by Riley, Megyn
Parker follows. “That’s it. We’re just going to leave it up to these clowns?”
“I’m not going to sit there and waste time measuring dicks with that guy. Besides, we can learn more on the street. You don’t kill a mob boss without permission. And if you do, there’s going to be hell to pay.”
“You think anyone is going to talk to us?”
“I know one guy who will.”
5
Scarlett
“I’m sorry, he’s in a meeting,” the secretary says. Her face twists up as she launches from her seat. She rounds her desk, trying to head us off. “You can’t just barge in here like this.”
I flash my credentials. “Yes, I can.”
Parker and I brush past her and push through the door to Sneaky Pete’s office. His eyes bulge as he scurries to pull up his pants. It seems we’ve caught him at an inopportune time. It takes the blonde, on her knees giving him a blow job, a moment to figure out someone else is in the room. Her head finally pops out of his crotch. She wipes her lips and adjusts her skirt as she stands. She looks like a stripper who just got off her shift.
Sneaky Pete clears his throat, and tries to act like nothing out of the ordinary is going on. “Thank you, Mrs. Stanton. I’ll let Accounts Receivable know that we’re all settled on the bill. If I can be of any further assistance, please don’t hesitate to call.”
“Thank you,” she says, shuffling toward the door. She slips out and closes the door behind her.
Sneaky Pete is a mob lawyer with legal troubles. My favorite kind. He got busted with a kilo of cocaine in the trunk of his car. He said it was for personal use. And knowing Sneaky Pete, it just might have been. But the state bar association doesn’t look kindly on lawyers who moonlight in drug trafficking. Pete made a deal with the DA to feed information on some of his clients. In exchange, the charges against him were dropped. Let’s just say that ethics aren’t on Pete’s list of redeeming qualities.
“I’m sorry, did I catch you at a bad time?” I say.
“No, not at all. It’s always a pleasure to see you, Agent Fox.” Pete grins. His lecherous eyes fall over my curves. He’d definitely like to get me on my knees. But that’s never going to happen. He’s a disgusting troll of a man. I feel like I need to take a shower after stepping into this office—just to wash the slime off.
“Vic Falco’s dead.”
“Tragic.”
“Know anything about it?”
“Seems you know more than I do,” Pete says with a smug grin.
“Who would want to take him out?”
“Who wouldn’t?”
“Who’s on the shortlist?” I ask.
“Well, you know as well as I do that spouses are always prime suspects.”
“Was he having marital trouble?” I ask.
“What am I, his therapist?”
“Who else?”
“Falco’s death makes Dominic Finn the new boss,” Pete says. “That sounds like motive to me. Word on the street is Falco had put a hit out on Dominic.”
“Why?”
“Why does anyone do the things they do?” Pete says.
“Anyone else come to mind?”
“There are four other crime families in the city. And none of them got along with Falco. Namely the Capello’s.”
My eyes narrow at him. Pete’s holding back on me. He knows something, but he’s not talking.
“Big Nicky Capello’s a client of yours, isn’t he?”
“Look, what do you care if these animals whack each other? I wouldn’t worry about it. The commission’s gonna take care of it either way. If it was authorized, then it’s business as usual. If it wasn’t, it will be dealt with.”
“What do you hear about the Summit?”
“Things,” Pete says, coyly.
“What kind of things.”
“I don’t recall.”
My eyes narrow at him.
“They don’t tell guys like me much.”
“Where’s it at?”
“The bosses of the five families get together and you think they’re going to make that information public? All those guys in one place… one bomb takes out the entire organization. Only people attending know where the location is. And they don’t get that information until the last minute.”
“You hear anything, you call me,” I say. “You got that?”
“Sure thing, boss.” He gives another phony smile.
I turn toward the door, and I can feel his eyes cling to my ass.
“Hey Hon, you got anything else I can help you with. Traffic tickets? DWI? I’m sure we could work out some kind of trade.” A salacious grin curls on his lips.
