Bleeders

by Anthony Bruno

  She hesitated. “It does sound like a stretch. You don’t seem like the type.”

  “Listen, Cindy, I want to apologize to your father in person, and I want to make it up to both of you.” He did his absolute best to sound contrite, but he was grinning from ear-to-ear as he looked at Trisha’s face on the shade. “Are you two busy tonight?”

  Chapter 22

  “So, Richard, how did you feel when people made fun of you because you were a fat kid?” Trisha asked. “Richard? Are you with me?”

  Richard Shugrue’s eyelids drooped, his head jerking as he struggled to stay awake. He sat at the same metal table in the same interrogation room where she had interviewed Lassiter. His wrists were handcuffed and tethered to the table. His hair stood out every which way, and he badly needed a shower. He was beyond exhausted, and it was useless trying to talk to him. Detectives had interviewed him from the moment he got here in the wee hours of the morning, and now it was after four in the afternoon. Trisha hadn’t gotten a whole lot of sleep herself, but it had to have been more than Shugrue.

  She’d waited around since nine that morning, but when the police finally let her take her turn with him a half hour ago, the guy was a total mess. Moody and defiant one minute, teary and pitiful the next. Now he couldn’t keep his eyes open. He was so traumatized she didn’t trust anything he’d said. He was probably telling his interrogators whatever he thought they wanted to hear, which is exactly what prisoners of war subjected to torture do. They say anything to make the ordeal stop. Shugrue hadn’t been tortured—at least not physically—but he didn’t have the mental toughness of a hardened terrorist so in a way this was torture. But this was what the NYPD brass wanted—a Drac confession—and right now any Drac would do.

  She leaned back in her chair and focused on his feet. His heels were raw where his leather shoes had rubbed against the skin. He had a nervous habit of bouncing his knees and must have done it during all his interviews. When he was awake, that is.

  This was useless, she thought. She stood up and went to the door, and Shugrue didn’t seem to notice. A guard opened it for her, and she walked into the observation room where Pete and Diego Soto, the NYPD’s ace interrogator, were sitting at a long table. Shugrue was in full view on the other side of the one-way mirror. One of Colleen Franco’s two lackeys, the plump one, leaned against the wall in the shadows, the blue light on the phone attached to his ear pulsing. If he was here, Franco had to be nearby.

  “So what do you think?” Soto said.

  Trisha took a seat. “He’s not much good now. I wish I had talked to him earlier.”

  “But you think he’s our guy?” Pete asked.

  Trisha shook her head. “No. I don’t.”

  Soto gave her the “waiting stare.” She often used the technique herself. Say nothing, just wait. Make the suspect uncomfortable enough that he starts talking without prodding. She couldn’t believe he was using it on her. Did he really think this would get her to change her mind about Shugrue?

  Soto leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, and maintained eye contact. She did the same.

  “We can do this all day,” she said.

  A wry smile took over the bottom half of his face, but his eyes were emotionless. “Yeah, I guess we can.”

  “You still like Lassiter for this, don’t you?” Pete said.

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Well, I’ve got some bad news for you. Adele Cardinalli won’t press charges.”

  Trisha’s face fell. “What do you mean she won’t press charges? He was ready to bash her brains out. I saw him.”

  “Now she’s saying he was holding the rolling pin but not in a threatening way.”

  “Bull! I saw him.”

  “Your word against hers,” Pete said. “And the Ravioli Queen has friends.”

  “Oh, come on! Gimme a break! She’s using her connections to protect Lassiter? Why, for God’s sake?”

  “Well, duh. She’s got all her money with him. And he’s the charming golden boy who gives her a lot of attention. She wants him to be he’s innocent.”

  “I don’t believe this.”

  “Believe it. And that’s not all. Nineteen members of the Orchid Club called the Chief’s office after Lassiter’s arrest. They all said basically the same thing. He’s a wonderful person, salt of the earth, walks on water, how could anyone even suggest he’s a killer, and if we pursue a case against him, they will be calling—fill in the blank—the mayor, the governor, their congressmen, their senators, the President, God… You get the picture?”

