Page 22

Ryan

“So where are we at?”

the captain asks as he walks into the situation room and closes the door. He shoots me a look and I know exactly what it is he’s referring to.

Glancing at Joe, who I’ve only briefly filled in since I got in this morning, I turn back to the captain and start.

“The prison snitch was a bust,”

I explain.

“The little shit either knows nothing, which I don’t believe, or is legit too scared to talk.”

“That would be a first,”

the captain mumbles.

“I know. I’m thinking it’s the truth though,”

I continue.

“He used to run with Fitzgerald’s crew, so even though he’s been locked up for the last couple of years, I don’t buy that he doesn’t know something.”

“So, what now?”

“Well,”

I start, letting out a deep breath.

“I thought I’d pay Fitzgerald another visit,”

I say.

“Maybe try laying it on a bit harder now he knows I’m seeing his daughter.”

The captain watches me for a few minutes, an unreadable look on his face.

“And you’re sure this isn’t going to interfere with how you handle this case?”

he eventually asks.

“No,”

I say immediately, refusing to look away.

“It could actually work to our advantage,”

Joe offers, surprising us both.

“I mean, Ryan’s connection might rattle Fitzgerald and Macklin, make them wonder exactly how much he does know,”

he continues, shrugging.

“How much Erin might have confessed to him.”

I nod, even though in reality, that has been fuck all so far.

The captain pauses, taking a sip of his coffee as he looks at each of us in turn.

“And exactly how much do you know?”

he eventually asks, as though he’s read my mind but somehow thinks I’m the one who’s now too scared to talk.

I shift in my seat, stalling as I take a long sip of my coffee.

“Summers,”

he continues.

“You know this was part of the deal with you staying on the case,” he adds.

“I know,”

I say, nodding.

“I just don’t want to betray her trust, alright? She’s important to me.”

The captain nods.

“Which is all the more reason that you share as much information as you can,”

he says.

“We want this Macklin fucker caught, don’t we?”

“We do,”

I acknowledge.

“Alright, so what else did you find out?”

I take a deep breath, hoping to fuck that Erin can at least understand why I have to do this, that everything I’m doing is to keep her safe.

“He, her father, was based out of Atlanta,”

I start.

“Had a front antique business of all things that kept him frequenting Boston on a fairly regular basis. Macklin was…still is, his right-hand man,”

I continue.

“Erin was never part of the scene though, left it permanently when she was around eighteen, I think. That’s when she moved to Rockport.”

“And she doesn’t know anything?”

the captain asks, his eyes locked on mine.

“Any of the specifics of these deals of her father’s? Who they were with, what they really involved?”

I shake my head.

“She says she doesn’t. I mean she saw stuff, but only things like people coming over, hushed conversations and shit.”

Even as I say these words, I know they’re not entirely true. While it might be true, it’s all Erin told me, but I know there’s more that she isn’t saying. Shit, it’s likely much worse stuff that she knows about, has maybe even seen, that she’s still keeping to herself.

“Think she’d be willing to go through our books, see if she can identify anyone?”

he asks, bringing me back to the present.

I run a hand through my hair, wondering exactly how that conversation would go down, knowing I’d have to explain to her how I’d told the captain about that conversation of ours on the way up to my parents. The conversation that was supposed to have been just a conversation between us as a couple, not a police interview.

“I could try asking,”

I say, shrugging.

The captain nods. “Do that,”

he says.

“Alright, anything else?”

I shuffle the folder in my hands, knowing in the interests of full disclosure, I have to show him the photos I received too. I’m pretty sure he’s not going to take this new piece of info very well and I really fucking hope this isn’t the final straw that gets me taken off this case.

“Ryan?”

“Fuck,”

I breathe out as I pull the photo and the note out and slide them across the table.

I watch as the captain flicks through them, turning both of them over to examine them in detail.

“Anything else?”

he asks, not looking up.

I nod, even though he isn’t looking at me.

“Yeah, my tires were slashed,”

I explain.

“Here at the precinct.”

“Okay,”

he says, tapping the photo and the note against the table before handing them back to me.

“Let’s review our security footage and see if we can’t find out who did that. In the meantime, get your ass down to Cedar Junction and lean on that shithead, Fitzgerald. I want him to start talking.”

“I’m not off the case?”

I ask, stunned.

“No,”

he replies.

“Not yet. But this is serious, Ryan,”

he continues.

“I want you to be vigilant about your security at all times.”

I nod quickly, standing as though to leave before he has a chance to change his mind about all this.

“And find this fucking Macklin character,”

he adds as I walk out of the room.

