by Shandi Boyes
Isabelle’s interests are too piqued to pick up how my pitch accelerated during part of my reply. Alex wants me to compile these files into easy-to-read dot-point documents, but I volunteered for the job. I got justice for Liam and Wren, but I won’t believe I’ve upheld the pledge I made to Mr. Gregg when I was five until I unearth the reason they were targeted to begin with. That has me digging through records almost as old as me.
“Do you believe Isaac’s secrets are held within these boxes?” Isabelle’s voice is a cross between worried and hopeful.
I play it cool even though my stomach is twisted up in knots. My intuition is telling me I’m about to stumble onto something great, but I am as distrusting of it as I am anything right now. “Maybe ask me again next month?”
My heart thumps against my ribcage when Isabelle asks, “Where do you want me to start?”
Is she offering to help me sort through these files with the hope of unearthing Isaac’s secrets? Or does she already know them and praying she can veer me away from the truth?
I guess there’s only one way to find out.
“It’s fine, Izzy. Go and enjoy your weekend off.”
When she slings her coat over a spare chair, I hide my surprise at her eagerness to dig in by rolling up the sleeves of my dress shirt.
I don’t have a chance in hell of holding back my smile when she grumbles, “You’re paying for the pizza, though.”
Have you ever stepped back and thought wow, I really fucked that up? The first time I thought that was the night Melody left me. The second was when I was stopped by Agent Russell in the parking lot of Isaac’s nightclub. And the third is now.
I was trained to evaluate every emotion that crossed someone’s face, but for the past seven years, I’ve been so caught up gauging people’s motives, I never truly stopped to see the person behind my in-depth evaluation. Mr. Gregg taught me how to lower the number of casualties of my mistakes, but I was never shown how to handle other people’s errors.
Izzy is swimming in waters way out of her depth, but that doesn’t mean she’s set to drown. She probably has a better chance of surviving the treacherous waters than I do because she can assess situations without the emotional baggage I carry into every assessment.
Not once the past six hours has she denied Isaac has an association with Henry Gottle, Sr. She merely presented valid points on how their connection can be explained, such as why Isaac was photographed meeting with Henry’s son, Henry, Jr., weeks ago.
Henry’s ex-wife, Delilah Winterbottom, commenced working at Destiny Records, the record label owned by Isaac’s business associate, Cormack McGregor, a month before Henry filed for divorce. Izzy believes Isaac did Henry the favor of getting Delilah out of his hair with the hope Henry would organize for his fighter, Jacob, to fight the current heavy-weight champion for this region, Curtis Parker. Henry, Jr. is a fight promoter. He could have contacts Isaac needs.
Since Isabelle’s conviction on the evidence was more plausible than fraudulent, I offer to write up a report on her findings and issue them to Alex before straying my eyes to the cause of my broken sleep the past month. “That’s one mystery solved. Now, onto the much bigger one.”
When Isabelle follows the direction of my gaze to the massive stack of Petretti files I’m itching to comb through, her eyes bulge when they float past the face of her watch. “Holy crap, it’s close to two in the morning.”
“I’m so sorry, Izzy. I didn’t know it was that late. I hope I’m not keeping you from anything.” My jaw tightens when I realize I’m once again judging her as I swore only minutes ago not to do.
She thankfully misses the snarky pitch of my tone. “Watching re-runs of Sex and the City or unearthing the secrets of an enigma, I’ll take what’s behind curtain B, please, Roger.”
I watch her in shocked awe when she laughs so hard, she snorts. She’s embroiled in a huge mess, but she can still find the time to laugh. I could learn a thing or two from her. I’ve been so moody lately, I’m one grumpy gripe away from being mistaken for Alex.
When Isabelle catches my admired glance, she tugs up the sleeves of her shirt like she’s suddenly overwhelmed with heat. “What?”
I could lie to her—again—but it’s time to try a new approach. “You have a beautiful laugh, Izzy.”
