A Love Restrained

by Becky Flade

  “Have you considered the possibility whoever took Brady has nothing to do with me?”

  “It does. Of course, it does. Other than Frye, and she’s been ruled out, who could hate Kylee enough to take her son?”

  “Anyone check your ex-wife? I’m not alone in thinking you’ve got a thing for Parker. From what I hear, she’s pissed off about it too. Made a scene at the Garden a few weeks back.”

  “It wasn’t Sylvie.”

  Shore cut the wheel hard to the right at the end of the Spring Garden exit ramp, but Jayson had been expecting the maneuver. He’d braced a hand against the dash in anticipation. He cut a look to his left. Shore’s hands strangled the steering wheel. Bet he wishes that was my neck between his hands.

  “She called, upset when she heard the alert. She cares about Brady. She wouldn’t hurt him.”

  “I’ll kill anyone who does.”

  Shore parked hard in a no parking zone beside the detention center. He disengaged the siren and lights before leveling a long look JD didn’t squirm away from. Shore looked away first, and popped open his car door. Fucking thought so.

  They entered the facility together and moved through multiple checkpoints, repeating their names and purpose to one marshal after another. Man after man, aware of the Amber alert, stopped to offer their support, their prayers, in the search for his son. And the unspoken assurance from each that those responsible would pay.

  Chic sat alone in a room surrounded by glass at the end of a long hall. Son of a bitch looked good.

  The muted dark-khaki jumpsuit, designed to be as unattractive and utilitarian as possible, complemented the older man’s complexion and thick mane of salt-and-pepper hair. As they neared, he looked for tell-tale signs Chic suffered from his incarceration. But saw none.

  Though his posture relaxed and his expression was neutral bordering on approachable, he knew Chic’s shark eyes missed nothing. He catalogued even the minute. He’d tell you, if you asked, that money doesn’t equal power. Information does.

  “Look at him. You’d think he held court in his social club on Torresdale Avenue instead of being restrained in a facility full of armed marshals and federal correction officers.” Chic reminded him of a coiled snake prepared to strike at the smallest provocation.

  “He’s an animal,” Shore added. “You should know that better than anyone.”

  “Oh, I do. But ask anyone who works with lethal animals. Respect is paramount to survival.”

  The guard posted at the door, nodded in agreement, as he opened it for them. Shore bristled and pushed his way through first. The guard rolled his eyes.

  “I agreed to talk to you. Not Philly PD. Not without my lawyer.” Chic’s tone was friendly enough, but the steel underneath the words was obvious.

  “They wouldn’t let me in here alone.” The door closed behind him with a loud click as the lock engaged. He fought the urge to look over his shoulder.

  “Since when does a local street pig out of a corrupt department outrank a decorated agent from the United States Drug Enforcement Administration?”

  I’m not even surprised. “How long have you known?”

  “That you’re a fed? Since day one. Don’t be pissed. Only a moron would have failed to wheedle a hefty promotion out of my collar. Shit was epic, and you’re not stupid. This benefited us both. What are you now? Supervisor?”

  “Civilian. I quit. And they wouldn’t let me in here alone. It was him or Stedman. And Stedman’s listening to this entire exchange in an adjacent room regardless. There’s no privilege between you and I. And no privacy.”

  “Like I said. Not stupid. Why’d you quit? That was fucking dumb considering.”

  He took the sole remaining chair. “Did you take my son? Is this retaliation?”

  “I didn’t have shit to do with that. Broke my heart when I heard. You know how important family is to me.”

  Keep cool. Don’t let him see the fear. The gangster had an innate talent for ferreting out and exploiting weakness. He may be a criminal and a pro forma liar, but Brady’s abduction didn’t feel like Chic’s handiwork. But he knows something, or he wouldn’t have agreed to the meet. He thinks he can get something out of this.

  “Who else knew I was undercover?”

  “No one else knew. You were my hand-picked 401k. Think I’m going to risk that?”

  “Bulger.” Realization dawned. The whole thing was a set-up.

