by Tessa Layne
Chapter Twenty
They must have separated all of us. I have no idea where anyone is, and I’m alone in the vehicle as it makes its way to wherever the holding center is. There’s no point in me talking, the driver is a wall. And my repeated requests for information about Roxi have fallen on deaf ears.
A short time later, I’m pulled from the car and brought into bright lights and sky-blue halls, before my cuffs are released and I’m ‘invited’ to take a seat in a room with three chairs, a folding table, and a two-way mirror. I have no idea how long I wait. It seems like forever. I fold my arms on the table and rest my head on them. I’ve read enough thrillers to know how this shit works. I shut my eyes and attempt to take a nap while they’re wearing me down. But my mind is like a spinning wheel in a gerbil cage. It won’t stop, and all I can think about is Roxi. Is she being held too? Is she okay? Her scream haunts me, and I pray to whatever gods will listen that she’s unhurt.
After what feels like ages, a guy comes in. I’ve seen his type before — thinks he’s hot shit, but he’s forty-pounds overweight from the stress, losing his hair, and looking to impress his colleagues with his badassery by behaving like a complete and total douchebag.
“You’re Danny Pendergast, yes?”
He’s spilled coffee on his tie. I contemplate pointing that out to him. “Yes.”
“Where were you this evening?”
“This ain’t my first rodeo.” I know exactly what he’s trying to do, and it won’t work. He’s trying to exact a confession from me, and I’ve never been so grateful for my experiences as a juvenile delinquent. East side cops are notorious for bending the rules to get a conviction, and I’m a scrappy motherfucker who refuses to play their game. “Sir,” I add after a lengthy pause.
I can tell he doesn’t like my answer, or my smart remark. But I am not giving him the satisfaction.
“I want to know where my girlfriend is.”
“Your girlfriend?”
“Yes. Roxi Rickoli. Redhead. Big boobs.”
Surprise registers on his face, but also recognition. He’s seen her.
“Where is she?” I press. “I’m not saying anything until I see her. And I swear if any of you hurt her, I’ll—”
“You’ll what, Mr. Pendergast? May I remind you, you’re in federal custody. I don’t think you’re going to be doing shit. Now why don’t you tell me about this little poker game you had going on.”
I stare at my hands. A full minute ticks by. “We can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way, Mr. Pendergast.”
“I’m not going to let you intimidate me. I want to see Roxi.”
He curses under his breath and walks out, only to walk back in five minutes later. “Tell me about the Whiskey Den, Mr. Pendergast.”
“Tell me about Roxi.” I know my rights. I don’t have to say shit.
Mr. Douchebag braces his arm on the table. “You’re going to tell me what I need to know and then I’ll give you an update on your girlfriend.”
The way he says it makes my blood turn to ice. Like something is gravely wrong, but they’re using her to bludgeon me into confessing. “What exactly do you want to know?”
“How long have you been using the Whiskey Den to launder money?”
“I don’t fucking launder money.”
“Your great-grandfather did. Why wouldn’t you?”
“Because I don’t launder money.” I grit. “Now tell me what I’m being charged with or tell me about my girlfriend.” I glare at him. “Or get the fuck out of here.”
His eyes widen slightly, and again, he tries to intimidate me by leaning over the table. “Let’s get one thing straight, Danny-o. You’re the one in federal custody. You don’t get to call the shots. You cooperate, you’ll get to see your girlfriend. Now why don’t you tell me what you were doing at the Whiskey Den this evening with Vince Ferrari, Alex Descharmes, Dmitri Sokolov, Stockton Forde, Robert Templeton, Robbie Moran, and… what’d you say your chickie’s name was? Roxi?”
“She’s innocent,” I shout. “She’s just my employee. She just makes drinks.”
Douchebag Don pounces. “If you’re calling her innocent, you’re implying you’re guilty. Are you, Mr. Pendergast? Guilty?”