I don’t even respond. But I put an extra swerve in my step on the way out to let him know exactly what he’s missing. What he’ll never have.
Parker and I walk through Pete’s lobby and push into the hallway.
“You gonna tell me more about this Summit?” Parker asks.
“The Commission meets once a year. It’s made up of the heads of each of the five families. They get together, sort of like a state of the union address. They map out territories, settle disputes, discuss threats, formulate a general plan for the coming year. It’s essentially a CEO board meeting. We’ve been trying to tap into one for years. If we could get surveillance, we’d have enough evidence to bring down the entire mob.”
On my way back to headquarters all I can think about is my night of debauchery. I know I should be focusing my attention on this case. But I can’t get him out of my mind. The gorgeous man who dominated me completely. I wonder if I’ll ever see him again? For a moment I think about using my resources to try and track him down. That seems like a much better use of my time than trying to figure out who killed Vic Falco—a dirtbag that is better off dead. I should shake the guy’s hand who killed him. He did the world a favor.
Back at headquarters, I’m surprised to get a call from Detective Dodd.
“Got a match on those prints from the shell casing,” Dodd says.
“I’m a little surprised to hear from you,” I say.
“I’m hurt that you would doubt me,” he says, dryly.
“I’m sure you are. So, who’s the perp?”
“That’s the problem. The system is telling me that information is classified.”
My ears perk up when I hear that.
“A few minutes later, I’m getting a call from the CIA. An Agent McCarthy. He’s all up my ass, wanting to know why I’m running those prints. Says he’s heading down this way. He wants everything we have. I’ll be damned if I’m letting some Fed take my evidence. No offense.”
“None taken. Send me the print. I’ll run it through AFIS.”
“Now I gotta ask you to keep me in the loop,” Dodd sighs.
AFIS is the Automated Fingerprint Identification System. Sometimes it takes minutes to return a result, and sometimes days. There are over 70 million prints stored in the criminal master file. But you don’t have to be an unlawful crook to wind up in the database. Law-abiding citizens find their way into the database through employment background checks, firearms purchases, and a multitude of other seemingly innocuous processes. Almost anytime you get fingerprinted, for any reason, it will eventually end up in the database. It’s rumored that the CIA is even working on a way to access biometric data from users smart phones. A backdoor into the fingerprint passcode.
It takes 15 minutes for the system to return a match. And the result is, indeed, classified. I growl. This infuriates me. This job is going to give me premature wrinkles.
Within minutes, my phone rings. It’s Agent McCarthy from the CIA. He wants to know why I’m searching that print.
“Just assisting local law enforcement with a recent homicide.”
“That won’t be necessary, Agent Fox. We’ll be assisting the NYPD.”
“Perhaps you’ve forgotten that the CIA is barred from domestic investigations?”
“We’re merely providing assistance.”
>
“Who does that fingerprint belong to?”
“That’s classified, ma’am.”
“May I remind you, that person is a suspect in a homicide.”
“And may I remind you, my agency’s primary mission is to collect intelligence in order to protect our national security. I am unable to release any information that would jeopardize our ability to continue collecting intelligence information.”
I clench my jaw. I want to jump through the phone and slap this smug asshole. “Is this person an information source?”
“We do not discuss field assets.”
“So, this person is a field asset?” I ask.
“I’m sorry, Agent Fox. I can neither confirm nor deny that information.”
I try to control my rage. “Thank you, Agent McCarthy. You’ve been more than helpful.” I slam the phone down on to the receiver. Then I track down Murphy and tell him the situation. He’s less than pleased about this interference. There is a long rivalry between our agencies.
“Where’s Allen?” Murphy grumbles. “Allen!”
“Yes, boss?” he says, jutting his head out from his cubicle.