  “Not stupid, yes indeed. Far from it. The problem with men in my line of work is they don’t plan on retirement. Drunk on their own power and wealth, they don’t see the end coming and aren’t prepared when either the bullets or the bracelets herald in that end. Whitey? He had a smart thing going with the feds in Boston, but he didn’t think it all the way through. DEA needed someone pure as snow to attribute the information.”

  “You had to protect me to protect your deal. And I didn’t see or hear anything you weren’t prepared to hand over.” His stomach churned. I should’ve seen it. They played me from the start. Bob, Chic, Stedman, bastards destroyed my life.

  The older man smiled and glanced toward the ceiling. That’s right, they had an audience. He bet Chic had a few million tucked away in an account the government couldn’t touch even if they did know about it.

  “I felt bad when you got hung up on the lady-cop. I did. But I couldn’t let her, or you, derail years of hard work. When she showed up at the club—she’s got brass knockers that one—she had a bun-in-the-oven look to her. I put eyes on her. And then on your boy. Made sure they stayed safe until you could get back to them.”

  “Why?”

  Chic shrugged again. “I like you. And I knew your mom and your pops back in the day.”

  “That’s right. You came up in the same neighborhood they did. Didn’t realize you knew them though. You never said.”

  “Yeah. Emily was a sweet little thing before James beat the light out of her eyes. Damn shame that.” He shifted his weight in the chair, crossing one leg over the other, furthering the illusion this was a social visit. “Knew Keith Parker too. Never would have hurt his girl. Or his grandson. Made sure no one else did either.”

  “Someone has my little boy.”

  “Stedman is an ambitious prick. But he isn’t stupid either. He made sure protections for you, your family, and the Parkers were included in my deal. I couldn’t hurt you even if I wanted to and I don’t. I’d lose wit-pro and spend the rest of my life in a cage outed as a rat. I told my men you, and your family, are off-limits. And they told theirs the same. This doesn’t come back to me.”

  “Who does it come back to?”

  “I don’t know. Yet. But once I do they’ll be dealt with.”

  The room, despite the glass on all sides, felt claustrophobic. The box shrank. People watched, others listened, Shore stood at attention at his back, but he felt trapped. Chic’s not lying. But he must know something. “Who’d you have watching Kylee and Brady?”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe he saw something.”

  “Doubtful. His job ended when you went home. He was told to stand down. Even if he disobeyed a direct order and had seen something, he would’ve acted. Your boy would be back in his mother’s arms by now. Or the police would at least have a decent lead. He wouldn’t risk my wrath.”

  “Unless he took Brady.”

  “He’s not the brightest bulb in the box, but I don’t think he’s suicidal. I’ll look into it.”

  “I need a name.” I can’t go home to Kylee with nothing.

  “Can’t do it, man. I’m sorry. I’ve got to hold onto the few markers I have left for when I need them most. I didn’t do this, but I’ll do whatever I can to help you get your boy back. It’s the least I can do.”

  “But not at your own cost.”

  “It’s all about what you’re willing to sacrifice, my friend. Survival isn’t a pussy’s game.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Her body sought the oblivion sleep promised. Even five minutes free o
f crippling, paralyzing fear would be a welcome blessing. No one knew where her son was, who had him if he was okay. The day moved in a blur shifting seamlessly from slow motion to fast forward and back again. The sole constant had been the fear. And Jayson.

  He left me alone in a sea of people.

  Voices and faces, overlapped into a swirling ocean of concern and confusion. Her heart raced, her breath came in short, painful bursts. Michael’s voice, quiet and authoritative, sounded in her ear, but she jerked away from him. He held on, led her to the stairs, asked dad to send everyone away.

  “You had a panic attack,” he explained.

  It’s past Brady’s bedtime, and he doesn’t have his wubby. Her brother tucked her in. Sat with her while she wept, stayed with her until she calmed, and kissed her on the cheek before creeping down the hall. Without a purpose to guide him, Michael’s shoulders slumped, and his head bowed under an unseen weight.

