5:55 p.m.
Brooklyn, New York
Having dropped Higs at an eight-story non-descript office building on Staten Island, Jacob drove to Brooklyn, parked the Mustang and made his way down an alley. Lights flashed in the center of a gathering of law enforcement officials. He stopped to show his new cred pack to an officer, who lifted the yellow ‘crime scene’ tape. After ducking under the tape, he thanked the officer and hovered near the crime scene investigators, who were taking pictures of a dead man, and collecting and bagging evidence.
A bloodied and beaten corpse with a single bullet wound in the forehead lay against a brick building. Pivoting his head in all directions, he placed hands on hips and scanned the area, while watching the forensic activity. Minutes later, a female voice—favoring the deeper, lower end of the vocal range—came from over his shoulder.
“Can I help you?”
He turned around and flashed his badge at the approaching woman. “St. Christopher…I’m with Homeland.” Putting away the creds, he twirled a finger. “What can you tell me about what happened here,” he faced her and arched his brows, “Detective…”
The early thirties woman produced her own cred pack. “It’s Special Agent Deanna Stockwell…FBI.”
Jacob froze in place for a few seconds, his hand hovering in midair, a few inches away from the other agent’s physical greeting. Deanna. He blinked and took the hand she offered, while snapping a mental picture; wide and narrow, cat-eye shaped lilac glasses covered blue eyes. Her blonde hair in a bun at the back of her head emphasized a heart-shaped face and a pointed chin. She wore a silky, pastel purple blouse under a black pantsuit. “Nice to meet you, Agent Stockwell.” He glimpsed her black flats and noted the woman’s and his height difference. Only a few inches shorter than me. “I’ve always had a special affinity for Deanna. It’s a beautiful name.”
“Thank you. And likewise…it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“What’s the FBI’s interest in this case?”
She pointed at the deceased. “That there was our main witness in a case against Don Gambrisi.”
“The Mafioso?”
She nodded. “And with his death goes my case. Two years of work down the crapper.” She waited a beat. “So what’s HomeSec’s reason for being here?”
Crossing his arms over his chest, Jacob turned his back on her and surveyed the scene. “That’s a matter of national security.” Inwardly, he smiled. I’m going to like using that line.
“That’s all you can tell me?”
“Afraid so.”
“So much for this new spirit of cooperation among the alphabet soups.”
“I don’t make the rules, Agent Stockwell. I just follow them.” He gestured at the scene. “Have your people found anything that might lead to who killed,” he shot a look at the body before coming back to her, “what’s his name?”
“Peter Worthington.”
Eyeing the agent, Jacob leaned forward and rolled his hand. “And he would be…”
“Gambrisi’s accountant. Worthington was gathering information on Gambrisi for the FBI. We just about had enough to put the mafia man away for a long time,” she held out an open hand, “until this happened.”
“You lost all the evidence?”
She nodded at the corpse. “He took it to his grave.”
“Well that must suck.”
“You have no idea.” Stockwell’s phone rang. She raised a finger, “Excuse me,” and turned around, “Agent Stockwell.”
Jacob squatted, cocked his head and skimmed the pavement, listening to Stockwell’s muted conversation.
“…Go ahead agent…give me the address…repeat that please…okay, I got it. Thank you.”
Jacob stood and faced her. “What was that all about? Good news I hope.”
She snapped her fingers at an officer and made a small rectangular shape in the air with forefingers. Seconds later, she took a plastic bag from the approaching officer and gestured at the dead man. “Under the body, we found this library card, belonging to…Amanda Applegate.”
Jacob was stoic. Higs had told him about the card, the accountant’s murder and Gambrisi’s possible connection to Applegate’s disappearance. Everything had been in the leather folio; however, Jacob had to play along and ask questions.
“That phone call gave me the girl’s address, a foster home east of Brownsville. I’m going to check it out.”
Jacob spun on his heels. “I’ll drive.”
Stockwell’s shoes remained cemented to the pavement. “I don’t recall extending an invitation.”
He flashed a smile. “They say some of the best things in life come on the spur of the moment.”
“Who says that?” Ducking under the yellow tape, she became his shadow. “I’ve had no such luck.”
“Well then,” he opened the passenger door of his Mustang, “this is your lucky day, Stockwell.” He swung an arm over the car. “You’re going to be riding in style.”
“Whoa.” Planting both feet and putting hands on hips, she ogled the car. “This is yours?”
He tipped his head. “Get in.”
“What is this, late sixties…early seventies?”
“Nineteen-seventy. Grabber Blue. Black leather interior. Boss 302 under the hood.”
“Well, I don’t understand any of that, but it sure is pretty.” She lifted a leg and climbed inside.
Ten seconds later, they were speeding toward their destination.
“I’m impressed, St. Christopher.”
“Jacob.”
She ran her hands over the seat. “This is forty years old and…”
“Closer to fifty.”
“…it looks like it just came off the assembly line.”
“See, I told you. Best things in life…” grinning, he punched the accelerator and the engine roared, “…spur of the moment.”
Stockwell faced him, her eyes taking in his physical qualities, especially his trimmed and thick beard, and dark hair on his head. Yes, things are definitely looking better by the moment.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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