Direct Evidence, page 34
But today wasn’t about Rachel. It was about an even more difficult subject. Impossible, even. And as time ticked by, Tate started to reconsider his decision to tell Robyn about what had happened.
Ironically, despite portraying a fraudulent self on pretty much every occasion—professionally and personally—he considered himself an honest person.
Not for the first time, Tate wondered if it had just been a one-night stand if he would tell Robyn. Probably not.
The real issue was that it was more than that. And she deserved to know.
A door opened, loud, never lubricated hinges screeching like dueling banshees, announcing yet another inmate entering the visitor area, pulling Tate out of his head.
Robyn Abernathy looked tired. Her blond hair was pulled into a lazy ponytail and her eyelids, shrouding hazel eyes, were heavy.
Even before the accident, nobody considered Robyn a striking beauty. She had an incredible figure, with large, firm breasts, a tight waist, and shapely legs. But her face had just been cute.
But not here, not now.
Her body was hidden by an ill-fitting jumpsuit and her face was worn.
Once, Tate had brought Rachel with him to visit Robyn. That had proven a terrible mistake. The trek alone had been incredibly uncomfortable and just getting inside the prison was an ordeal—prisons weren’t generally suited for those in wheelchairs.
Not a huge priority for them.
The real implications of the visit didn’t come until later.
Rachel's night terrors had escalated, and it took the girl weeks to recover.
That had been her first and only visit.
Despite this mutual decision, every time Robyn stepped through that horrible, squeaking door and her eyes met Tate’s, she looked around as if expecting to see her daughter.
It nearly broke Tate’s heart.
Robyn slowly walked over and slid into the metal seat across from him.
“Is she okay?” the woman said, fear in her eyes.
“She’s fine,” Tate said. “She’s doing fine, really.”
Robyn just stared and Tate felt his discomfort growing like a tumor deep inside his belly. And the way that she just continued to look at him with her tired eyes made things even worse. She’d always been incredibly perceptive, but this was bordering on clairvoyance. It was as if she already knew.
Spit it out, pussy, he chided himself, as he had Floyd many times. Just fucking say it.
“I need to be honest with you,” Tate began. “Before you came here…” he paused. Before you came here? What is this, a beach resort? “Before you were locked up, you tried to talk to me about… about what I should do on the outside. Do you remember that?”
Great, obtuse. Way to make things clear, Tate.
But Robyn, perceptive as she was, caught on to what he was saying and nodded.
“I didn’t want to talk about it, told you no way… there was no chance. But—“
“It’s okay, Tate. It’s okay.”
This stung even more. He’d dealt with irate suspects, people who swore and spat and fought, and he had experience with them. But this… this was new.
Understanding? Compassion? Empathy?
He hated all of it.
“It’s not okay,” he said forcefully. “It’s not. But I don’t want to lie to you. I met someone. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but—“
“Tate, take a breath,” Robyn said. “I just want you to be happy. You and Rachel.”
Happy? Yeah, I don’t think so.
“I’m so sorry, Robyn. I didn’t know if I should tell you, and maybe I wouldn’t have if it wasn’t—if it wasn’t—“
“I understand. As long as she’s good for you and for Rachel, then I’m okay with it. Really, I am.”
Tate looked away, his vision becoming cloudy.
“She’s really good for Rachel. And,” his voice hitched, “I think she’s good for me, too.”
When Tate looked back at his wife, he saw tears spill onto her cheeks.
“I won’t—I’ll tell her no,” he backtracked. “I’m sorry, I—“
“No, Tate. Don’t do that. You have to do what’s best for the family and what’s best for you.”
Tate ground his teeth.
Why did she have to be so understanding? Why can’t she yell at me? Tell me that I’m a cheating asshole?
Tate reached across the table and hugged her tightly.
“No touching the inmates,” a loud voice boomed.
Tate ignored the guard until Robyn hugged him back.
“No touching—“
Tate released his wife.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you, too, Tate.”
By some miracle, Tate managed to hold back his own tears until he made it to the safety of his car. But when they came, they came the same way he lived his life: hard and fast.
Chapter 85
Chase held Floyd’s hand for so long, her skin became clammy. Eventually, her fingers went numb.
She watched his chest rise and fall hundreds of times and with each breath, she urged him to open his eyes.
He never did.
Stu had gone above and beyond, paying for a private helicopter, fully staffed with two nurses and one doctor, to bring Floyd from Las Vegas to Virginia. There, he’d been put up in a private institution, much better than the one that even the FBI’s insurance would have covered, which they probably wouldn’t have given the fact that they were never officially on duty.
And now she was playing the waiting game. There was no outward change in Floyd’s condition. The doctors all said that his vitals were improving, but he’d lost blood and oxygen to his brain.
That was the most frustrating part. Nobody could tell Chase definitively when he was going to wake up.
Or if.
Chase banished the thought from her head.
He would get better. He had to.
