Dead reckoning, p.3
Dead Reckoning, page 3
His brow furrows, and he shifts forward slightly to tap his cigarette into the ratty-looking ashtray on the table. “No. Because I figured you had more important things to worry about than what I was drinking, like Yankovich.”
Yankovich.
My heart thunders against my rib cage. I certainly hadn’t expected him to bring up the man we were there for, but it gives me the opening I’m looking for. “What do you know about him?”
Dixon shrugs again and takes another drag, blowing the smoke out the side of his mouth. “Just that he owns the place.”
Bullshit.
A man like Dixon doesn’t just hang out at a place like B66 for shits and giggles, ignoring the girls and not drinking. And I don’t like dancing around the truth, let alone being lied to. “What was in the leather menu Alexei Kosofik handed you?”
The blue of his eyes darkens slightly as he leans toward me and snuffs out the cigarette in the ashtray. “A drink menu. So I could order something a little more interesting than tonic water.”
Fucking smartass. This isn’t going anywhere.
I scowl at him, shove away from the table, unlock the door, and storm out of it, letting it click closed behind me, locking him in. We've barely gotten started and he’s already rattled me. Instead of me getting under his skin, he’s managed to worm his way under mine. And I can’t lose my cool in there with him. That would get us nowhere fast—even more nowhere than we already are, that is. I need to figure out who and what this guy really is so I can come back better prepared and break down that wall of smug machismo he exudes.
Entering the squad room, I spot Hank down the hallway toward the bathrooms on his phone and motion him over to our desks.
He ends his call and approaches me, eyebrows raised. “Well?”
I drop into my chair and slam my fist on the desk. “Nothing. But he definitely knows something.”
Hank grabs a single sheet of paper off my desk that I hadn’t even noticed. “Not much on his criminal history check.”
I grab the sheet that must have been dropped off after I went into the interrogation room and scan it quickly.
Nothing. Literally nothing.
There isn’t a single speeding ticket, arrest, not even a damn parking ticket listed on this guy.
“This is all we have on him?”
No one is a ghost. No one. Everyone has a past. Everyone has skeletons hiding in their closets—even me. And with the way Hank is acting, it sure seems like he might, as well. All I need to do is find Dixon’s and I’ll have a way to get him to talk.
Hank shrugs. “Apparently so.”
“Impossible…unless…”
Unless someone cleaned up anything so no one would ever find anything.
“What are you thinking, Vik?”
“Special ops, maybe?” I fire up my computer and grab the phone off my desk to call in a favor. “I’m going to see what I can dig up on this guy.”
“Do you want to cut him loose?”
“No. Give me some time to see what I can find.”
Hank motions toward the interrogation room. “Let me go see if I have any better luck with him in the meantime. We can play bad cop/good cop.”
I snort and shake my head. “Which one am I?”
Hank smirks at me and shrugs. “Remains to be seen.”
He makes his way toward the interrogation room as I dial a number I know by heart. I don’t like asking for favors when it can get someone in trouble, especially the illegal kind, but there’s only one person I know who has access to military records.
Anya answers on the second ring. “Vik? What’s up?”
I glance around the room to ensure no one is within earshot. It would be very bad if anyone overheard the request I’m about to make. “I need info on someone I think is special forces, may be active, potentially retired.”
She sighs. “And I suppose you don’t want me to tell you how I get it?”
“Exactly.”
Using Anya to get information that would otherwise be unavailable isn’t at the top of my list of favorite things to do. I’ve only asked for her help once before, and it’s weighed on my conscience ever since. I’m a good cop who likes to do things by the book, but special times call for special measures, and something tells me Roderick Dixon won’t be easy to nail down—at least, not by any legal means.
“Give me what you have, sis, and I’ll see what I can do.”
REAPER
I take a drag off my cigarette and fiddle with my lighter—flicking it open and closed, the click of the lid the only sound in the room while I wait…again. The familiar feel of the metal in my hand threatens to bring up memories I can’t possibly deal with right now.
It would be dangerous to let them come to the surface while I’m in a place like this and need to maintain my cool. Despite their best efforts to get me off my game and rattle me, it won’t happen.
This is too important to fuck it up. The memories of how I got this lighter and what it’s been through with me will remain buried under years of scar tissue intended to keep them at bay for as long as is humanly possible.
Hopefully, forever.
I wouldn’t be surprised if they left me in here that long. They likely would if they legally could. Those two seem the type to think letting me stew will get me to break. That thought brings a smile to my lips as I take another pull off my cigarette. So does remembering the flash of anger in the brunette’s eyes when I refused to give her what she wanted. That woman’s passion simmers barely beneath her restrained surface, ready to burst.
The doorknob turns, only instead of the sexy brunette entering, it’s her partner who walks in with a sneer on his lips. He smooths a hand over his beard, meeting my gaze with a hard one of his own.
Well, this is a surprise. I thought she would come back for round two.
I raise an eyebrow and lean back in my chair. “Your turn?” I cross my arms over my chest. “You two really got a thing for littering, huh?”
