by J. E. Taylor
“You don’t have to do that,” Chris said as he stood in the doorway of the kitchen. “I’ve got a cleaning lady who comes in once a week.”
“I’m just rinsing them and putting them in the dishwasher,” Steve said dropping the last plate into the bottom rack and closing the dishwasher door.
Chris returned to the living room, taking a seat at the desk. He hooked up the network to Steve’s computer and flipped the monitor around so Steve could pull up a chair on the other side of the desk. He set up the keyboard and mouse for Steve as well. “You’re all set.”
Steve raised his eyebrows. “That was fast.”
Chris glanced in his direction. “That’s nothing.” He pointed his chin at the laptop. “Bring that over here.” He directed.
Steve retrieved the laptop and put it on the desk.
Chris accessed the DOS prompt and typed in a few commands. He closed the prompt and accessed Steve’s email, adding an undetectable tracer to his email account. He turned the computer to Steve. “Reply to the email,” he directed.
“What?”
“I put tracers on all your outbound emails. If he retrieves the email, I can tell when the bastard read it and the protocol for hacking into the computer that he accessed it from.”
“No shit?” He glanced at his computer and back.
“Yes. Now reply to the email. Tell him to drop dead.”
Steve pressed the reply button, typing Drop Dead Asshole in the text of the email. He glanced at Chris again and pressed the send button.
“That may take a while. Show me the financials you had,” Chris barked the request and logged onto his own computer.
Steve pulled up the information from files he’d saved on his computer, turning the monitor toward Chris. He stood and got the cardboard box that sat open on the coffee table and brought it over to the desk, rifling through the papers until he came up with the prints of the accounts he had found, handing them to Chris.
Chris’s fingers flew over the keyboard, pinpointing the major account Steve had found. It was in the name of a shell corporation and the distribution of funds went to over a dozen accounts worldwide. He whistled, studying the distribution, suppressing the admiration cropping up. “This guy is really good at laundering money,” he said.
“Can you track it?”
Chris shot him a cross look. “What do you think?”
Steve put his hands in the air. “Sorry,” he said and stood up. “You have anything to drink here?”
Chris pointed to the bar in the far corner.
Steve found a couple of bottles of scotch covered with a layer of dust and he sighed, settling into an overstuffed chair without a drink in hand.
Chris glanced at his watch. It was almost time for the Yankees game. “You a Red Sox fan?” he asked, knowing the answer already.
“Yeah.”
Chris smiled and rolled the chair back, standing and crossing the room. “I know a great place where we can watch the Yankees pummel the Red Sox tonight.” He picked up the keys and opened the front door. “They don’t have Corona though.” He closed the door and locked it after Steve followed him out.
“Shouldn’t you do whatever you were doing?”
“I have to wait for responses and I doubt they’ll come in tonight.”
“Responses?”
“Audit information confirming the transfers made to and from that account over the last three years,” Chris said. “They’re all listed and in a couple of cases the account numbers are transposed and the dollar figures are off, so they’ll give us the corrections. It looks like an internal request initiated by a client complaint and when they reply with the information, I will get a copy.”
“You did all that in a half hour?” Steve gawked and they stepped onto the elevator.
“I told you I was a genius.”
“Jesus, the FBI could use someone like you.”
Chris burst out laughing. “I didn’t exactly request the information through legal means.”
“Still.” What he had done in such a short time span impressed Steve.
“I’d be the biggest nightmare if I was in the FBI.”
They stepped into the lobby.
“Good evening, Mr. Ryan. Can I get you a cab?” The doorman held the door open for them.
“Thank you, Fred,” Chris said and waited while he flagged down a cab. He tipped the doorman and they slid into the cab. “15 East 7th street.”
“Everyone who knows you here seems to like you,” Steve said.
“Don’t act so shocked.” Chris glanced in his direction. “I tip well.”
“It has nothing to do with money, Chris,” he said. “They actually like you because you treat them with respect.”
“I remember what it was like not having money. Besides, not everyone who knows me likes me.” He glanced at Steve.
“The jury is still out,” Steve replied.
“I’m not talking about you,” Chris replied. “Jessica’s father tolerates me and her ex-husband hates me.” He sighed. “Tom hated me too.”
“Can you blame them?” Steve laughed. “You ruined both their marriages.”
Chris smiled. “I see your point with both her ex’s but her father, that’s another story. He doesn’t like me because I remind him too much of Ty. Ironic isn’t it.” He glanced out the window.
“Smart man.”
Chris didn’t reply. He watched uptown transition to midtown. He peeled off a fifty and handed it to the cab driver when they pulled up in front of the bar.
“McSorely’s?” Steve asked reading the banner over the door announcing the name of the bar.
“Best Irish pub in the city and the hot mustard will grow hair on y’er chest if y’er brave enough to try it,” Chris drawled in an impeccable Irish accent and entered the crowded bar.
One barstool sat free and Chris slid in. He glanced at the drunken fool next to him, willing the inebriated man to leave the bar. The man stumbled away, leaving the chair open for Steve.
Steve took the seat as the bartender cleared the spot in front of them, wiping down the bar.