  Trisha turned to Soto. “This is how the brass wants it? Leave the guy with connections alone and throw the poor shlub to the wolves.” She pointed at Shugrue through the glass.

  “Hey, I gotta boss, you gotta boss. They tell you to do something, you do it.”

  “Even if you know it’s wrong?”

  “Are we talking in general, or this case in particular?”

  “Both.”

  “Well, in general I agree with you. But with this mess, we have no case against Lassiter. Mrs. Cardinalli pulled the rug out from under us. Shugrue, on the other hand, was in possession of the bag of souvenirs. I’d say that’s pretty convincing evidence.”

  “That could have been planted,” she said. “He said Lassiter had been to his apartment recently.”

  “True but so what,” Soto said. “Shugrue didn’t say Lassiter gave him the bag, and he also didn’t say he saw Lassiter in possession of those articles.”

  A knot of frustration tightened between Trisha’s shoulders. “I know it’s not Shugrue. It’s Lassiter.”

  Colleen Franco’s chubby gofer piped up. “She’s coming.” He had a sympathetic slant to his brows, and for the first time Trisha saw that he was human and appreciated that he was giving them a heads up. His tone indicated that his boss was on the warpath and they should watch out. Pete sat up straight, and Soto pulled up his tie.

  Franco burst through the door like a freight train. Her chignon was high and tight, lacquered for battle with extra hair spray. Her nostrils were flared as if she’d just come from an argument, and the glint in her eyes signaled that she’d won.

  Her skinny lackey followed on her heels. He threw a quick look to his chubby counterpart, wordlessly warning him to give their boss a wide berth.

  She strafed the trio sitting at the table with a hard glare. “Update me. Now. Is this our guy or not?” A sharp index finger pointed at Shugrue through the glass. “Do NOT disappoint me.”

  “I think he is,” Soto said.

  Pete weighed in. “I agree. We have hard evidence from the search. We’ve got nothing with the other guy.”

  “The ‘other guy’ being Lassiter?” she snapped. “Be precise.”

  “Yes,” Pete said. “Gene Lassiter.”

  “And what about you?” she said to Trisha. “What does the FBI have to say?”

  Trisha stood up, not wanting Franco to loom over her like a third-grade teacher. “It’s not Shugrue. I think it’s Lassiter.”

  Franco’s upper lip curled. “You think, Agent McCleery? Or you know?”

  “Profiling is part science, part intuition—”

  “Intuition doesn’t hold up in a court of law, Agent McCleery. You do know that, don’t you?”

  Trisha looked her in the eye. “I could do without the sarcasm.”

  Four eyebrows shot up as her two lackeys took a step back. Apparently no one ever dared stand up to the Wicked Witch. But Trisha didn’t give a damn. Franco could get her written up, transferred, even fired. If it kept an innocent man from being convicted for something he didn’t do, it was worth it.

  Franco huffed a humorless laugh. “You know what I can do without, Agent McCleery? The handholding, the kid-gloves treatment, the bogus hero worship, the pity party.”
>
  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You! That’s what I’m talking about. The great profiler whose mother was murdered by a serial killer. Your alleged supernatural abilities to sniff out killers, to intuit their thoughts. You’re above criticism because we’re all supposed to feel sorry for you. Because you’re special.”

  “Where the hell did you get that idea?”

  “Everybody in the Bureau says it.”

  Trisha’s face was on fire. “Who specifically? Name names.”

  “It doesn’t matter who. What they say about you is true. I’ve seen it myself.”

  “And what exactly do they say about me? Clue me in.”

  “That you’re obsessed with finding your mother’s killer. He’s your boogeyman.”

  Franco’s words hit like a slap in the face. Was it that obvious?