The only reason she let go of his hand was because her phone started to ring. Hoping that it was Louisa or her niece, Chase backed out of the room before answering.
“Hello?”
“Chase?”
It was neither Louisa nor Georgina.
“Terrence? What happened?” Chase demanded, alarm in her voice. “What’s going on?”
There was a hesitation.
“What? What is it? He won’t have her. I promise—“
Terrence sighed.
“You’re going to tell me that you don’t know? That you had nothing to do with this?”
“Terrence, I’m not in the mood for games.”
“Games? I’m not the one playing games here, Chase. You mean to tell me that you had nothing to do with the six pounds of coke that a ‘random’ check uncovered in Brian’s house?”
“What? What the hell are you talking about?” A nurse who was passing by gave her a disapproving look. “Six pounds of coke? Six pounds?”
“Brian’s back in jail, Chase. His parole has been revoked and he’s facing another ten to twenty.”
“This… this has to be a joke.”
But deep down, Chase knew that it wasn’t.
It was Stu.
Chase hadn’t asked him to do anything, hadn’t asked for a cent for keeping him out of prison.
But Stu knew. Stu knew because Kendrick knew. If she had to guess, Stu had asked Kendrick to look into Chase, like he had Tate. Just to be sure.
And she knew what the man had uncovered.
“No joke, Chase. Brian’s back in jail. He’s not coming for Georgina anymore.”
Chase should have been elated but standing outside of Floyd’s room, she couldn’t help but feel that she’d given up a potential catastrophe for an actual one.
“Chase? I don’t think—“
“Thank you for calling, Terrence. I won’t—I won’t bother you again.”
And Chase knew that this was what he wanted, without him saying so: distance between them. She was foul, a poison, a cancer to anyone who came near.
Chase hung up the phone and stared at Floyd through the observation window.
She could leave now. Could take Georgina, go anywhere, do anything. She could permanently sever her link to the FBI.
Never take a case again for friend or foe.
But Floyd wouldn’t want that, she knew. Floyd, who at one point had been driven to near catatonia by his PTSD, had continued to press onward. He came back, despite everything, despite how easy it would have been for him to just pack things, Floyd had persevered.
And that was inspirational.
No, she wasn’t leaving.
Chase was back.
***
“Chase?” Director Hampton, who was known for having the world’s greatest poker face, or an affect that prevented him from showing as basic an emotion as surprise, let his mask slip. “What are you—what are you doing here?”
Chase closed the office door behind her.
“Floyd’s been in an accident,” she said bluntly.
Director Hampton stopped sifting the papers on his desk.
“An accident?”
“He was shot. Right now, he’s in a coma.”
Hampton had recovered from the initial shock of her intrusion and her comment raised no expression on his face.
“What happened?”
“He was shot protecting me.”
This was a wholly inadequate answer, but Hampton knew better than to press. In time, she would tell him. Pushing her now would just cause her to clam up for good.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Hampton said flatly. He was back to his automaton self. Chase didn’t know which version was better. “What can I do for you, Chase?”
When Chase had initially retired from the FBI, they’d been on good terms and Hampton had made it no secret that he wanted one of his top agents back. But that had been a long time ago.
Since that day, Chase had caused numerous problems, which had ensnared Hampton in more than one tricky legal situation.
“I’m going to replace him.”
“Excuse me?”
Chase stiffened and stared the Director straight in the eyes.
“I want back in. I’m coming back to the FBI as Floyd’s replacement.
Chapter 86
Tate hadn’t even taken his coffee from Tabir when he heard heavy footsteps approach from behind. This time, he spun before Marco could grab his wallet or arm.
The man had other intentions. His right hand was buried deep into the pocket of his cheap leather overcoat.
“Tate, you ran out on me again,” Marco stated as fact.
Tate swallowed hard. Any man who had no issue assaulting an FBI Agent in the middle of the sidewalk in broad daylight would have no problem killing them, either. That, Tate was certain of. His plan? Not so much.
“Work.”
Marco stepped forward and his right hand started to lift from his pocket.
“But I have your money. All of it.”
Marco stopped and Tate, very slowly, reached into the inside pocket of his own jacket. He pulled out a roll of bills, collected with an elastic band.
“Ten thousand. All of it.” Tate tossed the money and Marco caught it—with his left hand. He held the roll up, stared at it, then tucked it away.
“You win the lottery, or something?”
Tate was pleased to see that Marco removed both hands—empty—out of his pockets.
“Something like that.”
“Right, well, you owe us more than just ten grand.” Marco started to smile. “You owe us interest on your loan. You—“
“I thought you’d say that.” Tate reached into his jeans pocket this time and removed a flattened wad of bills. “Two grand. More than enough to cover any interest.”
He tossed the bills, Marco caught them, and put them away with the rest of the cash.
“Tate, you owe us more than this. You need to pay us every week. That was the deal.”