Heat treks across her cheeks as she whispers her thanks. Once the blemish on her face matches mine, she gathers a bunch of files from one of the boxes Grayson slipped between the less conspicuous ones and hands half of them to me.
“Holy fuck. I think I found a connection.” I swallow my loud voice when my glance across the table has me stumbling onto a sleeping Isabelle. She was doing the funky head-bob thing everyone does when they commence falling asleep the past thirty minutes, but now her head has fully come to rest on the file she was highlighting.
While yanking my cell phone out of the pocket of my trousers, I make my way to Isabelle’s side of the table. My ass is dead from sitting for almost over sixteen hours straight, and my legs have me walking like a robot since my knees refuse to bend, but I make it to her side of the table relatively unscathed.
I’ve just draped my jacket over her shoulders when Grayson answers my call. It’s a little slow for him, but I give him some leeway considering it’s barely five in the morning, and he’s about to go undercover. He needs as much sleep as he can get. It’s a rarity when you’re undercover.
“Isaac was photographed entering an underground fighting circuit organized by Col Petretti,” I confess, eager to get our conversation underway so he can go back to sleep. “In Col’s circuit, all the fighters had owners… all except Isaac. Tobias cited in his files many times that Col refused for anyone to participate if they didn’t have an owner. What if he allowed an exception that day because Isaac was his fighter?”
Grayson either yawns or makes an unsure murmur. “If that were the case, why weren’t they photographed together more than once? Col is worse than Kirill. He’s a gloater.”
“True.” Even though I only speak one word, nothing but annoyance is heard in my tone. “But I still think I’m onto something. In the group photo, CJ Petretti, Col’s eldest son, is in the back righthand corner of the image.”
“Seriously?”
“Dead fucking serious.”
I hear the ruffling of bedsheets before the tapping of feet stomping on wooden floorboards bellows down the line. I’ve never been to the underground hub Grayson runs in the basement of his family’s B&B, but I’ve often wondered what it looks like. He has an entire setup down there, has since he stumbled onto Katie’s file buried in a pile so deep, no one would have touched her case in years, if ever.
I twist away from Isabelle when Grayson asks, “Which guy?”
“See the kid in the diaper?”
“Crombie?” Grayson growls out, unimpressed at the snark in my tone.
“Yep. Now look two places up.”
I picture Grayson’s fists balling when the cracking of knuckles sounds down the line. “The kid would be four or five. There’s no way facial recognition would have thrown back a match for that.”
“Who said I used facial recognition?” When he growls, I talk faster. “Tobias was undercover in the Petretti crew two decades ago. He had many photos of their children.” I place my phone on speaker before activating the camera app. After taking a photograph of a polaroid I found an hour ago, I send it via a secure email to Grayson.
I don’t need to tell him to check his email. I hear the familiar ting before he curses. “The resemblance is uncanny. Still don’t know why the fuck you’re waking me up before the sparrows, though.”
“It’s a part of the web. Isaac, Henry, and Col. We need to add Col into the equation. That’s probably where we went wrong. We’re not looking at all the players. We’re trying to sway the stack by knocking out the bottom prongs with the hope it’ll have the hierarchies falling, but what if the answers we are seeking are from someone not in the stack?”
He scrub
s at his jaw, a telltale sign he isn’t one-hundred percent on board with my plan. “We could be wasting resources.”
“Or…” I pause in a manner Joey would be proud of. “We just found the loose thread. You’ve had so much hassle tracking Kirill because he never leaves a stone unturned. This photo proves the Petrettis and the Bobrovs knew each other. That means Kirill forgot about Col.” I choke out a laugh. “He’s not the most stable right now. A good push could have him crumbling. Are you really willing to bypass that for an hour or two of your time?”
Forever willing to push the boundaries when it comes to Katie’s case, Grayson discloses, “I’ll send one of my guys on the next available flight.”
