Tough Justice Box Set

by Carla Cassidy

  Nick perked up at that. “Did this guy import art?”

  Cass peered over her glasses at him. “Yes. Why? Do you remember that case?”

  “Yeah, I do.” And unless he missed his guess, his father’s firm had represented the defense, which wasn’t a surprise. They only handled high-profile clients who could afford their outrageous fees. But at least he knew someone who might have answers. Determined, he pivoted and left the room.

  “Nick, wait. Where are you going?” Lara called out a second later.

  He glanced back as she hurried after him down the hall. “I need to check something.”

  “About the case? Let me get my jacket, and I’ll come with you.”

  “Forget it. I don’t need your help.”

  She caught up to him and blocked his path. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means,” he said, trying to sound reasonable, “that there’s something I need to check on, and I don’t want any help.”

  “You’re shutting me out?” Her voice was incredulous.

  Damned right he was. There wasn’t a chance in hell he was subjecting her to his old man. “This won’t take long. If I find out anything important, I’ll let you know.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll meet you back here later.” He pulled out his phone and checked the time. “I won’t be long.”

  For a minute, she didn’t answer. She crossed her arms, suspicion brewing in her green eyes. “All right,” she said at last. “I’ll work on tracking down those kidnappers while you’re gone.”

  “Good. I’ll see you later.”

  He strode down the hall, feeling her eyes boring into his back. He knew he’d upset her, but he hadn’t had any choice.

  This was one devil he had to face alone.

  * * *

  The irony of Moretti’s clue wasn’t lost on Nick as he parked his car and walked to his father’s apartment on Fifth Avenue across from Central Park. There was no place like home, all right. His had been a hellhole, a place of misery and abuse—despite its old world charm.

  And it was the last place he wanted to be. Just the sight of the limestone building caused a tumult of emotions to erupt inside him—fury, resentment, remorse. He held on to the anger. The anger would sustain him, enabling him to deal with the bastard inside. And damn it, he deserved to feel angry after the damage that man had done.

  He nodded to the uniformed doorman and entered the lobby, then strode to the gilded elevator tucked beside the stairs. It instantly opened, and he stepped inside. Heaven forbid that New York’s elite would have to wait.

  He knew his old man would be at home. He was a creature of habit, controlling his schedule as rigidly as he’d ruled his family: Power lunch at one. Cocktails at four with whomever he wanted to intimidate. Home by five-thirty for another drink. And then it was off to dinner or a party with the pinnacle of society. He never did anything spontaneous. He never did anything for fun. And he never spared a moment for his family, not even the wife who lay dying of cancer or his drug-addicted son.

  Inhaling deeply, Nick rapped on the door. He squared his shoulders and steeled his jaw, determined not to let his old man get to him. He was here for information, nothing more.

  A moment later his father opened the door. He looked as civilized as ever—his thick hair expertly cut, his bespoke suit hanging perfectly from his trim frame. Only his eyes betrayed his true nature. They were assessing, calculating. Cold. A predator cloaked in a genteel disguise.

  “Nick. What brings you here?”

  Nick’s mouth kicked up. In a normal family, there’d be a hug or some expression of pleasure that his son had stopped by. But his family had never been normal. And there sure as hell had never been any pleasure, except maybe on his mother’s side.

  “I’m looking for some information,” he said. “I thought you’d be able to help.”

  His father didn’t answer at once. Nick could practically see him debating his options—getting rid of this pesky interruption versus the opportunity to flout his superiority.

  His ego won. “Come in. I was just about to have a drink. Can I get you one?”

  He inhaled, keeping his voice even as he followed him inside. “No, thanks. This shouldn’t take long.” His father would make sure of that. Nick wasn’t important enough to put a crimp in his evening plans.

  He followed him through the foyer into the palatial front room. Built in the 1920s, the apartment still had the original hardwood floors, intricate, hand-carved molding on the ceiling and walls, and a huge bank of windows that overlooked Central Park. It was the type of home New Yorkers coveted—quiet, in the perfect location and possessing a killer view. But for his father it all boiled down to status. The Fifth Avenue address projected the image he wanted, nothing more.

  “So what kind of information do you need?” his father asked. He walked to the minibar tucked beside a bookcase and held up a bottle of fifty-year-old Glenfiddich, single malt—more to show off the label than any desire to share it, Nick supposed.

  He shook his head to decline. “It’s for a case I’m working on. It might have a connection to one of your clients from a couple of years ago.”

  His father poured his drink—three fingers precisely—and took a seat in his leather chair. “Which case was that?”

  Nick sat across from him. “A murder-for-hire case. It was a man who ran an import business, South American art. His wife was shot, and he was tried for the murder. Your firm represented him.”

  His father nodded. “What about it?”

  “There was a witness, a man who’d overheard the importer in a bar making the arrangements to kill his wife. He was the prosecution’s key witness. No one else saw him, not even the bartender, or so he claimed. But right before the trial, the witness died.”

  “It happens.”