Dale Allen is the type of guy who spends all of his free time in an online role playing game. He may have no social life, but he knows his way around a computer. And when he starts speaking geek, people’s eyes glaze over. But thank God for the nerd herd. Guys like Dale Allen keep the show rolling around hear. And cyber threats are increasing every day.
“I need you to get us access to this file,” Murphy says.
“But that’s DOD classified, sir.”
“So?”
“You want me to hack into the CIA’s system?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a felony, sir.”
“Not if they don’t find out,” Murphy says.
“I could use an encrypted address and route this through multiple different proxy servers—“
“Can you do it, or not?”
“Yes,” Allen stammers.
Murphy raises his eyebrows. “Then what are you waiting for?”
Allen does his thing. Within a few minutes, he’s pulling up the file that belongs to the fingerprints.
Murphy reads the perp’s dossier from the screen. “Ryker Stone. Just did a two-year stint at San Quentin for assault and battery. Beat a guy into a coma. Just got out last week.” Murphy's eyes narrow. “Something’s odd about this.” He studies the display.
“What?” I ask.
“He’s a suspect in nine homicides. Gets put in on a bullshit assault and battery charge. Once inside, he’s linked to the deaths of three, high level mob guys—Joey Di Stefano, Tony Vega, and Mick Salvo. But no charges were filed.” Murphy sighs. “This reads more like a resume than a wrap sheet. I think he got put in on purpose to make the hits.”
“But why is the CIA hiding his file?”
“That is a good question.”
Murphy pulls up the perp’s photo. My jaw drops. Dark, unruly hair. Piercing blue eyes. Chiseled cheek bones and strong jaw. There’s no mistaking who it is—my one night stand. The man who rocked my world.
OH, MY GOD!
I fucked a hitman.
I fucked him not once, but multiple times. And it was the best sex of my life. I am so screwed. And not in a good way. This is a complete fucking disaster. How am I going to explain this?
Just pretend it didn’t happen.
My heart is racing. I need to take a deep breath and just act casual.
“Something wrong, Agent Fox?” Murphy asks.
“No. Why?” My heart is going into palpitations.
“Do you know the suspect?”
“No. I’ve never seen him before in my life,” I stammer and try to stop my body from shaking. There is a tiny, fucked up, part of me that is thrilled that I’ve found him. And a deeper, even more fucked up, part of me that hopes we can hook up again. “It’s just… guys like this make me sick.” Butterflies flutter in my stomach.
“There’s some connection between this dirt bag and the CIA. I want to know what it is.”
“On it, boss.” I say.
“Special Agent Murphy,” a secretary calls out. “There’s a man in the lobby looking for you. He says his name is Ryker Stone.”
6
Scarlett
Ryker smirks.
I steady myself and take a step forward. The interrogation room is dim, and the walls are gray. They’re soundproofed, and designed to reduce ambient noise. It’s unnervingly quiet. Oppressive. Spend long enough in one of these rooms and it will drive you mad. And that’s the whole idea.
“Mr. Stone, I’m Special Agent, Scarlett Fox.”
“Yes, you are,” he says with that devilish grin. He stands by the table, still wearing his suit from the night before, hands cuffed. His shirt is open, exposing his rippled abs—torn from our encounter in the elevator.
I want to pull out my service pistol and shoot him. Right here. Justifiable homicide, right?
I resist the urge.
“Have a seat, Mr. Stone.”
“Please, call me Ryker.” His blue eyes gleam. “We’re on a first name basis, aren’t we, Scarlett?”
“I guess we are.”
That bastard is just staring at me with a shit eating grin on his face. This is so embarrassing. I had that jerk’s massive cock down my throat a few hours ago. Just thinking about it is making me wet again. What the hell is wrong with me?
I clear my throat. “It seems we have a lot to talk about.”
“Yes. It seems so.”
I wish that asshole would stop grinning at me. I look away and fumble through his file. His shirt is open, exposing his rippled pecks and sculpted abs. I try not to look, but I can’t help myself. My eyes flick across his magnificent body, then back down to the file.