“It’s been a long time. What can I get you, Mr. Ryan?” The bartender smiled at Chris.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d recognize me.” Chris returned the smile. “It’s been almost ten years.”
“I never forget a big tipper.” The bartender grinned. “And you were the biggest.”
Chris’s cheeks heated and he traded a glance with Steve. “We’ll start off with a dozen darks and a cheese platter.” He glanced up at the television. It was the bottom of the first inning and the Red Sox were already leading two to nothing. He glanced in Steve’s direction. “You might want to wipe that smile off y’er face boy. This is Yankee country.” The Irish drawl persisted.
“Who’s whooping who?” Steve asked as twelve ten ounce beers were set on the counter between them.
“I could announce that we have a Red Sox fan in our midst,” Chris said.
“Bring it on.” Steve grinned. “Isn’t your wife a Red Sox fan?”
Chris grumbled. “Her one flaw.”
“I thought her driving was flawed as well,” he needled Chris.
“No, that’s just scary as hell.” He downed the first beer, his eyes riveted on the television.
The grumbling in the bar got more prevalent as the Red Sox expanded their lead to five to nothing. Steve sat with a grin on his face, matching Chris beer for beer. He reached out, dipping a cracker in the hot mustard and slid it in his mouth, following it with a piece of cheese. Fire enveloped his mouth and his eyes watered as the mustard blazed its way through his throat. He downed the rest of the beer in an attempt to quench the burn that seeped into his esophagus. “Holy shit,” he breathed.
Chris chuckled. “I told you that would put hair on your chest,” he said, glancing in Steve’s direction.
“More like burn a hole through the lining of your stomach,” he said, still hoarse from the hot mustard. He drained another bee
r, feeling the cooling sensation returning his sinuses and windpipe to normal. He grabbed another cracker and piece of cheese, opting to stay away from the mustard at all costs.
Chris glanced at his watch and slid out of the seat. “I’ll be right back,” he said. “Save my seat.” He held up the cell phone. “I need to say good night to the boys.”
Steve nodded and felt a twinge of envy. He squelched it and returned his attention to the game, putting his feet up on the chair reserving it for Chris’s return.
“Do you mind?” A female voice cut through his concentration.
Steve turned and looked at a perky blonde trying to slide onto Chris’s seat.
“Move your feet,” she ordered.
“My friend is sitting there.”
“He ain’t here now.” She shoved his feet off, sliding into the seat before he could object.
“You gonna buy me a drink?”
“No,” Steve spat out, appalled at her audacity.
She shrugged and took one of their beers.
“Hey, that’s ours.” He plucked the drink out of her hand.
“Didn’t your momma teach you to share?” She grabbed the beer back from his hand.
Flabbergasted, Steve just stared at her and when she reached out to take a cracker off the platter, he slapped her hand away.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a police shield. “I can take anything I want.” She reached for the crackers again.
Steve grabbed her wrist and pulled out his badge. “I don’t think so. Mine trumps yours.”
“Fucking FBI?” she cursed, swinging her chair toward him. “Think you’re better than a city cop?”
“At least I have manners.”
Chris tentatively approached the now explosive situation. “Excuse me.”
“What?” Both Steve and the blonde snapped in his direction.
Chris put his hands in the air. “I was sitting there.”
“You ain’t now,” she shot back. “You another FBI agent?”
“No.”
“She’s a cop,” Steve mocked. “Thinks she owns the city and can take anything she wants.” He still had her wrist in his grasp.
“Dirty?” Chris tilted his head, looking her over.
“Fuck you man,” she snapped and yanked her wrist out of Steve’s hand. She turned her attention back to the television but both Chris and Steve heard her explosive thoughts. “I ain’t dirty.” She finally shot back in their direction.
“Could have fooled me,” Steve said. He reached out and stopped the punch she threw without taking his eyes off the television. He yanked her close to his face. “Cut the shit or I’ll haul your ass in,” he growled. “Assaulting a federal officer is a felony.”
She blinked at the venom in his words and pried her hand out of his grip, turning back to the television. “Sorry,” she finally said glancing at him sideways. “I’m just pissy ’cause the Yanks are losing.”
Steve acknowledged her apology with a nod. He wasn’t about to tell her he was a Red Sox fan. “What’s your name?”
“Sarah, Sarah Connelly. I’m a detective in the seventh precinct.”
“Steve Williams.” He put out his hand.
She looked at it and then up at him, tentatively taking it. She returned her attention to the television. I’d love a taste of that.
“Should I just leave now?” Chris asked from behind Steve.
Steve shook his head and glanced back. Are you kidding? She’s an absolute bitch.
Yeah, but I bet she’s hellfire in bed. Chris grinned, keeping his gaze on the television.
I’m married, jackass. Steve glanced at her again. She was the exact opposite of Jennifer—blonde, abrasive, and controlling. He shrugged and glanced back at Chris.
Ok, but if you change your mind.
I won’t. Steve went back to watching the game, aware she was stealing glances his way and when he pushed a beer in her direction, she accepted it with a nod of acknowledgement.
“You’re married,” she said, observing the ring on his left hand.
