After seven months of interviews and tests and more tests and more tests, I’m starting the next chapter of my life. I feel like I should be more excited. I am excited. It’s just . . .
I grab my iPad and begin flipping through the pictures I loaded on there. My life on the West Coast. The case that taught me so much about myself—my strengths, my weaknesses—and about the good in people. I run my fingers along my greatest weakness, tracing the lines of Luke Boone’s handsome face.
I dove headfirst back into local police work when I returned to D.C., allowing my mind to be consumed, the ache in my chest dulled. But I still miss him terribly. I still think about him strolling around his condo when my eyes first crack open at dawn. I still picture his perfect body as his feet pound against the pavement, a drooling bulldog trying to keep up behind him. I still smile when I think of his cocky smirk and his self-assurance. I’ve found myself recording hours of stupid reality TV, just so I can mock it with Stanley. I still close my eyes at night and imagine the smell, and taste, and feel of him in bed beside me.
My heart still clenches when I think of how badly his life could have ended up. I could arrest a hundred dirty criminals and it won’t ever give me as much satisfaction as helping one genuinely good Luke.
A few months ago, the same day I received my conditional offer of employment from the FBI, after a few too many glasses of wine, I actually dialed his number. It’s out of service.
I cried myself to sleep that night.
Then I woke up the next morning and reminded myself that I’m doing something important. Something for me. And I can’t throw that away for anyone.
My phone starts ringing. I almost don’t get it, figuring it’s my parents asking for the sixth time when I’m bringing Stanley over. They seem to have taken a liking to him. I may have a hard time getting him back.
“Bertelli!” booms the loud Boston-accented voice.
“Why are you calling me this early?”
“I never sleep. You know that. So, are you ready for school?”
“You know, you’re so excited for me, I think you should just go.”
He chuckles. “No, thanks. I’m just here to laugh at you. Hope you survive.” Warner and I have kept in touch since the case so he could fill me in on the latest news, but also because we’ve become good friends. Much better than I ever expected.
“So, what’s new?”
“We nailed another low-level fence from the ring.”
“Is that all?” Between all the information we gathered, plus additional surveillance and Rix’s undercover work, they’re slowly picking away at the ranks, issuing arrest warrants. They’ve seen a significant decline in car thefts over the last six months, proving that we’ve made a big difference.
But Warner’s calls usually come when there are bigger breaks. Like, a few months ago, when they handed a search warrant to Vlad Bragin’s wife and she in turn handed them a pair of Vlad’s pants and black gloves that, upon testing, revealed gun residue and Rust’s blood. When asked why she was willing to cooperate, she told us it was because she married an asshole.
Sometimes all it takes is a bitter wife.
While it’s not a smoking gun, it’s another piece of the puzzle. Several others have fallen into place, including GPS tracking on Vlad’s Suburban that proves where he was and when, such as at the location where Rust’s body was found on the night of the murder, as well as street camera surveillance that captures him driving that night.
They’re closing in on him for the murder. As for the stolen cars, the corrupt jeweler documented and recorded much more than he likely was supposed to. Perhaps for the day he got caught and needed big-ticket leverage.
Warner snorts. “Actually, no, smart-ass. Have you looked at the news today?”
“No . . .?”
“Check out CNN. International news.” He goes quiet, and I know he’s waiting for me to tune in.
I open the browser on my iPad, following his instructions. “Holy shit!”
I quickly read the news article, with the picture of the wealthy, attractive man in the inset, my eyes zeroing in on the scar bisecting his lip that I’ve seen in person before. “Human trafficking?”
“It’s disgusting. Do you know how many children they found in one of those ships?”
Though there’s not a lot of information, and I always question the accuracy of anything I read produced by a reporter, according to the article, a complex investigation has been running for seven years, with evidence of human trafficking surfacing from many countries. Aref Hamidi was arrested and charged while visiting China.
“This is going to create a huge, international mess. China will give him the death penalty.”
Which is exactly what he would deserve. It almost seems too good to be true. Like perhaps it was orchestrated. Otherwise how would Aref be stupid enough to get caught?
There’s only one person I can think of capable of coordinating such a takedown.
“Makes you not so bitter about the asshole getting away on our case, right? I mean, it would have been a slap on the wrist compared to what’s coming his way.”
“It does,” I murmur softly, my mind spinning with absurd, improbable speculation. “I wish there was more information. Can you find anything out?”
“I’ll just wave my magic wand . . .”
I roll my eyes. “Seriously, Warner, don’t we have any pull on getting dirt?”