  “That’s not true,” Trisha said.

  But in her heart she knew it was true, though she never thought it clouded her analytic skills.

  “The way I see it, it’s pretty simple, McCleery. You’re rejecting Shugrue because he’s too young to have killed your mother. Lassiter, on the other hand, is old enough to be a suspect. That’s why you’re pushing for him.”

  “No. I was right there when he was about to bash Adele Cardinalli’s brains out. And he may have also perpetrated a massive financial fraud since his arrest.”

  “Yeah, and maybe he stole the Statue of Liberty, too. Face it. None of that makes him Drac.”

  Trisha was still smarting from Franco’s previous remarks. “So who told you this about me? Who thinks I’m obsessed with finding my mother’s killer? Tell me.”

  “Forget it, McCleery. That’s old news. The New York City Police Department thanks you for your service, but you are no longer needed on this case. You can cross the street and go back to the feds.”

  “What about my profile? I worked on it all night. I’m almost done.”

  “Don’t need it. But thanks for the effort.”

  “Hey, don’t blow me off. Just tell me the truth. Who’s been bad-mouthing me? I want to know.”

  Franco’s face became a dark storm cloud. “Getting a little huffy for your rank, Special Agent. Do you know who you’re talking to?”

  “I don’t give a damn about rank. If I’m being maligned, I deserve to know who’s doing it. You owe me that, you freaking—” Trisha stopped before she said it.

  “Bitch? Is that what you’re thinking?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “You’re avoiding my question.”

  “Don’t press it, McCleery.”

  “I will press it… bitch!”

  Franco threw up her hands. “You really wanna know? Really? Fine! It was your boss who told me.”

  “My boss? You mean Barry Krieger?”

  “That’s right. There it is. Now you know.”

  Trisha felt as if she’d been splashed with scalding water. Is that what Barry thought of her? A fragile flower? A wounded bird? She had an overwhelming urge to lash out at someone.

  Franco turned to Soto. “Write up your report so we can charge Shugrue. I want him processed as soon as possible. Warwick, stay on top of this and keep me informed every step of the way. As soon as the charges are ready, call us. I’ll arrange a press conference.

  “Louis,” she said to her chubby assistant, “call the Chief’s office and tell them I’ll have some good news very soon. Don’t give any specifics. I want to tell the Chief personally.

  “Daniel,” she said to the skinny assistant, “give the same message to the mayor’s office, but do not confirm that it’s Shugrue. I’ll announce that at the press conference with the Chief…”

  But Trisha had already tuned her out. This was all about politics, Franco promoting herself. She had pegged the woman as a ruthless climber the minute she met her. Of course Colleen Franco wasn’t the only one. There were plenty of self-serving backstabbers at the FBI, and right now she had a bone to pick with one of them.

  “Barry!” Trisha barged into her boss’s office.

  Barry Krieger looked up from the paperwork on his desk, annoyed with the intrusion. He was in shirt sleeves, his jacket draped over his chair. The setting orange sun reflected off the copper-colored glass of the building across the street, but those spears of light did not penetrate the tinted, high-security glass of the FBI offices.

  “I just went twelve rounds with Colleen Franco,” she said, struggling to keep her anger under control. “She said you told her that I’m obsessed with finding out who killed my mother. Is that true? Is that what you think?”

  “I don’t know what she told you, but she obviously misinterpreted what I said.” He went back to his paperwork.

  But Trisha wasn’t about to leave it at that. “So what did you tell her?”

  He looked up at her from under his brows. “I told her that your passion for your work stemmed from your experience as the child of a victim of a violent crime. I said that your extraordinary level of dedication made you treat every case as if it were your mother’s case. I did not say that you actually believed that every serial killer you investigated was your mother’s killer. That may be Colleen’s spin, but it’s not what I said.”

  Trisha’s anger still simmered as she tried to decide if this was a snow job or not.