Somewhere between highlighting payments Col made to associations not in the United States over two decades ago to CJ Petretti’s current whereabouts, I nodded off. Don’t ask me exactly how long I’ve been sleeping, or why my cheek is more bruised than my ass as I won’t be able to give you an honest answer. The thump in my head reveals I could do with another six or so hours of sleep, but the snatch of a file from beneath my cheek steals the chance.
As I rub the sleep from my eyes, Isabelle asks, “How many years ago was Col Petretti’s son admitted to the hospital?” Her rumpled clothes expose she woke not long before me, and we won’t mention the red ink mark on her cheek, or you’ll be looking at her as if she’s homeless like I am.
When she peers at me with wide, please-answer-me eyes, I mumble, “Umm, around six, seven years ago.” I’m a little lost to where she’s going with this. CJ’s admittance could signify the commencement of him getting his life on the straight and narrow, but it has no link with Isaac, does it?
With CJ’s hospital record in her hand, Isabelle moves for the stack of bank records she was working on before she dozed off. Her highlights correspond with the case we’re meant to be investigating, not the one I’m hosting under the radar.
“Look.” She thrusts the documents my way. “Isaac’s hefty Monday morning cash deposits during his first two years at college ceased the weekend Col’s son was admitted to the hospital. CJ’s medical report indicates he was extensively covered in bruises, and he sustained multiple broken bones and fractures. Isaac was a fighter in the underground fight ring, just like his fighter, Jacob, is now. I’d put money on it that Isaac and CJ fought that weekend—”
My eyes lift from CJ’s hospital records when Isabelle suddenly stops talking. I discover the reason for her gasping response when I spot Alex standing just inside the conference room door. Has he been here the entire time? Or did I miss something in my half-asleep state?
“How do you know Isaac was a fighter?” Alex asks Isabelle, stepping deeper into the room.
“Umm… I’m just assuming.” Her chest rises and falls in rhythm to mine as she stammers out additional details. “It doesn’t seem like an industry you’d get into unless you had some prior knowledge about it.”
I watch Alex with unscrupulous eyes when he says, “Your investigative skills are starting to flourish, Isabelle. I’m very pleased with your dedication of late.” He never gives a compliment, not even when it’s earned, so there’s something more going on here than he’s exposing. I guarantee it.
I take a mental note to remind Grayson of our agreement to keep things between us when Alex discloses, “We recently discovered Isaac was indeed a fighter in an underground fighting ring during his years at college. That fighting ring’s organizer was Col Petretti.”
“Ah, hold on,” I interrupt, more than happy to reveal to Alex that he’s working on half-facts instead of full truths. “CJ’s injuries weren’t from a fight. That weekend he was involved in a car accident with his sister, Ophelia.”
“What?” Isabelle blubbers out, her tone high.
I pass her the documents she handed me only minutes ago. “CJ and his younger sister, Ophelia, were involved in a fatal car accident six years ago.”
Her hands shake as she speed-reads the hospital record that reveals CJ’s injuries were extensive, but somewhat favorable compared to what happened to his sister. She didn’t survive the carnage.
“Was anyone else in the car with them?” When Isabelle’s eyes stray to mine, seeking an answer for her question in my eyes, I shake my head. “Did Ophelia survive the accident?”
She appears a little unstable on her feet when I once again shake my head. “Did you know Ophelia?” She’s a year or two older than Isabelle, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t meet. They were both mafia princesses, so perhaps they met in passing.
“No. It’s just incredibly sad, that’s all.” Isabelle scrubs her hand across her cheek on the exact area marked with red ink before nudging her head to the bathroom. “I’m going to go wash up.”
Alex waits for her to disappear from view before shifting on his feet to face me. “Continue working that angle. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Isaac’s bank deposits ceased the exact week CJ was in an accident.” When I lift my chin, he pivots on his heels and stalks away. He’s halfway out the door before he mutters, “And the next time you update Grayson on matters pertaining to my case before me, I’ll expect to see your resignation on my desk shortly after.”
