He’d been on a Diversey Harbor dock at the time he’d gotten that call, waiting for his brother and ten-year-old nephew to come and collect him in the boat—the same boat that had exploded.
Once he was behind the closed doors of his office with the two agents, he hadn’t made a secret of his contempt. Fisk had stayed silent, watching him like a bird of prey as Larue began questioning him. Thomas, who’d had years of experience both as an enlisted man and later as an officer in Somalia and Iraq, immediately understood that Fisk possessed the brains and savvy between the two agents, despite his younger age.
It surprised Thomas when Larue started asking questions about his background and Nicasio Investments instead of his father.
“Nice place,” Larue commented as he glanced around Thomas’s large, luxurious office and out the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that faced Lake Michigan. The golden summer evening outside stood in stark contrast to Thomas’s stormy mood. The headache that had been plaguing him nonstop made things even worse. Every time he tried to concentrate on something, to focus on his thoughts, it became so severe it felt like his head was splitting open.
He frowned as he sat down behind his desk, staring at the two interlopers coldly, refusing to make this easy for them.
“Where did you get the money to start up your firm three years ago, Mr. Nicasio?” Larue had asked as he opened up a small notebook and began taking notes.
“The Navy provided well for me since I was a teenager, and I never had need for most of my salary. I compiled quite a savings, which I was able to add to the trust fund my father reserved for us,” Thomas answered, restrained anger making his voice sound stiff.
“You served in the EOD unit, isn’t that correct?” Larue asked, never glancing up as he scribbled in his notebook.
“That’s right,” Thomas replied, tight-lipped. Larue referred to Explosive Ordnance Disposal, the elite unit of the Navy responsible for either safely disarming bombs or other types of ordnance, including chemical, biological, and nuclear. As an eighteen-year-old, Thomas had risked his adoptive father’s disapproval by enlisting in the Navy instead of going to college right after high school.
It had been one of only a few, but notable moments, when Thomas’s stubborn nature superseded one of Joseph Carlisle’s authoritarian decrees. Joseph had wanted him to attend an Ivy League university right out of high school. But even in this clear-cut instance of filial rebellion, Joseph had ended up respecting Thomas’s decision, saying that a man had to find his own path and test his own legs. The fact that Thomas had gone on to earn his college degree in business administration and become a decorated officer in the EOD unit only seemed to reinforce Joseph’s respect for Thomas’s proclivity for independence. Deep down, Thomas knew that Joseph respected his ability to make a mark on the world without patronage.
It was an approval Joseph had never bestowed on Rick, his eldest son, even though Rick had been even more deserving of it than Thomas.
“And when you say that your father set up a trust fund for you, you really mean your adopted father, isn’t that correct?” Larue persisted.
“I was adopted, yes, but Joseph Carlisle is my father,” Thomas bit out irritably. He felt Agent F
isk’s stare on him and returned the look with a frown. What’s your problem, asshole? He wondered if Fisk understood his volatile thought when the young agent dropped his gaze to his lap, his brows knitted in consternation.
“Your real parents were killed during a burglary, I understand?” Larue continued.
“That’s right. It happened when I was ten years old. Is that what you two came here to discuss? The fact that my parents’ murderer was never found? Wonderful.” He leaned back in his leather chair and gave a fake sigh of relief. “I’m glad to know the investigation is still underway. And here I’d been suspecting that you two were just here to waste my time.”
Larue looked up sharply, his pen frozen on the paper. Fisk wiped his hand across his jaw and mouth, but not quick enough for Thomas to miss his slight smile.
“Your parents’ murder investigation isn’t under the auspices of the FBI,” Larue explained.
Thomas’s pointed, annoyed glance told the agent loud and clear he’d been being facetious. Larue must have understood, because he cleared his throat and turned his attention back to his notebook.
“So it’s safe to say that Joseph Carlisle supplied you with the majority of the capital to start Nicasio Investments?” Larue asked.
Thomas made an irritated, slashing motion with his hand. “No, I’m not saying that at all. I started Nicasio Investments mostly with my own savings. But let’s cut the bullshit. I have no doubt you guys have all the banking numbers. It’s not illegal for a father to set up a trust fund for his children. Why don’t you get to the point? You two are here to ask me questions about my dad. If you think I’m going to tell you something that will bolster your investigation, you’re dead wrong. What you’re digging around for—what you’re alleging about Joseph Carlisle is ridiculous. My father is a hard-working man who would do anything for his family. My brother’s death is ripping him apart. Haven’t you guys got anything better to do than to kick a man when he’s down?”
Fisk met his stare and shifted in his chair uneasily, but his blistering question bounced off Larue like raindrops on rubber.
“It’s my understanding that Joseph and Rick Carlisle had been on the outs with each other for years,” Larue commented.
“Yeah? Where’d you hear something like that, Larue? Listening to gossip in the girls’ john?”
“Actually, I heard it from your brother’s wife, Mr. Nicasio. Are you insinuating Kelly Carlisle is a gossip?”
Thomas leveled a malevolent stare, refusing to respond. He loved Kelly like a sister; he hated the fact that Joseph had disapproved of not only Rick’s career as an investigative journalist, but his choice of wife. Thomas’d worked tirelessly to try to bridge the gap between father and son. The peacemaking role was one he’d become familiar with since he was thirteen years old. He doubted his father would ever fully recover from the fact that he and Rick hadn’t been talking at the time of Rick’s death.
But he’d be damned if he was going to talk out loud about such painful, private family matters to a sanctimonious FBI agent. Larue waved at his right hand.
“What happened to your knuckles?”
Thomas glanced at his knuckles in mixed surprise and irritation. What the hell was Larue talking about?
“You know a man named Douglas Mannero?” Larue persisted. Thomas could tell by his tone the agent thought he was being stubborn by not answering his former question for a stretched moment, but in truth, a wave of nausea had rolled through him when he’d seen the abrasions on his knuckles. He became uncomfortably aware that he was sweating. He struggled to focus on Larue’s latest unexpected question. Douglas Mannero was one of the clients in his investment firm.