  “Not like this. The shot that took him out was done from over a hundred yards away. According to ballistics, the weapon was a military sniper rifle, possibly an M24. It appeared to be a contracted hit.”

  “So what’s your point?”

  “I’m trying to find that sniper. I think he might be involved in a case I’m on.”

  His father sipped his whisky, looking indifferent.

  Nick’s anger stirred. “So, what do you know about him?”

  “Why would I know anything?”

  “You were the lead attorney. The prosecution’s key witness was murdered right before the trial—and your client got off as a result.”

  His father shrugged. “As I said, it happens. My client said he was innocent. The jury agreed.”

  A verdict that murder had guaranteed. The jurors understood the warning—that they’d be assassinated next if they didn’t set the importer free.

  He leaned forward, determined not to let his anger show. “Regardless, I’m trying to find him. I’d like any information you can give me about your client, any contacts he might have had.”

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  “This guy is on a rampage. He’s killed several people so far. We think he works for Moretti, the head of the former syndicate, and is called The Ghost. If there’s anything you know—”

  “I can’t tell you anything.” He polished off his drink, then rose and refilled his glass.

  Nick stood. “Can’t or won’t?”

  His father leaned back against the bar, assuming the expression Nick knew well—half pity, half scorn, zero respect. “Anything my clients tell me is confidential. They hire me because they know I’ll respect that privacy.”

  “Even if it’s going to cost lives?”

  “That’s not my problem. My job is to defend people, nothing more. And that’s what I do. I give them the defense they’re entitled to by the law.”

  “You mean you do whatever it takes to win.” Twisting the truth and exposing secrets, making the victims look like the criminals so his wealthy clients went free.

  His mouth thinned. “That’s the way this world works, Nick.
What you call justice doesn’t exist. You’re either strong or weak. The strong win. The weak don’t. You should know that by now.”

  Nick gritted his teeth. That epitomized their differences right there. According to his father, compassion was a flaw. Sentimentality was for fools. And believing in justice was naive. The truth didn’t matter. There was no right or wrong. Trials were simply a play for power, a game he was determined to win.

  No matter who he had to destroy to get it done.

  His father glanced at his watch. “So, if that’s all, I’ve got a function to attend tonight.”

  Nick couldn’t help it. “It wouldn’t happen to be in Mom’s hospice facility, would it?”

  His eyes flashed, revealing that Nick had scored a hit. “Grow up, Nick. Your mother gets excellent care. I pay a fortune to make sure of that. And if you ever want to stop playing the white knight and start acting like a man, you let me know. I might be able to use a cop who’s on my side. If not, you know the way out.”

  He sure did. And he couldn’t leave fast enough.

  But as he returned to his car, his stomach roiling, he wondered what the hell was wrong with him. Why had he hoped his father would help him? Why had he expected him to have changed? He was as condescending and corrupt as always, managing to demean and infuriate him at the same time.

  He yanked open his car door, then paused. He looked back at his father’s residence, so different from the Brooklyn home they’d lived in when he was young. Here his old man stood in the window like the king of a medieval castle, surveying his domain. The man finally had everything—wealth, power, prestige.

  Everything except a heart.

  Nick turned away. It didn’t matter. His father meant nothing to him now. But he wouldn’t be the king forever. Someday he’d get the justice he didn’t believe in and pay for all the lives he’d destroyed.

  Nick would make sure of that.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  By eight o’clock, it was obvious that Nick had blown her off.

  Lara took the stairs to his apartment two at a time, her irritation mounting with every step. He hadn’t bothered to call. He hadn’t even answered the voice mails she’d left for him. She’d spent the past few hours at headquarters searching through case files, waiting for him to show up. What was so important that he’d shut her out?

  She reached the landing for his apartment, then paused for a second to catch her breath. She wasn’t that concerned about his safety. She knew that Nick was tough and could handle any situation that came his way. She was more worried about the suspicions he’d shown about her time undercover—and whether he might be investigating her.

  That fear had nagged her all evening. She’d finally decided to confront him, even though the last thing she needed right now was an argument about her past. She felt wrecked after the hours she’d spent reviewing those trafficking case files and reliving the horror of what those women went through—the drugs, the rapes, the torture and abuse. She’d hoped to find the woman who’d gotten away from the Chicago warehouse, the one she suspected was Moretti’s mole. Instead, the search had left her wrung out, raw and totally depleted emotionally.

  Still, if Nick was probing into her background, she needed to know.

  Hoping she was mistaken, she rang the bell. A moment later, she heard footsteps, and Nick yanked open the door. His dark gaze clashed with hers, his expression clearly hostile. He looked rumpled and tired and spoiling for a fight.

  Which was fine with her.

  Her own temper rising, she pushed past him into his apartment. “Where the hell have you been? You were supposed to meet me at the office hours ago.”

  “I was busy.”

  “Too busy to call me? Too busy to answer my voice mails? I was worried about you, damn it.”

  His eyes narrowed at that. “I checked in with Cass. I didn’t know I had to report to you, too.”