The door bursts open. “My client is under no obligation to answer that question or any other. Did you inform him that he had the right to the presence of a lawyer?” I recognize the guy, and the slight hint of a southern accent. He’s Steele Conglomerate’s house counsel. But his name slips me. He extends his hand. “Jackson Hart. I think we’ve spoken before in the owner’s box.”
That’s where I’ve met him. Opening day this past year of the Kansas City Kings. “Thank you for coming. Did Stockton send you?”
“Harrison, too.” He turns to the interrogator. “May I have five minutes with my client, please?”
D-bag scowls but gives us the room. Jackson pulls out the chair next to mine and sits. “Ya’ll are in a mess of hot water. But it’s nothing we can’t fix. Now, is there anything you want to tell me?”
I’m sure as hell not telling him or anyone else that I was hosting poker. “I want to know why I’m being held. Why the fuck were we raided?”
“I’m still trying to work that out. What are your dealings with the men at tonight’s game?”
“Strictly professional. They’re all members except for Alex and Robbie, but I vetted their finances and background personally. They all have money.”
“Given the questions I’ve fielded so far for Stockton and Robbie, it sounds like they have inside information on you and the others who were at the table tonight.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It looks like they’re after you, or more than one of you for money laundering. I won’t know until they make formal charges. They’re trying to intimidate any one of you into disclosing a smoking bullet.”
Dread pools in my belly as I think back to this afternoon. But Roxi was just putting away her weapon. And my laptop is encrypted. I need to see Roxi. I need to make sure she’s okay. “I’ll answer any questions you let me answer, so long as they let me see with my own eyes that Roxi is okay. In the chaos, she screamed with pain. I need to know she’s okay.”
Jackson’s eyes turn sympathetic. “Are you sure? You don’t have to say anything unless you’re formally charged, and then only in court.”
“I’ll make a deal, but only after I’ve had the chance to see Roxi with my own eyes.”
“Let me see what I can do.”
A few minutes later he returns. “Well?”
“They’re working on it. In the meantime, let’s go over what they can and can’t ask, and what’s your best defense.
Chapter Twenty-One
I’ve lost all sense of time. But I don’t care about anything but seeing Roxi. And I’m done talking with these assholes until I see her with my own eyes. Jackson clears his throat, but I don’t need any more coaching. I raise a hand. “We can talk after I see Roxi.”
“They’ve gone to fetch her, but I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t tell you to not say anything to her. She’s a material witness at the very least, they could be holding something over her head and using her to get to you.”
I strike the table. “She is not a mole.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Like hell I don’t,” I growl, done with this shit. He’s right though, I’ve seen Feds turn innocent people into weapons because they’re scared shitless. This is so far above Roxi’s pay grade it’s not funny. “Can you check on her? Give her advice?”
Jackson shakes his head. “I don’t know Roxi and representing her might come into conflict with whatever I need to do for you and Stockton.”
“But someone needs to help her. She’s got no one on her side. She’s probably scared shitless.”
Jackson sighs heavily. “If I see her in the hall, I’ll remind her she doesn’t have to say anything without the presence of a lawyer. I can recommend someone in
my firm.”
His assurances ease the knot in my chest, but only a little. Jackson steps out, and the door clicks shut behind him with an ominous snick. The minutes tick by, and in that time, I replay every choice I’ve made that’s led me to this point. I’ll give it all up, every penny, if it means that Roxi is okay. I sag with relief when the door opens and she slips in, left arm in a sling.
I leap from the chair and round the table. “Tell me you’re okay,” I say, taking her by the shoulders and pulling her close to press a kiss to her temple. “Did you see Stockton’s lawyer? I sent him to come find you. You don’t owe these assholes anything. Don’t say a word to them without a lawyer present. You haven’t done anything wrong, so don’t let them convince you otherwise.” She nods, face buried in my chest, but something’s off. Very off. “Roxi? What is it, sweetheart?”
She looks at me, and the anguish I see on her face slices through me like a knife. My stomach drops to my toes. “We need to talk,” she says in a shaky voice.