  He loved her. Loved Brady. She didn’t need him to say it. Or to tell her he suffered too. But he’ll go home to his wife tonight and take comfort from the fact his children were well in their beds. Where they belonged.

  She rose and tip toed—an intruder in her own home—to Brady’s room. The room felt emptier than it should, as though he’d been there last weeks ago instead of that morning. The room seemed forlorn; she imagined his toys lonely and confused. Fat, silent tears rolled down her cheeks. She sat on the edge of his crookedly made bed. Making his bed was his first big boy chore. He did it with pride, and she left the crooked alone, charmed by his efforts.

  She pictured Brady with ease. His tongue peeking out the corner of his upside down smile, his dark brows squished together over the bluest eyes, as he concentrated on getting the sheet just right. She climbed onto the superhero themed mattress to wait. And she prayed.

  A car pulled up. Followed by the low murmur of voices on the street. Her heart beat faster. Jayson. He didn’t find Brady. He’d have called, not left her to suffer. Not this time.

  She listened, trying and failing to make out the words of the brief but muffled conversation that moved into the house. Then she focused on the heavy tread of feet on the stairs. Jayson filled the doorway, the hall light casting his face into shadow. She didn’t speak as he crossed the room. He moves like an old, broken man. He removed his shoes and climbed in beside her on the twin mattress that barely held their shared bodies.

  He wrapped his arms around her, and she settled her forehead against the curve of his neck. She needed a moment to brace herself before he spoke. She knew he hadn’t brought good news.

  “It wasn’t Chic.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “He’s not lying. He ordered his men to leave me and mine alone. Has his own people looking for whoever defied his edict. Punishment needs to be quick and vicious, or he risks a serious loss of face that’ll put his own family at risk.”

  The hope that had gone with him to the detention center withered and died.

  “Who’s still here?”

  “Michael just left. He’s taking your mom home where the rest of the family is camped out. My mom is at my place. Marcus is with her. But your dad’s staying here.”

  “Matt didn’t come back with you?”

  “No. Stedman wanted to talk to me. I told Matt to go ahead. Feds gave me a ride.”

  “What did Stedman think?”

  “He agreed with my assessment. Chic has secrets, sure, but if he knew who took Brady, our boy would’ve been returned to us already.”

  “And the bodies buried?”

  She experienced a flare of satisfaction knowing if Chic Checcio found her son’s kidnappers first the person or persons would be dealt with swiftly and decisively. No judicial system, no deals, no negotiations. She didn’t want justice. She wanted her son, and she wanted vengeance. I don’t care if that does make me a bad person. I’ll live with the stain on my soul if it means my son comes home safe and sound.

  “He had to be careful. He knew the interview was monitored. Just as he knew I was a fed.”

  “What?”

  She jerked her head back, rapping it against the headboard. He speared his fingers through her hair and rubbed the burgeoning knot while he explained.

  “Someone was watching me? For six years?”

  He nodded. She lowered her head to his shoulder and tried to absorb the information. It unnerved her. A stranger, never far from sight, watching her live her life, raise her son, a ghost keeping them safe, all while reporting back to a man she thought would be happy to see her dead.

  “When I confronted Stedman about Brady he offered to let me view the surveillance folder he had on you both. You know how I responded. But now I think the intelligence came from Chic’s man, directly or through Chic I don’t know. Either way, Stedman knew about it and didn’t think you were in any danger.”

  “Who?”

  “Chic wouldn’t say. And Stedman either doesn’t know or feigned ignorance.”

  “Do you think the bodyguard knows anything about Brady’s disappearance?”

  “I asked. He said no, and then maybe, finally that he’d look into it. It’s not like him to waffle, as a rule. I’m not sure what I think about that.”

  His cell phone rang, startling them both. He dug it from his pocket and gave the display a quick glance before answering. She could feel his heart galloping opposite hers. Every phone call brought twin spikes of hope and despair.