  “I’m your partner. You’re supposed to keep me in the loop. You could have at least had the courtesy to tell me you weren’t coming back.”

  He stalked past her into the kitchen. Still annoyed that he didn’t get it, she stormed in after, not about to let him off the hook.

  “So, what were you doing?” she demanded again.

  “Working.”

  “Working at what?”

  He leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms, his expression intractable, his jaw set in a stubborn line. “Nothing you need to know about.”

  So maybe this wasn’t about her, after all.

  “But you’re right,” he added, his voice stiff. “I should have called. I’m sorry. I just wanted some time alone.”

  She glanced at the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the counter, and her temper began to ebb. She wanted to stay mad. She wanted to rail at him in frustration for the lousy day she’d had. But she could hardly blame him for wanting to be alone after his informant’s death. “Whiskey, huh?”

  “You want some?”

  “Why not?”

  He splashed some into another tumbler. She joined him at the counter, studying him as she picked it up. He’d looked upset at the office. Bob’s death had obviously been weighing on him. But unless she missed her guess, something else had happened in the meantime, something that had put him even more on edge.

  She took a sip, relishing the taste as it scorched her throat. “Listen, Nick. You made a big deal about me trusting you. But it goes both ways. You’ve got to trust me, too.”

  “I do.”

  “You’re sure?” Because something had changed in the past few hours.

  “Yes, I’m sure.” He dragged a hand through his hair and sighed. “You want something to eat? I’m reheating some lasagna if you want to stay.”

  She knew she should decline. Nick was entitled to his secrets, just as she had a right to hers. And if she’d learned anything about her partner so far, it was that the harder she pressed for answers, the less likely he was to talk. Nick had erected barriers as high as she had in an attempt to protect himself. But they still had to work together. And if something was bothering him...

  “Lasagna sounds great. I’m starving.”

  “It’ll be ready in half an hour. We can wait in the other room.”

  She followed him into the living room and took a seat beside him on the couch. “I talked to Cass,” she told him. “She said Mei found an apartment the kidnappers might have used. They’re getting a warrant to go inside. They’ll send a team to look for evidence first thing tomorrow.”

  “That’s great. We could use a break.” Nick took a swallow of whiskey, then stared pensively into his glass.

  “I looked through some more case files while you were out,” she continued.

  “Did you find anything?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing that points to the kidnappers, in any case.” Just more evidence of Moretti’s depravity and cruelty toward those girls.

  Silence descended between them. Still fighting off those lurid memories, Lara sipped her drink, waiting for him to add his part. When it was obvious he wouldn’t oblige her, she nudged his arm. “So, are you going to tell me what you did or make me torture it out of you?”

  A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth. “You’re welcome to try.”

  She ignored the sensual pulse that comment caused. “Nick.”

  “All right. I went to see my father.”

  That surprised her. “Why?”

  He knocked back another swallow of whiskey. “That case Xander and Cass were talking about, where the witness was killed? My father was the lead attorney for the defense.”

  She knew his father was a prominent criminal defense attorney. He had a reputation for being a ruthless SOB who did whatever it took to win a case—which hardly endeared him to the FBI. “So, what did you find out?”

  “Nothing. He wouldn’t talk.”

  But something had happened during that encounter. Nick was so wired up she thought he would explode. “I’m guessing the meeting didn’t go well
?”

  His mouth went tight, the sudden pain rippling through his eyes making her regret she’d asked. “Sorry. You’re right. It’s none of my business. You don’t have to answer that.”

  “It’s not a very interesting story.”

  “But if you want to talk about it, I’d like to hear.”

  She thought at first he wouldn’t answer. Then he lifted one broad shoulder in a shrug. “It’s nothing, really. You know his reputation. He’s pushy, driven, a control freak. He acts the same way at home as he does at work.”

  She could relate to that. Her father had been the same. “I take it he put pressure on you growing up.”

  “It was more like he made demands. He expected perfection, and it was impossible to measure up.”

  “And your mother?”

  “What about her?”

  “How did she react to that?”

  “She tried to intercede sometimes, but she wasn’t any match for him. She was too scared to take him on. It was worse when she got older. She was too frumpy, too fat, not glamorous enough for the image he wanted to project, so they started leading separate lives. And when she got cancer, he couldn’t handle that. He wasn’t going to sit at home playing nursemaid for a woman he didn’t want.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “He put her in the most expensive hospice facility he could find. She’s still there.”

  Her heart rolled. She couldn’t mistake the pain and bitterness in his voice.

  “Jason never stood a chance,” he added so softly she nearly didn’t hear.

  Jason. The person he’d talked about with the homeless man. “He’s your brother?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And he’s homeless?”

  His jaw tightened. “Yeah. He’s a drug addict.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  His face was like a slab of granite, and her heart made a helpless lurch. She could imagine how hard that had to be for him. He worked in law enforcement. He’d seen the underbelly of this city, the world of violence the addicts inhabited, and the horrors they went through. And to know his brother was out there, suffering the worst kind of indignities to feed his disease, while there was nothing he could do to help...