19
Brandon
With Alex leaving the office not long after Isabelle, I grab my coat off the rack in the corner of the buzzing office before making my way outside. Usually, I’d slip an earpiece into my ear to keep Grayson updated on my whereabouts, but with my mistrust still paramount, I go without surveillance this time around.
Besides, an off-duty agent doesn’t need surveillance when he’s grabbing a bite to eat at a well-known Italian restaurant—even one named Petretti’s.
An abundance of garlic and pureed potatoes filter into my nose when I walk through the single glass door of Petretti’s. To someone outside of law enforcement, it appears to be a quintessential Italian family restaurant. It’s only the armed men in each corner of the space, watching instead of eating, that gives away it’s a shell for an Italian cartel. Many mafia operations have legitimate businesses. It makes it harder for the authorities to prove their wealth wasn’t amassed illegally and gives them outlets to launder money and move merchandize without raising suspicion.
“Good morning, sir. A table for one?” The restaurant hostess’s grin doubles when she drags her eyes down my body, seemingly oblivious to the fact I’ve been wearing the same trousers for two days now. I switched out my suit jacket for a more casual one and had a deodorant bath during my commute, but I’m reasonably sure not even the fragrant smelling air can hide the fact I’m in desperate need of a shower. Not that the hostess seems to mind. If we were in a cartoon, she’d have love hearts springing out of her eyes. “It’s quiet. I could join you for a meal if you’d like?”
Her overzealous friendliness takes a step back when I flash her my credentials. “Agent Brandon James, I’m here to speak to Col.”
“Col?” she queries, acting daft.
“Petretti.” I point to the proprietor sign above the door. “Owner of this restaurant.”
“Oh, Col.” She overemphasizes his name with a nasally pitch that has my eardrums cringing. “He’s not here.”
Too tired to deal with her shit, I fan my jacket to display the gun on my hip before asking, “Do you know where I can find him?”
She looks a cross between wanting to jump my bones and gouge out my eyes while answering, “You should probably ask him.” She jerks her head to the brute towering over me like I’m unaware he crept to my side of the room the instant Col’s name left my mouth.
“Is he Col’s keeper?”
“No,” the stranger answers on her behalf. “I’m his exterminator.”
When I turn around to face him, my throat works hard to swallow. He’s a huge son of a bitch. “Oh. Okay. Good.”
Since he won’t get me any closer to Col than the bimbo in front of me, I daze him with a three-hit combination to his carotid artery. It’s an old street fighting regime Mr. Gregg taught me when
I didn’t want to explain cracked and bloody knuckles to my father. Ninety percent of the time, it knocks them out. The other ten percent stuns them long enough for me to escape.
Hypothetically, this incident resides in the ninety-percent column, but since he isn’t the only person I need to take down, his slump to the floor is quickly chased by me removing his gun from the waistband of his pants and pointing it and my gun at two of the three remaining security details. I subdue the third man by keeping my expression neutral and without panic. If he believes I have the skills to kill two of his associates before his bullet makes it halfway across the room, I’ll come out of this alive. Considering the fact he didn’t immediately fire at me, I have faith in my plan.
Our demented square standoff lasts for approximately thirty seconds before a deep voice at the side advises the men to stand down. Although his tone is enriched with the Italian heritage I’m seeking, it’s not gruff enough to belong to Col. It’s younger and more Americanized.
I discover why when I shift my eyes in the direction the voice came from. Dimitri Petretti, middle child of Col Petretti, is standing in the doorway of the kitchen. He has a tomato paste-stained napkin in his hand. Even with it only being an hour away from the lunch rush, the industrial-size kitchen is barren of any food bar a half-eaten serve of Malloreddus. Clearly, I’m not the only one who wakes early. Dimitri is eating lunch at a time most mobsters are waking for breakfast.