“There’s too much in our pasts and so much doubt about what the future will bring for both of us for it to be anything other than a long road. But that’s a road I want to take now. Because of you. And hopefully with you.”
He held her gaze, and because she knew he had more to say, she said nothing.
“I can’t pretend to know what you’re feeling right now. Everything you and Marcus have been through, everything you will go through,” he paused again. “But I do know how important all this is to you, and because it’s important to you, it’s important to me. That’s why I’m doing this for you, Carly.”
His eyes were earnest and sincere, and it was then that Carly felt the full impact of what this man could mean to her. She didn’t believe in love at first sight. She didn’t even believe in love in two weeks. But she did believe in the possibility of love. And in that moment, when their breath mingled and their eyes held, she knew that if love was possible for her, it was possible with this man.
“Thank you,” she said. Sometimes those words, that phrase, felt so inadequate. How could two words possibly convey the depth and truth of what she felt? But today they did, and she sensed it in her body just as she saw it reflected in his eyes. Their presence together, in this moment, was more intimate than anything else they had ever shared.
Drew gave a small smile then dropped his hands back down to her waist as the plane hit some turbulence. Startled, she tensed, and his hands tightened, holding her steady. She glanced out the window, as if the sky would tell her whether or not it had been a one-time bump or if more were to come. When she looked back at him, his smile had grown bigger.
“You don’t much like flying, do you?” he asked.
She rolled her eyes and shook her head as she slid off his lap and onto the seat beside him where she promptly buckled her seatbelt. And tightened it. “No, I don’t. I flew a ton when I was kid. Back and forth to Europe all the time. Flying to horse shows, all that kind of stuff, but it’s still not my favorite thing to do. And yes, before you spout statistics, I know it’s safer than driving,” she said, holding up a hand to stop him from teasing her.
They hit another bump and her hands dropped to the armrests. Drew reached over, picked one up, and held it in his. “I wasn’t going to point that out.”
“You were,” she said, gripping his hand.
“I wasn’t,” he countered. “But I was going to point out that you probably feel safer driving because you’re in control,” he added.
“Are you insinuating that I’m a control freak?” She arched a brow at him.
“’Freak’ isn’t the word I’d use.”
“Are you the pot or the kettle?” she asked with a laugh.
He smiled. “I’ll be the pot. Kettles have more curves.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Drew watched Carly as she leaned her hip against the pawnshop’s counter and tapped a piece of paper on the glass. By all outward appearances, she looked like a plain-clothes police officer doing a routine job. But the intensity in her eyes gave her away.
“It was nice of Vivi to arrange a search warrant for us,” she said, keeping an eye on the back of the shop. The shopkeeper, who had been cooperative, was back there pulling his paper records for the gun.
“And for the FBI escort.” He gestured toward the agent waiting for them by the door. The man had met them at the private airport and introduced himself as Agent Damian Rodriguez. Agent Rodriguez and Ian went way back to their days as Rangers. In other words, he was someone in the agency they could trust.
Carly glanced over her shoulder at the man, who winked and gave her an are-we-having-fun-yet look. She smiled, looking like she was about to say something, but abruptly cut herself off when the shopkeeper, an older man who appeared to have more skin covered in tattoos than not, came walking toward them from the shop’s office.
“Here we are,” he said, handing a consignment slip over them. Carly took it, read it, then handed it to Drew.
He looked over the name and address of the person who had consigned the gun, as well as the information pertaining to the gun itself, to confirm that it was the one they were looking for. Stapled to the slip was a receipt for the amount paid by Isaac Trainor, further confirmation that it was the right gun.
“Do you know if this man ever brought anything else in?” Drew asked, pointing to the name of the man who’d brought the gun into the pawn shop.
“My filing system isn’t the greatest, I go by year and then name. I didn’t see anything else from him in the year you were looking at, but I didn’t go through any other year.”
“But if he was in a lot, you’d remember him?” Carly pressed.
The man nodded. “I have a few regulars and I can say he isn’t one of them.”
Drew slid the consignment slip and receipt into a clear evidence bag. “Thank you for your help.”
“Anytime. I like to keep things above board here,” the shopkeeper replied. “Knowing I cooperate with law enforcement keeps some of the characters I’d rather not do business with away.”
With that, they turned toward the door. Agent Rodriguez opened it for them and the three of them proceeded out to the sidewalk.
“Get what you need?” the agent asked.
“We have a name and an address—whether he’s still at that address, we’ll have to see. Do you have someone who can run a search for us, Agent Rodriguez?” Drew asked, holding out the evidence bag.
“Call me Damian, and yes, I do,” he said, reaching for the information.
As he made the call, they made their way to the government issued SUV he’d picked them up in. Five minutes later, they had an address for one Louis Charles, aged fifty-four, and some additional personal information on the man who had once had possession of the gun used to kill Sophia Davidson and Tony Lamot. He had no criminal record, paid his taxes, and, for the past two years, had lived in an apartment above a small breakfast and lunch place he owned in one of the gentrifying neighborhoods in DC.