Two hours later and I’m pulling into the parking lot of Cedar Junction prison, still in shock about the captain’s reaction to the photo these shitheads left for me. I’d fully expected to be removed from the case, the massive conflict of interest I have being with Erin now only compounded by the picture, the notes and their implicated threat.

But fuck it, I’ll take it, whatever his reasons are for letting me stay involved.

As I’m getting out of the car, I quickly check my phone, knowing I’ll have to surrender it soon. Opening up the security app that’s linked to Erin’s system, I see the delivery service dropping my car off, the unanswered door when they try to leave the keys. A part of me wonders where the hell Erin is as there’s nothing before that to show her leaving her place.

Just as I’m contemplating calling her, the second video loads, this time showing her leaving the house. I smile as she stops in her tracks, surprised that my car has been delivered sooner than expected. I can practically see the eye roll when she discovers the note telling her the keys are at the station with Finn.

It’s still strange to me knowing she’s so lax about security given the family she has. As if living with a new identity in some small seaside town is somehow going to protect her.

Erin disappears from view, stomping off down the sidewalk toward town just as I reach the prison entrance, so I slide my phone into my pocket and head inside.

After I’ve passed through the usual security checks, I’m shown into a room with a two-way mirror, a table and four chairs. The table has steel loops on it, the kind they often cuff the prisoners to, to stop them from doing something stupid.

Last time I’d been here, Fitzgerald hadn’t been given the honor. A part of me hopes he isn’t this time either, so that when I rile him up enough that he tries to go at me, I have an excuse to punch him in the jaw and hand him his ass.

“We’re waiting on the lawyer,”

a guard says, popping his head in the room.

“What?”

I ask, confused. This didn’t happen last time.

The guard shrugs as though he has no idea.

“Should be about twenty minutes,”

he adds before closing me in the room alone.

“Fucking hell,”

I murmur, standing up as I start to pace the room. What the hell is he playing at, bringing his lawyer in. Either he’s been told not to speak to anyone without them present or he’s deliberately being a prick by making me wait. Despite the fact I know him having his lawyer here is about the smartest thing he could do, another part of me can’t help but wonder if he isn’t also choosing to mess with me a little.

Payback for what happened in the warehouse.

Payback for being with Erin, maybe.

“Detective,”

a slimy voice says.

I turn and have to stifle a laugh as the walking cliché enters the room, his overpowering cologne wafting in behind him. He’s dressed impeccably in a tailored suit, his wingtip shoes polished, but everything about his accent and his demeanor screams Southie. No amount of money can change the fact that he’s just as dirty and crooked as his client.

“Lawyer,”

I counter, walking over to the table.

He rests his brief case on the table, making a show of opening it and fiddling with some documents inside.

“I’ll remind you again,”

he says, eyes sliding to mine.

“That my client is not to be spoken to, interviewed or in any way questioned without me being present.”

I roll my eyes, pulling out the chair and sitting down. I kick my legs out in front of me, crossing them at the ankles as I rest my hands on my stomach in a total display of I couldn’t give a fuck what you think.

“What your client does or does not choose to do is up to him,”

I say, offering a smarmy smile.

“If he wants to talk, then I’m happy to let him. Perhaps the fault is in your poor instruction to your client?”

The lawyer scrapes back his chair, the metal legs screeching on the cement floor as he shoots me a look that screams bloody murder. I watch impassively as he slams his brief case shut and moves it to the floor, both of us sitting in silence now.

Eventually the door behind him re-opens and Fitzgerald is ushered in, dressed in the same standard prison uniform he was wearing last time I saw him. His hands are cuffed, but they’re released as he’s shown to his chair, the asshole even sharing a joke with the guard as he slips the metal cuffs from his wrists.

I flick my eyes to guard’s badge, make a mental note of his name so I can rip him a new one when I’m done in here, before turning back to Fitzgerald.

Now that I know about the connection, it’s impossible not to see the likeness between him and Erin. Although his hair is now dark, undeniably dyed since last time I saw him, despite his months in prison, the facial similarities are unbelievable.

“Detective Summers,”

he says, pulling his chair in as he folds his hands in front of him on the table, absently playing with the steel loop as though to remind me he isn’t chained to it like most prisoners are.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

I sit up now, pulling my chair in closer as I stare back at the man I literally want to murder with my bare hands.

“Where is Anthony Macklin?” I ask.

Fitzgerald starts laughing as his lawyer says.

“My client knows nothing about this man nor his whereabouts.”

“Oh, cut the shit,”

I half shout, my eyes still on Fitzgerald.

“I know he runs your crew, Fitzgerald. That he’s the one keeping shit afloat while you’re stuck in here.”