  “Stedman.”

  He shifted to a sitting position. She wrapped her body around his waist, craving the connection to another human, while information bounced around her subconscious. It’s like trying to complete a puzzle with missing pieces. Her mind never wavered far from the one thing she didn’t want to face—they were no closer to finding Brady. Their sole reassurances a convicted gangster and a borderline corrupt federal agent were contributing to the search.

  “Okay, thanks.” He disconnected, but sat motionless.

  She reached up to rub his back. “What did he say?”

  “I’d asked Stedman to look into one of Chic’s former mistresses.”

  “The woman who tried to kill herself?”

  “Yeah. Chic never mentioned Angela again. But he said something tonight that made me think of her. I thought perhaps it was a hint, that it could be a lead.” He ran his fingers through his hair before reaching for her other hand. “It isn’t. She’s on day three of a two-week honeymoon in Cabo.”

  Another dead end… the landline she kept in the kitchen rang. She leaped to her feet and bolted down the stairs—Jayson right behind her. She passed her father and the officer whose name she didn’t remember. Technicians stood at attention as she barreled into the room, stopping next to the phone. They nodded. She picked up the phone.

  “Mommy?”

  Brady’s voice echoed through the quiet room—they’d set it up so everyone could listen while calls were recorded.

  “Oh God, Brady, baby, yes it’s mommy. And daddy. We’re both here. Where are you?”

  She cried in earnest but fought to keep her voice level. She didn’t want to upset him. His arms were around her, his body pressed to her back. She felt him shudder. Her father’s hand, she knew the weight of it, rested on her shoulder. She ignored the others.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  “He’s a good kid, well behaved. Let’s hope you listen as well as he does, bitch cop. I want fifty thousand dollars in unmarked, non-sequential bills. I’ll call tomorrow after the banks close to tell you where and when.”

  Terror left a foul taste in her mouth.

  “Wait! Please.” The word was like acid in her throat. “I need…” she looked at the agent waving a pad of paper at her, “proof of life. Let me talk to him again, ask him something he could only answer.”

  “Smart. You were always so fucking smart. Okay, princess, you got thirty seconds.”

  “Mommy?”

  “It’s me. Do you remember what we had for bre
akfast this morning?”

  “Waffles with peanut butter and chocolate chips.”

  “That’s right, baby. We love you.”

  The line went dead. She didn’t know if he’d heard her. She nodded to the agent, and the others sprang into action. She turned in Jayson’s arms, wrapping hers around him.

  “He didn’t want to go to school today. Woke up cranky. The waffles were a bribe. If I’d let him stay home….”

  “Stop. He wasn’t taken by chance. He was targeted. If not today, it would’ve been another. The person at blame is the one who took him. And they’ll answer for it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  The agent whose name she couldn’t remember addressed them. She hadn’t paid the FBI’s hostage and rescue team any attention when they’d arrived earlier. They’d spouted statistics suggesting if they hadn’t heard from a kidnapper yet, they wouldn’t at all. They’d left the impression they felt they were wasting their time. She’d walked away, refused to give them space in her head. She stepped from Jase’s embrace, wiped the tears from her face, and gave the other woman her attention.

  “Yes?”

  “I need to speak with you both.”

  Equipment covered the surface of the kitchen table. Two technicians pushed buttons and levers while conversing on their individual cell phones and with each other in incomprehensible lingo. Her father and the patrolman made their own phone calls in the dining room. With no other options, she gestured to the stools tucked under the center island.

  “Would you like something to drink?” It was odd, but she found the routine comforting. She spent a few minutes pulling out mugs and filling them with coffee someone else had made. My home is not my own. She set out creamer and sugar before taking a seat.

  “Agent Ragin?” Jayson prompted.

  Ragin, that’s right. Dana Ragin. They told me that earlier. Her hair pulled back tight into a bun at the base of her neck gave the FBI agent a sharp, hawkish look. She kept her expression neutral and spoke in a blunt, unapologetic manner. Is it training or personality?