“You okay?” From his position in the front seat, Drew turned back to look at Carly, sitting in the back. While he knew DC well, he was glad to have Damian navigating the streets so that he could focus on her. She seemed to be growing more and more quiet with each passing block.
After giving Damian a quick glance, she looked back at Drew. “Just thinking,” she said.
“About?”
“How would Louis Charles come across a gun that was used to kill my mother and uncle? From what Damian said, he seems to be a stand-up guy who’s built a better life for himself in the past fifteen years. I mean, the address the pawnshop guy gave us isn’t in the best part of town now. Back then, I can’t imagine it was a place anyone like Vince Repetto would have set foot in, willingly or not, without a lot of backup. So where did their paths cross? Or did Repetto have a partner familiar with that part of town? Or did he just hire out the killings?”
Drew studied her face as she turned to look out the window. “You still think someone else might have been involved,” he said.
“I don’t know. I guess I’m getting ahead of myself. Yes, I think there might have been someone else involved in the whole scheme. But I suppose it’s just as likely that he hired out the killings and whomever he hired had a connection with Charles—which would explain how the gun ended up with him in that part of town.”
“If there’s a link between Charles and Repetto—a link that would explain how the gun came into Charles’ possession—Naomi and Brian will be able to find it. Do you want to call and give them the update? Ask them to follow up?”
At his mention of the twins’ names, Damian chuckled.
Drew turned toward him, then, deciding not to ask, turned back to Carly, who already had her phone out.
Dialing, she said, “I’ll ask them to dig into it. I also want to see if anyone has heard from Marcus yet.”
Drew sat back in his seat. Half-listening to her side of the conversation, he watched the streets go by. Men and
women in suits flooded the sidewalks, walking purposefully. He felt a kind of kinship with the nameless masses. Usually, he was one of them, going about his business as if it were the most important thing in the world. Granted, his “business” often truly was crucial, to the nation at least. But as he watched a man talking on his phone walk directly into a woman staring at a device in her hand—neither bothering to acknowledge the other—he wondered just how much bravado there was in thinking he was anything more than a cog—a replaceable cog—in the machine.
“Drew?” Carly’s voice came from behind him.
He turned to face her.
“You okay?” she asked, parroting his question from a few moments earlier.
“Fine, what’s the story?” He glanced quickly at her phone then back at her.
She hesitated then answered. “Naomi and Brian will look into Louis Charles and let us know if they find anything interesting. Marcus got the chip and is on his way to the airport now. We should know tonight if it has any information on it.”
They would know that night if they had what they needed to bring Repetto in. Or if, after so many years, the chip had become too degraded and unreadable.
“We’re here,” Damian said, pulling into a parking spot alongside a renovated building. All three of them craned their heads to get a look at the brick townhouse. From the information Damian had provided, they knew that each of the two upper floors contained a two-bedroom apartment. Both had bay windows looking out onto the street, and with new glass, clean trim work, and restored brick, the building looked well tended and welcoming.
The ground floor café, according to the writing on its large front windows, served southern-style breakfast and lunch. Booths and a counter could be seen through the windows, as well as an open kitchen. It looked a bit retro with black and white tiled floors and red vinyl seating, but also clean and well kept.
“Ready?” Drew asked.
Both Carly and Damian nodded and the three of them climbed from the SUV. A door on the left side of the building led to the apartments and Damian took the lead, stepping up to the entrance and ringing the bell.
“Yes?” came a male voice over the intercom.
“Agent Damian Rodriguez, sir, with the FBI. Would you have a few minutes to talk?”
There was a pause and Drew saw a curtain flutter in a window upstairs. “Who’s with you?” the voice, presumably that of Louis Charles, asked.
“I have Deputy Chief of Police of Windsor, New York, Carly Drummond, and a consultant, Drew Carmichael, with me, sir,” Damian responded.
“Show your ID,” the voice said.
Damian pulled out his badge, looked around, then held it up to the small camera Carly pointed out over the door. A few seconds later, the door buzzed to let them in.
A short black man with graying hair was waiting for them on the first landing. “Come on in,” he said, waving his arm toward the open door of his apartment. “Sorry to be so brusque. This is a good neighborhood and all, much better than where I used to live, but you can’t be too careful.”
“No, sir, you can’t,” Damian agreed as they followed the man into his living room.
“Are you Louis Charles?” Damian asked.
The man, who couldn’t have been more than five-foot-three, nodded. “I am.”
Damian turned to Drew and Carly to see who wanted to lead. Drew cast a look at Carly.
“Mr. Charles,” she started.
“Call me Louis,” he interrupted.
“Louis, about fourteen years ago, you took a handgun to a pawn shop near the neighborhood where you used to live. Do you remember that?”
He frowned and Drew’s heart sank. He didn’t want this man to play dumb with them, or worse, truly not remember. But then the older gentleman surprised them all.