“Detective,”

Fitzgerald says, practically purring.

“You seem tense, is everything alright?”

“Do you even understand what’s happening here?”

I ask, ignoring his comment.

“You’re going down, Fitzgerald. The case is watertight, the list of charges and evidence to back them as long as my dick. There’s no getting out of this. Not unless you have something you can give us in return.”

Fitzgerald chuckles, rolling his eyes as though this is all just a game to him.

“Me, turn?”

he says in mock surprise.

“Please, give me a little more credit.”

“Where is he?”

I repeat, my words hard as I lean closer.

Fitzgerald shrugs.

“I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

Pissed, I stand, yanking the photo from my pocket as I slam in down on the table in front of him. I watch as Fitzgerald stares at the image, his eyes flicking between himself, Erin and Anthony. His face is impassive, the master manipulator refusing to show any emotion as he registers what I’ve just shown him.

“What is this?”

the lawyer asks, indignantly.

“Where did you find this?”

Now it’s me smiling, flicking my eyes quickly to the slimy lawyer before returning them to Fitzgerald. He’s still staring at the picture, seemingly unable to take his eyes off of Erin.

“It was dropped in the warehouse,”

I say, drawing my words out because I know this will only piss him off even more.

“The night we took down the gun exchange Anthony was running. Guess he’s getting sloppy, huh?”

I add, pulling the picture away and slipping it into my pocket.

Fitzgerald’s eyes follow the movement; his face now a mask of barely restrained anger as he finally meets my stare. I offer him a smile, sliding my hands into my pockets as I continue to stand above him.

“And it looks like his sloppiness has just pinned you to the whole fucking thing now, doesn’t it?”

By the time I walk out of the prison, my mood has lifted considerably. While Fitzgerald might not have told me where I can find Macklin, I know he’s rattled. Enough that his lawyer shut down any further conversation so that he could confer with his client about exactly what he did and didn’t know.

What I did know was that both of them were pissed. Pissed that there was now irrefutable evidence that tied Macklin to Fitzgerald and therefore Fitzgerald to what happened back in the warehouse that night.

I also knew that Fitzgerald was aware that Erin and I were together and that he was scared shitless about what that might mean.

I’m not sure how long their little convo about all of these new developments was going to take, but I was willing to stick around for a little longer on the off chance that Fitzgerald decided to stop being a fucking asshole and start talking.

Knowing Anthony fucked up like this, that he didn’t just ID himself as the guy running the whole gun thing, but that he’d also tied it to Fitzgerald, was bound to piss the guy off. Retaliation in some form was all but guaranteed to happen, because loyalty was respected above all else when it came to the mob.

It was always something that struck me as slightly messed up. That these mob guys demanded loyalty and respect but were more than willing to fuck their wives over at every opportunity. A part of me wondered if that’s what Macklin had done to Erin all those years ago and that her unwillingness to stay silent or complicit in his disrespect toward her hadn’t also contributed to her wanting to leave.

“Fuck,”

I murmur, knowing I’m really going to struggle not to strangle this motherfucker when I finally find him.

I pull out my phone to check the time, wondering how much longer it’s going to be before Fitzgerald decides to talk. When the screen lights up though, it’s with another notification of movement at Erin’s door. Opening the app again, I watch as she returns in Finn’s car, the two of them chatting briefly before she heads inside.

A second notification shows her leaving again, the keys to my car in her hands now, as though she’s about to drive somewhere.

Despite the snow surrounding me, a cold sweat instantly breaks out all over my skin.

But it’s not the driving in snowy conditions that freaks me out; it’s the person who’s waiting for her as she walks obliviously over to my car.

I feel my body tense, my heart pounding in my chest as she turns to face him, as though in response to him calling out to her. The terror on her face nearly undoes me, the fear palpable even through my phone screen. The second I see Erin’s face, I don’t give a shit about Fitzgerald and what he might finally decide to tell me about Macklin.

Not when the shithead is standing in front of Erin, his hands on her body as he all but pins her against my car.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,”

I say, killing the app and pulling up her number. I hit the call button, the phone ringing and ringing until it eventually goes to voicemail. Cursing, I immediately hang up and redial, only to hear the same recorded message.

“Jesus fucking Christ,”

I shout, running toward my car, my hands shaking so badly that I drop the keys. Bending to grab them, I scroll through my contacts until I find the one I need. Jamming the keys into the lock, I yank open the door as the phone is answered.

“Ryan, what can I do for you?”

“He’s fucking got her, Finn,”

I scream into phone.

“Fucking Macklin, he’s got her. He’s at her house, get the fuck over there.”