Tate’s expression soured.
“I paid you back with interest. That was the deal,” he countered.
Marco offered a humorless laugh.
“That not how it works.”
Tate looked over his shoulder at Tabir. The pale man was doing his best to pretend he wasn’t listening—cleaning the shiny aluminum countertop, moving a metal napkin dispenser four inches to the left—but he’d clearly overheard everything.
“Tabir, maybe you should go take a walk?”
Tabir didn’t need to be asked twice. He nodded and ducked away.
“Tate, I want you to think very carefully about what you do next,” Marco warned. His hand was back in his pocket, gripping a familiar bulge. “You pay every week. Every week.”
Tate stared into Marco’s wide eyes. He made no move for his own weapon, which was holstered at his hip.
“You understand?”
Tate nodded.
“Oh, I understand. I also figured this would happen, so I decided to call one of my friends.”
Marco didn’t take the bait—his eyes remained fixed on Tate.
“You bring FBI into this? This not going to end well for you, Tate. You or your daughter.”
“Yeah,” Tate said, a grin forming on his lips. “I thought you’d say that, too. But, no, I didn’t involve the FBI.”
“Then who—“
“Mans paid you already, nigga.”
Three people suddenly appeared behind Marco. Big Roddy was in the middle, and he was flanked by two men who were nearly as intimidating and as large as he was.
“Take a walk,” Big Roddy ordered.
Marco’s right arm flexed.
“You best think twice ‘fore you pull that peashooter out,” the man on the left said. He was wearing pale jeans that hung low on his hips and a LA Laker’s T-shirt. He teased the shirt up just a little to reveal the chrome handle of a gun.
Marco took his hands out of his pockets.
“We Gucci?” Big Roddy asked. “Or we goin’ have a problem? I don’t like problems.”
Marco scowled.
“No problem, no problem.”
“The ways I sees it, mans paid you and his debt is gone. That work for you?”
Marco hesitated.
“That work.”
“Good. What about you?” The question was posed to Tate.
“Works for me.”
“Good. Best you take off then, nigga,” Big Roddy told Marco.
Marco, still fuming, walked away.
He didn’t look back.
“Thanks,” Tate said.
“No problem. Take care o’ yerself, Tate. And best you ice that hand.”
The three men left in the opposite direction Marco had gone.
“Mr. Abernathy, you want your coffee now?”
Tate jumped.
Tabir was back behind his cart, smiling as if nothing had happened. As if there hadn’t nearly been a shootout in downtown Virginia between the Serbian mob and some Crips… with FBI not just looking on but having orchestrated the conflict.
“You… you have something stronger under there?”
Epilogue
Tate exhaled loudly and rolled onto his back. Chase, her naked body covered in a sheen of sweat, struggled to catch her breath.
The sex, charged with a volatile mix of emotions, was even better this time around. After their hearts stopped racing, Tate leaned over and gently caressed her face. His fingers eventually found the wound just below her collarbone. While it was no longer visibly scabbed, it had become a keloid mass.
“What did it feel like?” Tate asked as he gently rubbed the spot. Initially, Chase wanted to pull away from his touch, but the man’s two-finger massage actually felt good.
“We’re not going to do this, are we?”
Tate’s brow furrowed.
“Do what?”
“Tell stories about our wounds like bored American soldiers.”
Tate chuckled.
“Oh, I’ve got many of those, but no, that’s not what I meant. I meant, how did it feel coming so close to death?”
If anyone else had asked this question, Chase would have, at best, ignored it, at worst, told them off. But this wasn’t anyone else.
This was Tate. When she touched his bare skin, this was a man whose pain she felt, pain she lived and experienced, pain that was so similar to her own.
“I’ve been closer,” Chase said, removing his hand from her collarbone.
He seemed to understand and didn’t press.
The two of them stared at the ceiling, reveling in the comfortable silence. It was nearly three in the afternoon, and they’d spent the entire day in bed. Chase had wanted to go for a run, get some air back in her lungs, and then go check on Floyd again, but Tate, who had stayed over in her hotel for the past few days, had other ideas.
And Chase was glad.
But now things were getting a little out of control. They were enjoying themselves, but Chase didn’t want it to come to a point where they were together simply because they were avoiding reality.
She rolled out of bed and slipped on her tracksuit.
“Where you going?”
Chase, her back to Tate, replied, “I told Georgina I’d be home tomorrow. Have some stuff to do before I fly back to New York.”
When Tate didn’t answer, she turned to look at him. He was giving her puppy dog eyes.
“Can’t you push it one more day?”
“No can do. Louisa has looked after her for long enough.”
Tate nodded.
“But hey,” Chase said with a grin, “you’ll see me again soon. Don’t miss me too much.”
Tate flipped the script.
“A little presumptive of you, isn’t it?”
Chase lifted her shoulders to her ears.
“No, not really. I mean, given that we’re partners now we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other.”