“Of course I remember,” he said, making a face. “It was the strangest damn thing,” he added.
“Strange?” Carly asked. “How so?”
“Now look, I know what you probably think. A black man living in that neighborhood, of course he’d have a gun.” Louis slid his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “But the thing is, I don’t like guns. Never bought one, never wanted to shoot one. I had a boy, my son, in the house with me, I always thought I’d rather us take the chance if we got robbed than have a gun in the house neither of us knew how to use. You know what I mean?” he said, looking up at them.
“Owning a gun is a big responsibility,” Damian said.
Again, Louis nodded. “It is. If you’re gonna own it, you should know how to shoot it, and back in those days, I didn’t have the time, money, or inclination to learn to shoot properly.”
“So how did you come across it?” Carly asked.
Louis shook his head. “I don’t rightly know. Now, I know that sounds strange, and like I said, the whole thing was strange. But the truth is, one day I just found it.”
“Found it?” Drew repeated.
Again, Louis shook his head. “I know, sounds crazy, but that’s the truth. There was a clog in the toilet one day so I took the top off to look in the tank and there it was.”
Everyone was silent. Of all the things Louis Charles could have told them, this hadn’t entered any of their minds.
“Had you been in the house long?” Damian asked after a moment. “Could it have been left there by the previous tenant?”
Louis shook his head one more time. “We’d been in that apartment more than eight years and believe me, with a growing boy and the bad plumbing, we’d had to take that toilet apart more than once.”
The story was just strange enough that Drew found himself believing Louis—that and the fact that the event still seemed to befuddle the man was probably what convinced him.
“Do you have any idea how it could have gotten there?” Damian asked.
Louis shrugged. “Not really, no.”
“Had you had any visitors in the weeks before finding it?” Damian asked.
Carly’s phone buzzed and Drew cast her a glance before returning his attention to Louis.
“Excuse me,” she said, stepping a few feet away.
Louis shook his head at Damian’s question. “Not so much as I can remember, but you have to know, I was working like a dog back in those days. Eighteen-hour days weren’t unusual.”
“And your son was home alone a lot,” Drew said.
“He’s a good boy, always was. He’s a lawyer now. Here in town. He got a scholarship to a special high school, then to college. Worked his way through law school. Signed on with one of those fancy law firms. The first thing the boy did was put a down payment on this place and move us out of our old neighborhood. Always did say I should be cooking for a living,” the father said with obvious pride in his son. “We renovated the café together, then the apartments. He still lives upstairs. Not spending his money on silly things—he still takes the metro to work.”
“Is this your son?” Carly asked, picking up a framed picture and rejoining the conversation.
Louis smiled. “Yes, that’s my boy. High school graduation. He was valedictorian.”
“You must be proud,” she said.
“Yes, I am.”
“How did he end up applying for the scholarship to the high school? Did his school counselor tell him about it?”
Louis let out a cynical laugh. “They didn’t have any counselors at that school in our old neighborhood. Couldn’t get any to stay more than a month or two. I was working so much that Cole spent some time at a local youth center. It was there he learned about the scholarship. Got a lot of help there too. I wasn’t so well educated, didn’t even graduate high school, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know the value of education. Wanted something better for him, wanted him to have more opportunities than I did and I knew education was the way. I encouraged him to go to the youth center and they were good to him. Tutored him, mentored him, all those things.”
“Sounds like a great program,” she said. “Is it still around?”
“It is. Much bigger now than it was back then, but it’s still around. Cole helps out there regularly too.”
“What’s the name of the place?” Carly asked.
Louis eyed her, sensing, as Drew did, that the question had more meaning than she was letting on. “Youth Roots,” he answered. “Is there a problem with them? And what do they have to do with the gun?” he asked, his eyes narrowing on her in curiosity.
“Maybe nothing,” Carly said. “But do you remember this day?” she asked, holding out her phone to him.
Louis hesitated, then took it. After a moment, he smiled. “Of course I remember. The local newspaper was doing one of those ridiculous feel-good stories—you know the type: the local-poor-boy-does-good kind of thing? Anyway, they came to the apartment to take pictures of Cole with the board of directors of Youth Roots,” he said, handing the phone back to Carly.
Silently, she handed it to Drew.
He looked down at the image she’d brought up. A young boy, presumably Cole, surrounded by six adults—two women and four men—everyone smiling. Tapping the screen he enlarged the image to read the caption. Cole Charles stood surrounded by the board of directors of Youth Roots, including Olivia Laturna Repetto.
“Was anyone else here that day?” Drew asked. “Anyone other than the board members and the photographer?”
Louis looked away in thought, no doubt trying to recall that day many years ago. “There was another woman, the wife of one of the board members,” he said. “And the husband of one of them too.”
“Do you know which woman brought her husband along?” Carly asked.
Drew could hear the excitement in her voice and Damian, no doubt sensing it too, seemed to come to high alert.
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