He pulls out the chair across from me that his partner occupied less than an hour ago and slowly lowers himself into it. This would be much more enjoyable with the pretty brunette, but it seems they’ve decided to play good cop/bad cop with me.
Though, I’m not entirely sure which one is supposed to be which.
His sexy partner was definitely annoyed and flustered during our brief conversation, but she wasn’t hostile or aggressive. More like hot and bothered—though maybe that was just me bantering with her. Our interaction definitely did good things to my body.
I guess that means this man is the “bad cop.”
He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, matching my position. It’s probably meant to be intimidating, but this guy is anything but. Cops don’t scare me. Not much does anymore after everything I’ve seen and done. After that much blood, that much violence. The violent nature of the human race. What madmen will do for power. I thought nothing could affect me anymore.
Until now…
The thought of those girls getting sold off to sick fucks who will use them for all sorts of depraved torture brings up a fear I’ve never experienced. That poor girl from Danilo’s trunk back outside Manila. The way she shook uncontrollably. Her flinching away from my touch even when it was meant to help and comfort her. It got to me, more than I’d ever admit out loud to anyone.
“Cut the shit, Dixon, or whatever the fuck your name is. The only hang-up my partner and I have is that we’re both desperate to keep the streets of New York clean, and I’m not referring to your fucking cigarette, but I think you already know that.”
Of course, I do.
They wouldn’t have been at B66 if they didn’t already suspect something shady was going on there; though, what they actually know remains to be seen. My information about the ring came straight from the source—Danilo pointed me in this direction before I left him to die, and there isn’t any question he was involved with it since Evangeline made it clear who sold her. Then my people here only confirmed what I already knew.
What these cops know is another story. I’m sure they have their own sources, people they may trust, but that doesn’t mean I trust them or the information they might have.
Detective Grayson uncrosses his arms and leans forward, propping his forearms on top of the metal table. “I think you and I aren’t all that different. Hell, I think we were both at B66 for the same reason.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “You looking for a piece of ass, too?” I angle my head and tip my chin toward the door. “If that’s the case, the next time, you might want to leave the arm candy at home.”
There was no way he was going to get anywhere with Yankovich or Kosofik with a woman like his partner hanging all over him. The men they want at their auctions, buying their women, aren’t going to show up with one as poised and beautiful as Detective Garin to make a fucking purchase.
He clenches his fists on the table and nods, the evidence of his annoyance and frustration building just like it did with his partner when she was in here.
I bet he doesn’t even know I can tell he’s biting the inside of his cheek.
“That’s good advice, and I might buy that you were in there looking to get laid if you had paid an iota of attention to the bitches hanging on your arm, but you dismissed every one of them. I saw the exchange with Kosofik.”
I raise an eyebrow at him again. “And?”
I’m not about to offer him the information he’s so obviously fishing for. He doesn’t know jack shit and has nothing on me to keep me here once they issue the “littering” charges that I can no doubt easily have dismissed after paying a simple fine.
“And you’re wasting your fucking time. My father wrote the book on vigilante justice, man. He helped take down Yankovich’s two brothers, but it took him years to do it. You’re in over your head, and I don’t have time to waste on you, so you have a choice to make. Either you stand the fuck down and drop whatever it is you’re doing, or you tell me what you know, and we nail this guy to the cross before any other girls go missing or get hurt.”
Stand the fuck down? Who the fuck does this guy think he is?
There’s no way I’m letting him or his partner get in the way of my mission. We may have a shared goal, but I made a promise to Cutter that I would make Danilo and everyone else responsible pay for what they did to Eva. Cutter came to me for a reason—he knows I won’t stop until every single one of them who had a hand in it is six feet under.
Cops only fuck things up. Their hands are tied by rules and regulations. Worries about superiors and the law. Nothing will hold me back when the time comes, and I can’t have them fucking things up with their ethical bullshit.
Detective Grayson pushes back his chair and stands. “I can’t keep you here. But I can promise you that if you get in my way, there is an army of people who have no fucking problem making you disappear.”
I snort and chuckle. “I’d like to see you fucking try.”
This guy has no idea who he’s dealing with. But if he interferes with my mission again, he’s soon going to learn what I’m truly capable of.
He reaches into his jacket, pulls out a business card, and lays it on the table. “If you want this guy so badly, you’re going to have to go through me.” He nudges the card toward me. “Choose wisely, Dixon.”
The door shuts behind him, and I reach out and grab the card, turning it slowly in my hand.
Choose wisely.
It sounds like something Dad would have said to me before I left the house on a Friday night as a teenager. But it’s clear, it wasn’t just a warning. It was a threat.
Detective Grayson may have more balls than I thought.
If he has even an inkling of who I am, threatening me takes on a whole different meaning. He’s putting a target on his back, one I can easily hit…even with my fucking eyes closed.
Game on.