“See anything interesting in there?” he asks.
“Why are you here?”
He says nothing.
Murphy is going to kill me if I fuck this up. I had to beg to be the one who interrogated him. “Investigators found a spent shell casing with your fingerprint on it at the crime scene.”
“Impossible.”
“How so?”
“I would never make that kind of mistake.” His eyes are cold. Deadly. He really is a killer.
“Well, it looks like you did.”
“Somebody’s setting me up.”
“Who?”
“If I knew that, they’d be dead.” He smiles.
It sends a chill down my spine. My skin tingles.
“You find the bullet?” he asks.
“No.”
“You’re not going to. And even if you did, you’re not going to get a ballistic match on any of my weapons. You find anything else at the crime scene?”
I hesitate for a moment. “We found several strands of blonde hair in Vic’s bed. But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”
“I think it means a lot.”
“So, Vic Falco was killed, and you were set up to take the fall? Why?”
“To start a war between the two biggest mafia families. I’m a freelancer. But everybody knows I’ve done a lot of work for the Capellos.”
“Not everybody,” I say, my eyes burning into him. I certainly had no idea who Ryker Stone was.
“Don’t look at me like that. You got what you wanted.” He smirks.
My face flushes red. “Did I?”
“Sure seemed like it to me.”
I want to smack the cocky grin right off his face. But I need to keep this conversation on track. This interview is being recorded. The last thing I need is somebody asking me questions about my relationship with Ryker Stone.
“So, you work for Big Nicky Capello?”
“At times. But I work for a lot of people. That’s what a freelancer does.”
I glare at him. “It doesn’t matter whether you killed Falco or not. It matters what people think. And right now, I imagine the entire Falco family is out looking for you. That’s why
you are here.”
Ryker shrugs.
“The Capello’s are denying any involvement. They don’t want a war. So, Mr. Tough Guy, it looks like you’re on your own.”
Ryker stares at me. He knows what I said is true. Right about now, there are a lot of people that want him dead.
“You know, I’ve got video surveillance that puts a guy, who looks an awful lot like you, at Vic Falco’s apartment building around the time of the murder.” I hand him a pixelated photo captured from the security camera. Detective Dodd has been surprisingly cooperative in sharing his resources, provided I return the favor.
The man in the photo has the same build. Same broad shoulders. Same watch on his wrist. A hint of the same tattoo poking out beyond the the collar. The image is grainy, but it’s Ryker’s chiseled face. He’s wearing the same suit.
Holy shit. That’s the same suit he was wearing the night I met him. He must have killed Falco before he went to the bar. That’s just great. He brutally murders someone, then fucks me like a two dollar whore.
“It’s not me,” he says, examining the pictures.
“It sure looks like you.”
“It will never stick.”
I sigh. “Okay. Fine. I’ll tell the DA you don’t want to deal. You can go back on the street and take your chances.”
I grab the manila file folder and snap it shut. My chair screeches across the floor as I pushback from the table and stand. I strut toward the door. As I grab the latch, I hear him call after me.
“Wait, Sassy Pants.”
I spin around and arch an eyebrow at him.
“Let’s talk a little about this deal.”
“I’m listening.”
“Turn off the tapes.”
“Excuse me?”
“Turn off all the video and audio recording devices. I want to talk to you, and you only.”
I squint at him, wondering what he’s up to. Then I turn to the mirror and gesture for them to cut the recording devices. I saunter back to the table and sit down in front of him. “Okay. Talk.”
“Look. Somebody set me up. Right now the Commission has got a hit out on me. The entire Falco family is looking for me. No one will have anything to do with me. I can take care of myself on the streets. But even I can’t handle the Commission and five families gunning for me. I’ll give you enough information to take down the entire mob. But I want immunity for everything I’ve ever done. I want you to protect me until the trial. Nobody else. Not your partners. Not other departments. Not other agencies. I don’t trust anybody.”