“Are you sure?” As his gaze flicked to Amelia, she didn’t miss the worry that shadowed his handsome face. “It looked like Agent Storm wasn’t feeling so hot a second ago. I can grab Larson and head to the prison.”
Even if he’d been the wartiest of warty frogs, Amelia could have kissed Zane Palmer for the suggestion. Zane was the only person Amelia had told about her discomfort being around Joseph Larson. Without a doubt, Zane had offered to fall on the proverbial sword so she wouldn’t risk being subjected to another of Larson’s unwanted advances. And considering the obvious contention that had existed between Zane and Joseph for the past five months, Zane’s offer hadn’t been made lightly.
Just as Amelia was about to jump up to second Zane’s recommendation, Jasmine shook her head. “I’m sorry, Storm. I know that you’re both competent investigators, but I’d like to have Agent Palmer’s expertise on the records Storey gave us.”
Amelia bit her tongue to stop herself from arguing. This was the FBI, and she had a job to do, even if that meant she had to be partnered with someone she despised. Just like her military days. When she was given an order, the only response was, “Yes, sir!”
Do your job, soldier.
She just had to focus on the task at hand. She could do it. She had to do it.
Glancing at Zane, Amelia made her best effort to convey her appreciation. “That’s okay. I’m feeling better, so I should be fine.”
For the most part, the words were true. As long as she and Joseph didn’t wind up alone together, she was confident she could at least count on the man to remain professional.
She’d already been stretched close to her limit, and the last thing she needed was to be forced into an uncomfortable one-on-one situation with a colleague who didn’t grasp the meaning of the word “no.”
Especially a colleague who was the sole witness to her exchange with Alton Dalessio.
9
Chasing the last bite of cheeseburger with a long drink from my thirty-two-ounce cup of soda, I let myself sink back into the driver’s side seat. I could have taken a half-day and gone home, and as I let my gaze drift around the relative shadow of the parking garage, I second-guessed my decision to come back to work so soon.
My sergeant had offered me paid leave for the rest of the week, so I could grieve my friend’s death. Though I’d been prepared to accept the bereavement time, I decided at the last minute that I would work through my supposed hurt and sadness.
The choice wasn’t unusual. Most detectives who lost a partner or a friend would continue to pursue casework in the days and weeks that followed the death. They needed the distraction.
If I put Ian out of my head and tucked away the lingering sense of guilt, I could continue to do my job, and none of my fellow detectives would be the wiser. And as long as I was at the precinct, I could monitor the progress of Detectives Reyman and Yoell as they searched for Ian’s killer.
Once they discovered the breadcrumb I’d left for them, their investigation would never come close to me.
The plan seemed foolproof, but I couldn’t keep my mind from wandering. Not just to Ian, but to Carlo Enrico as well. As I’d driven to work that morning, I’d considered taking the turn that would lead me to O’Hare instead of the precinct.
For all I’d known, when I stepped through the front doors of the brick and cement precinct building, I was about to walk into the arms of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. To my relief, however, I’d been greeted by coworkers.
After I’d been told about Carlo’s meeting with the Feds the day before, I’d reached out to an old Leóne contact. Of course, I hadn’t mentioned my personal stake in the matter, but my contact didn’t need to know.
All he needed to know was that Carlo Enrico was about to turn on the Leóne family. Such an affront was punishable by death, and my contact had assured me the Enrico problem would be solved within twenty-four hours.
I checked the time. Almost ten past noon. Twenty-five hours, and still no confirmation on Carlo. Hell, he might have been in a meeting with the Feds right now.
At the thought, the taste on my tongue went sour. Gritting my teeth, I reached for the soda and took a sip.
Maybe I should have lied and come up with a more pressing reason for my contact to eliminate Carlo Enrico. The family took snitches seriously, but Carlo was in a Federal prison. How many connections could the Leónes have in MCC Chicago?
I shook my head.
Plenty. Even in a Federal prison, cash was still king. Line the right pockets, and the cards would fall into place every time they were needed. Hell, if the rumors were true, the D’Amatos had owned the previous warden of MCC Chicago. Granted, allegations of misconduct were a large part of why the man had been removed from his post, but the D’Amatos had ruled that prison for years.
Now, however, the warden was affiliated with neither family. I wasn’t sure if he was backed by any of the other syndicates in the city, but if he wasn’t now, he eventually would be.
Midway through my stroll down memory lane, a plastic buzz ripped my attention out of the reverie. My heart knocked against my ribs as I took in a sharp breath and snatched the prepaid phone from the cup holder.
Letting out a groan, I rubbed my forehead with one hand as I reached for the cheap device with the other. I flipped open the screen, checked the number, and pressed a button to answer the call.