  “Look, Trisha, I know how abrasive Franco can be, but if you lock horns with her, it’s not gonna do you any good. If she files a complaint, it’ll weigh heavily against you. Remember, FBI profilers are supposed work in cooperation with local authorities. Investigative Support has a good reputation in that regard. Please don’t damage it.”

  “But do you realize what the NYPD is doing? They want to railroad Shugrue because he’s an easy target. Lassiter’s the guy they should be concentrating on, but he’s rich and he’s got connections. He—”

  Barry held up his hand like a traffic cop. “Stop. We did our job. We gave them our best advice. What they do with it is their business. If Mr. Shugrue is innocent, he’ll be exonerated by a jury of his peers.”

  “You know damn well that’s not true, Barry. He’ll be defended by a legal-aid lawyer straight out of law school, and if he’s lucky, he’ll get life.”

  Barry shrugged. “This is out of our hands, Trisha.”

  “Well, it shouldn’t be. Lassiter will get a free pass to kill again. I cannot sit by and let that happen.”

  “Trisha, listen to me. You’re in a lose-lose situation. Rocking the boat will not get you what you want. The police are happy that they have suspect in custody. The Director is happy that the police are happy. Everyone concerned is happy. Don’t mess that up.”

  She threw up her hands. “I cannot believe you’re saying this. You’re telling me it’s all political. It has nothing to do with justice and saving lives.”

  “It has everything to do with justice and saving lives if you take the long view. You’re a very effective profiler. If you make a stink here, it will affect your career. You could be taken off the unit and you wouldn’t be a profiler anymore. And that would be a real shame because you’re very good at what you do.”

  “But—”

  “This is just one case, Trisha. Let it go. Stay in the game and do good where you can.”

  She stared out the window, tears of frustration welling in her eyes. The sun had dipped below the horizon. It was still light out, but there was barely a glint on the cooper glass across the street. In her head she heard Lassiter’s voice singing “I Need You.” His off-key half-speaking/half-singing was like acid eating through her brain. She wanted to tell Barry about this, but it wasn’t hard evidence. And if she came right out and said she believed Lassiter was the man who had killed her mother, it would just confirm what everyone thought
about her. That she was obsessed, single-minded, crazy. She swiped the tears away. She wanted to scream

  “Can I ask you something, Trisha?”

  She cleared her voice. “What?”

  “Lassiter was at your apartment when I showed up that time. What was that all about?”

  Her face turned red, humiliated that she’d been taken in by Lassiter’s charms and that she’d actually considered being with him.

  “All of a sudden you have nothing to say?” Barry said.

  “He’s my father’s money manager. That’s how I know him. And what I do on my time—”

  “Not when you’re socializing with a potential suspect. Then it becomes my business, too.”

  She opened her mouth, about to respond, when her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. “Hang on.” She pulled it out, figuring it must have something to do with Shugrue, but when she looked at the caller ID, she saw that it was her sister.

  “Hello? Cindy?”

  “Hey,” her sister said on the other end. “You busy right now?”

  Trisha glanced at Barry. “Yeah, kind of.”

  “Well, if you can get away, Daddy and I are at Gene’s house—”

  “Where?”

  “Gene Lassiter’s. He invited us over for drinks to make up for the confusion over the fund transfer. It was all a big misunderstanding. He wondered if you’d like to join us.”

  A deep chill took hold of Trisha. “Who’s with you? Are you there alone?”

  “Just the three of us right now, but he said he invited a few other clients.”

  “But right now you’re alone with him?”

  “Is there something wrong? You sound upset.”

  “Listen to me carefully, Cindy. Is Gene nearby? Can he hear you? Just say yes or no.”

  “No, I’m in kitchen. He and Dad are in the living room. What’s going on?”

  “I want you and Dad to get out of there immediately. Don’t make a scene. Just make up an excuse and get the hell out of there.”

  “But why? I don’t understand. The money’s safe. Everything’s all right.”