“His wife is in a coma,” Chris said with his eyes still on the television.
Steve shot a glare in his direction.
“I’m so sorry.” Her entire demeanor softened.
Steve nodded and focused on the television. You are such a son of a bitch. He heard Chris choke on the beer trying to stifle his laughter.
On the television, Big Papi hit a grand slam.
“Yeah!” Steve reacted.
The bar suddenly got quiet. All eyes focused on Steve and the grin on his face.
“You’re a Red Sox fan?” Sarah gawked.
“Yessiree.” He raised his beer and winked at her. “Born and raised in the Red Sox Nation.”
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
“I brought him here,” Chris interjected. He peeled off a couple of hundred-dollar bills and handed them to the bartender. “Time to go,” he said.
“I’m just beginning to enjoy this.” Steve smiled.
“You’re going to get your ass kicked.”
Steve chuckled—the alcohol affecting his judgment. “Bring it on.” He lifted the beer to his lips, draining the glass. He could hear both Sarah and Chris swearing under their breath, both for very different reasons.
He leaned over and whispered in Sarah’s ear. “How’d you like to screw a member of the Red Sox nation?” He wasn’t quick enough to get out of the way of her swing. Her fist connected with his cheek and knocked him off the chair. He laughed as he caught himself before he lost his balance completely. “I’ll take that as a no.”
“Smooth, Williams,” Chris said and grabbed him by the arm, hauling him out of the bar.
Steve broke the grip and swung, the anger surfacing again.
Chris blocked his swing and grabbed him in a headlock. “Cut the shit,” he growled.
Steve twisted out of Chris’s grip, slamming him into the side of the building with his arm pinned to his back. “You’re not my father.”
“I’m not trying to be.” Chris glared over his shoulder at Steve.
The mental shove made Steve stumble backwards and land on his ass in the street.
Chris turned toward him, straightening out his shirt and jacket before he met Steve’s glowering eyes. He crouched down. “If I was, I would have kicked your ass by now. I don’t give a shit how many people you’ve lost. Suck it up. Life goes on.” He stood up and began to walk away.
“And you wouldn’t freak out if you lost your boys?” Steve asked scrambling to his feet.
Chris stopped. His mind wandering back to the close calls he had in the past.
“I lost my daughter,” Steve yelled.
Chris’s head dropped and he turned. “Life goes on,” he answered. “Whether you like it or not.”
“He’s right.” The voice came from the doorway. Sarah leaned on the doorjamb watching the exchange between the two men.
Steve spun, his blue eyes shining in the streetlights. “This is none of your business,” he snapped and sauntered away, breezing by Chris without another look.
Chris shrugged and followed Steve. “You see, that’s where we differ. At your age, I wouldn’t have passed on an opportunity like that.” Chris said matching strides with Steve.
“At my age, you were kidnapping and killing people.”
Chris stopped. He didn’t have a smart comeback. Steve was right and the comment stung more than he expected. His demons surfaced again, biting at the edges of his heels and the memories flooded in.
Hell and Frank were waiting for him and his only shot at grace just stormed off in the wrong direction.
The amount of anger residing within Steve’s skin reminded Chris of his own hatred for Frank and he knew there was no stopping that freight train once it left the station.
Chapter 33
Steve stumbled and swore under his breath. He knew Chris turned in the other direction a while back, leaving him to his own devices.
&n
bsp; The unmarked car pulled to the curb a few feet ahead of Steve. “Want a lift?”
He stopped and glanced in her direction. “Are you following me?”
Sarah smiled. “No, but I saw your partner catch a cab going in the opposite direction.”
“He’s not my partner,” Steve said.
“Your friend,” she corrected. “Do you need a lift?”
Steve looked both ways on the street and then at her and shrugged. He opened the car door and slid inside.
“Where you headed?”
“Uptown,” he said and glanced sideways as she laughed.
“You were headed in the wrong direction.”
“I needed some space,” he mumbled.
“Are you always this ornery?”
“Are you always such an overbearing bitch?” He shot back and she stopped dead in the middle of the street. The sudden stop jerked him against the seatbelt.
“Get out!” she ordered.
Steve nearly got clipped by a cab zooming the other way when he stepped onto the pavement. He trotted across the road and continued walking in the downtown direction.
Too bad all the hot guys turn out to be cold-hearted bastards. She zoomed away, leaving Steve watching after her with her last thought.
He huffed and continued walking with his head down and his hands shoved in his pockets.
“I’m a cop, that’s why.”
He jumped at the sound of her voice, his head snapping up and his gaze falling on her leaning on the side of her parked car. “That doesn’t give you the right to be a bitch,” he said but stopped walking.
“Do you know how hard it is for a woman to become a homicide detective in this city?” she asked with her arms crossed.
“You know, I really don’t give a damn.” Steve started to walk away. He stopped a few paces away turning back toward her. “Using that as an excuse to be abrasive and crude is pretty pathetic.”
“Staying stuck in the past is just as pathetic.” She stood, dropping her arms to her side.
“You don’t know anything about me,” he growled and turned away.
“You lost your wife and daughter.”