“Of course.” Dread turns my veins to ice. Something is very, very wrong. “What is it, did they already talk to you?” I’ve never seen her look like this, like a caged animal. Afraid. Guilty. “What did you tell them Roxi? What did they force you to say? I swear, if they—”
“Sit. Danny. Just. Sit. Down,” she grits, a look of utter defeat passing across her face.
I pull out a chair for her, then round the table to where the other two chairs are at angles. I reach across the table and take her right hand. “What happened?” I motion to the sling.
She gives me a crooked smile. “Just a flesh wound. Vince had a knife, and in the chaos, I got nicked.”
“I’ll kill him,” I growl.
Her voice turns razor sharp. “Don’t… say things like that.”
“I mean it. If he ever lays a finger on you—”
“No. I mean it. Don’t say shit like that. You’ll—” She hangs her head, and her words come out just above a whisper. “You’ll just make it worse.”
My stomach clenches. “What’s going on Roxi?”
She looks tortured, and a part of me goes frantic, like there’s nothing I can do to help her, to protect her. “Danny, whatever they’re asking you, you need to cooperate. Fully.”
“What do you mean?”
“They know about the games. Your best option is to cooperate when they ask.”
“Did they get to you already? What did you tell them Roxi?”
She shakes her head. “I didn’t tell them anything they didn’t already know,” she says, voice tight. “Just… please. Promise me you’ll cooperate.”
“It will cost me everything if I don’t fight this. My reputation will be ruined. I have clients I need to consider.”
She shoots a deathly glare at me. “And what about yourself? Are you saying you’d rather go to prison than cooperate? What about your mother? And-and Polly?” Her voice grows thick with emotion. “And the other people who count on you to be steady. And true. What about them?”
I hear the implied me in her accusation. What about me? But why doesn’t she ask it? “Don’t you mean what about us?” I snap. “You knew what you were getting into when we crossed the line.”
Her mouth twists into a bitter smile. “Yes. I guess I did.” She fists her uninjured hand on the table. “And here’s the awful thing. I love you Danny. I don’t want you to go to prison. I want you to cooperate with the Feds and stay the hell out of this mess. I don’t care if you lose everything, because I want to come home to you at night, not talk to you through a piece of fucking glass.” Her voice is brittle. Desperate even.
“What are they holding over you, Rox? Let me help you. Don’t say anything more to those bastards without a lawyer. You haven’t done anyth—”
My tirade is interrupted by a knock at the door, and a young man I haven’t seen before, although he smells like a Fed, pokes his head in. “Agent Reynolds?”
Agent Reynolds? Time slows to a crawl. Color drains from Roxi’s face. In slow motion, I see her turn and give a shake of her head. I hear the exchange, but it all sounds like it’s underwater. Baby face speaks first. “Chief Watson needs to see you.”
She shakes her head, mouth thinning. “He can wait.”
With a ripping sound like a needle scraping across a record, reality comes crashing in. All the unanswered questions, the tiny red flags I ignored all merge together to create an awful picture. Heat rushes through my body, but my hands turn cold. My chest is so tight I can’t breathe. My stomach churns and turns upside down even though I haven’t eaten for hours. The worst moment is the searing pain of betrayal that threatens to tear out my insides, and my heart along with it.
As soon as the door clicks shut, I rise. “Who the fuck are you?”
“I can explain—”
I don’t give her the chance. “I already have a damned good picture. This explains everything — why I couldn’t find you online, your-your fucking firearm, the martial arts… Jesus,” I shout. “You fucking played me from the get-go. Didn’t you?”
“Can you sit? Let me explain.”
There’s a desperation in her voice I should listen to, but I’m too fucking angry. And I’m not about to sit and give her the power in the room. No fucking way. “Didn’t you?” I shout. “Just say it. You marked me.” I pound the table.
“Yes,” she shouts back, rising. “I did. But not from the get-go. That was just us. I swear. I-I didn’t know who you were that first night. Or-or that you were central to our investigation.”