3
VIKTORIA
I lean back in my chair at my desk and release a heavy sigh into the phone, staring at the stain on the old, warped ceiling tiles I’ve watched slowly grow over the years. “Thanks, Danny. I appreciate you trying.”
“Sorry I wasn’t much help, Vik.”
“Not your fault. I’ll talk to you later.” I end the call and toss my phone onto my desk a little too hard, sending it skittering across the marred wooden top.
Another dead end.
I don’t know why I thought my friend over at the FBI might be able to find something I couldn’t on Dixon, but I had to pursue every avenue available while I wait for Anya to work a miracle. Then again, if my suspicions about him are right, then maybe Danny did find something and just can’t or won’t tell me. Government secrecy and all that shit. Either way, my frustration has built enough to start a throbbing in my temples.
Maybe Hank is having more luck with him.
It might be our only hope of finding out what his interest is in Yankovich and B66.
I push away from my desk to check on the interrogation, but my ringing phone makes me turn back. Anya’s name flashes across the screen.
Please have something…
Dropping back into my chair, I grab my phone and answer, “Hey, did you get anything?”
“You were right.”
I grin and lean back, rubbing at my temple with my free hand. “I typically am, but what about this time?”
Anya snorts. “This guy you asked me to look into. I assume you don't want to know how I got the information.”
Guilt churns the acid in my stomach. “I don't.” I drop my hand and glance around the squad room to make sure no one is within earshot. “What did you find?”
“He joined the army at eighteen, right out of high school, and by the time he was twenty-two, he had been moved to the Combat Applications Group at Fort Bragg.”
“Combat Applications Group? I don't get it.”
“That's one of the code names for Delta Force.”
“Shit. So, I was right?” It certainly explains a lot.
“Yeah, so it looks like he was a member of that unit for the last ten years or so. Retired about six months ago.”
“He seems pretty young to retire.”
The sound of her clicking on a keyboard floats through the line. “Looks like a medical discharge. I haven't been able to get into any more specific files because those things are locked up tighter than Fort Knox, but it's possible he was injured.”
“He sure looked healthy and fit to me…” The way his hard muscles flexed under his T-shirt with every little move he made at the club and in the interrogation room definitely suggests a man in good shape.
But what the hell is a former Delta Force operative doing at B66 and getting tied up with Yankovich?
“Were you able to get anything else?”
Anya scoffs. “Do you have any idea how difficult that was to get? How about a thank you?”
I rub my eyes, trying to combat the growing migraine building behind them that seems to have migrated from my temples. “You're right. I'm sorry. Thank you. But did you get anything else? Anything I might be able to use? Maybe where he came to New York from or something that might be able to get him to realize he needs to talk?”
“Vik, this guy likely has resources you can’t even imagine. Even retired, he has a skill set and training that make him more than capable of handling an interrogation from a New York City cop. And he likely has access to all sorts of different identifications, passports, and travel documents. Even if I tried to track him or where he’s been, there is no way to know what name he was traveling under.”
“Shit.” I slam a palm against my desk and get a few looks from some people in the squad room. “I hadn’t even thought about that.”
“Who is this guy? Why are you so interested in him? Is he a suspect?”
Is he?
He was definitely acting suspicious at B66, and his little talk with Kosofik suggests he may be looking for the girls. But why is less clear. He doesn’t strike me as a buyer, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t working for someone who is—perhaps picking up the “package” and delivering it to the sick fucker making the purchase.
“I can't tell you. Even if I wanted to. Which I don't.” It’s bad enough I dragged her into a case by asking her to look into him—through illegal means. I don’t need her being any more involved in this. “So, please, don’t ask again.”
Anya sighs again, that same annoyed sound she’s always used since childhood when she gets frustrated with me. “Vik, I’m worried about you. This isn’t the kind of guy you want to tangle with.”
“I can handle it. Handle him.”
She snorts and chuckles. “I've heard that before.”
I lean back in my chair and scan the squad room for anyone potentially eavesdropping. “I gotta go. But thanks for the info. This conversation never happened.”
“Of course not. I'll keep digging, too, to see if I can find anything useful.”
“Thanks.”
I end the call and glance down the hallway toward the interrogation rooms. Still no sign of Hank, so he must be in there with Dixon. I flip on my computer screen to try to peek in on their conversation through the live feed, but the feed from the room I left our suspect in is black.
“What the hell?”
“Something wrong, Vik?” Pete peers over my shoulder at my screen.
I motion toward the blank screen. “I was trying to check on an interrogation, but the feed isn’t showing anything.”
Pete leans over and uses my mouse to click on another feed which instantly pops up, showing Detective Jacobson interrogating a suspect in a different room. “Looks like the other feeds are working. Maybe a malfunction on this one? Check the equipment.”
Shit.
If Hank is having any success with Dixon, none of it will be on video or audio, which makes it ten times harder if we bring a case to trial in the future.
I push away from my desk, head back toward the interrogation rooms, and almost run directly into Hank as he comes around the corner. “Did you get anywhere with Dixon?”
