in the mix.
I start walking again, removing my phone from my purse and dialing Murphy. “Talk to me, Agent Love.”
“There’s something big going on here.”
“Big is a vague term used for things like food and generalization. Big Mac. Big deal. Big—”
“I think someone hired an assassin and now they’re covering it up. Maybe the Romano family. Maybe someone I have yet to identify.”
“Why do you think Romano?”
I go through the details of the case and then dive in for the save. “I need to help Harrison. What can we do?”
“He’s now your informant. We’ll protect him.”
“Informant cops die.”
“Not if it’s never known. We’ll protect him and clear his name if you prove he’s been set up.”
“Great. So while I’m dealing with an assassin and numerous setups, I should prove he’s innocent.”
“You might be surprised how solving one crime makes everything else collide in a brilliant way.”
I really hate him right now. “Tic Tac has full authority to do whatever I need him to do, correct?”
“Tic who?”
“Jeff,” I say. “He has authority to get me what I need.”
“He does, within reason.”
“Within reason?” I ask, knowing that translates to hands tied with a ball in your mouth, and not for pleasure.
“It’s not a limitation, Agent Love. If you need something he can’t give you, call me. I have to get to a meeting. Stay in touch and stay safe.” He hangs up, and my phone immediately rings with Tic Tac on the caller ID.
“What do you have for me?”
“The detective you asked about—”
“Was shot and is on leave.”
“So much for my kudos.”
“Kudos,” I say. “Who shot him?”
“Some nobody thug with a list of at least ten arrests.”
“And Nelson Moser?”
“Shot one of his partners who got in the line of fire in a shootout. Nasty stuff. Other than that, he looks squeaky-clean.”
“He’s not. Dig deeper. And see if you can connect the thug you mentioned to the Romano family.”
“I tried. No go.”
“Of course not. Where are we on finding Woods?”
“His phone still doesn’t ping. He still hasn’t touched his credit cards or touched his bank accounts. He’s either dead, or he’s well funded and smart. Oh, and I got those fingerprints in an early delivery and ran them immediately. The only hits were you, a Maria Rodriquez, your brother, and Kane Mendez. Is that what you expected?”
Considering Maria is my maid, who I remotely buzzed inside each visit, and my brother and Kane had been there often before I left . . . “Unfortunately, yes,” I say. “All can be explained.”
“Back to Woods. I can’t connect him to Cynthia, but he has an ex-girlfriend, and in her case, there are plenty of phone records. She’s also on a cruise. Interestingly, she left yesterday.”
“Of course she did.”
“Find out if she has any connections to Romano or Nelson Moser.” I fight mixed loyalty but remind myself I have a job to do, and now Greg’s job is on the line, too. “Check for connections to the Pocher family or anyone working for Pocher.”
“The billionaire? No. Not the—”
“Yes. Him. I know this is a big job so start with the man himself and work backward from his closest confidants down. And Kane Mendez as well.”
“The Mendez whose fingerprints I ran?”
“Yes.” I inhale and let it out. “That one.”
“The Mendez of the Mendez Cartel?”
“Technically Kane hasn’t been proven to be a part of the cartel,” I say, unable to stop myself from doing what I always did in the past: defend him when I’m not sure he deserves that gesture. “Focus on him and his business,” I add. “I need any connection you can find between him, Woods, law enforcement, the victims, you name it.”
“Pocher, Romano, and Mendez.” He whistles. “What are we in here?”
“I’m not even sure any of these families are involved, but if these murders were done by an assassin, it makes sense to look at the two largest crime families in the area.”
“One of the victims worked for Mendez. It makes perfect sense, but Pocher is an odd addition to the list.”
Any comment I make to that could incriminate my father and brother, so I move on. “That list of people who connect to all three cities is too big. I need you to narrow it down. Do your tech thing. Probability. Crossing paths. That kind of thing.”
“Thanks to Murphy, I got help, so I’m on it.”
“Interesting,” I say. “Maybe we aren’t tied and gagged.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Get me stuff.” I hang up and double-step toward the subway, my shadow still on my heels, my destination the expected: every place Woods has ever set foot, and while yes, I will find what has been set up for me to find, I’m a profiler. I’ll use that skill to build a picture of his life that I can use to support or reject him as an assassin and the guilty killer.
Heading down the stairs, I head to a row of machines to buy a pass for the day. My man goes to another terminal to buy a pass for himself, his longish black hair hiding his face, his skin tone covered by an army-style green jacket. I grab my ticket, moving forward and through a gate, and I don’t stop until I’m on the lower platform where my train will arrive. I know the moment the man arrives, and I wonder if he really thinks he’s discreet. I wonder if there is someone else in the crowd, an additional tag who is discreet, who I’m missing by hyperfocusing on this guy.
The train arrives, and a pack of about twenty riders rush off the car while another thirty, including me, replace them. I move to the end of the car where I have a view of the entire compartment and lean on a wall while my new stalker remains a few feet away, holding on to a bar. He’s an odd bird who doesn’t scream any nationality. He could be white, Italian, Mexican. He could work for anyone.
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