I concentrate on the white-hot anger burning in my chest, use it to calm myself and narrow my focus. “So everything that happened in Napa, that was just bullshit?”
“No,” she cries out vehemently with a shake of her head. “I meant every word I said. I love you Danny. Don’t you understand? I wasn’t supposed to fall in love. Can’t you see why this is so hard.”
“I can’t see why someone who says they love me would lie to me.”
“Because I had a job to do.”
What’s awful? Is that some sick part of me gets that. But I refuse to give her quarter. Not after the way she’s used me and made a mockery of our relationship. “So tell me, Agent Reynolds, is Roxi even your name?” Her face falls, and that tells me all I need to know. I raise a hand. “Don’t… tell me. I don’t want to know. Just tell me this. Why me?”
“I work in cyber-crimes,”she says, voice full of resignation. “I can tell you, we’re after bigger fish than you.”
“Who?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Fuck that.” I bang the table again.
“Danny, please. If you’re willing to cooperate, you’ll receive full immunity.”
“So if I become a rat to save my own skin, is what you’re saying.”
“Isn’t that better than prison?”
“I’m not sure I’ve committed any felonies. I’ll have to discuss it with my lawyer.”
She braces her good arm on the table. “Taking a cut from a poker game isn’t a felony, but money laundering and bank fraud are.”
She’s trying to scare me. She’s just doing her job to go after whatever bigger fish they want. But fuck. That. She’s used me enough. “Get. Out.” I say, voice cold.
“Danny, please. I can help you,” she pleads.
If she hadn’t already ripped out my heart, it might have worked. But I’m dead. “Out,” I roar, kicking one of the chairs.
She takes a step back with a nod and a sniff. She rolls her lips together and nods again. “I’ll send in your lawyer.” She opens the door and pauses, swiveling back to me. “I never meant to hurt you,” she says thickly. “You have to believe that.”
I turn my back. I’d rather stare at blue painted cement. I want to remember Roxi the way she looked under me this morning when we were making love —face flushed, eyes glazed, smile wide as we moved together. As I made stupid promises about babies and forever. Fuck. Me. I press my forehead to the wall. A shudd
er wracks me, but I refuse to give in. I haven’t cried since I was sixteen. I’m not about to start now. But I’m quite sure the hole she’s left in my heart will never heal.
Chapter Twenty-Two
In the end, and at Jackson’s recommendation, I take the deal. But not because of Roxi. No, I have bigger fish to fry, too. It turns out the Feds were after Ferrari and Sokolov for human trafficking, and Stockton’s instincts were right on. Too bad they came a little too late. But I’m pissed as hell at the way those assholes used me. In all fairness, I used them too, but not to abuse women, and I want those fuckers to rot for that. I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive myself for not paying closer attention to them. My stomach still churns with disgust at the thought he might have been marking Roxi for trafficking, or worse, that they were trafficking women right under my nose.
A knock sounds at my door at the same time my phone rings. I glance at the clock. Six-fucking-thirty. Who the fuck is harassing me at this hour? And on a goddamned Saturday? The phone rings again. Harrison. “What?” I snarl into the phone. “This better be good.”
“Open your fucking door, asswipe,” he snaps back.
I throw on a pair of sweats and pad through the loft to the door. “It’s still fucking dark out,” I say as I throw open the door.
Harrison’s in gym clothes and holding a tray of coffee. Behind him Stockton waves. “Happy New Year, man.”
“Fuck you.” I step aside to let them in. “Have either of you been to bed?”
Stockton shoots me an evil grin as he heads to the kitchen table. “We’ve been planning.”
“Can you share the details at noon?” But I know better. Once these guys get an idea, they’re like a pair of goddamned terriers fighting over a rope.
“New year, new life,” answers Harrison. “Training starts in an hour.”
“At seven-thirty on New Year’s Day?” I ask, incredulous. “Training for what?”
“A spot opened up on the boat. Trevor got a promotion that’s taking him to Boston,” Stockton supplies. “We’ve got to work overtime to bring you up to speed.”