Prodigal's Return. James Axler

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СКАЧАТЬ sticking my skin to the lining of my boots, I return my focus to the perp.

      Once the man’s wrists are cuffed, I lean into his body before standing him up. Baring my teeth, I bite close enough to his face to make him wince, but far enough to keep my safety. For fun, I ask in German if he understands me. “Verstehen Sie?”

      He starts in on a foulmouthed protest, but I bring a finger to my lips and calmly say, “Shh. You really should work on your manners.”

      He spits in my face, and I don’t wipe it off.

      “That’s no way to treat a lady,” I say, settling my eyes on his. “Especially one who’s a federal agent. Asshole.”

      Two arresting suits take the captive from me, and only now do I wipe off the man’s saliva.

      “Hey, that’s evidence,” Cain jokes as I turn to face him. “Angie, kiddo. Do you have to get so riled up? He wasn’t going anywhere. Not with this entourage.”

      “Well, what the hell took you so long? This thing not working?” I pull the pendant from my neck. “Or do you just like to hear me suffer?”

      “You really want an answer to that?”

      I chuck my pendant at Cain, and he picks the small, clear piece from its backing. The temporary wire is good for forty-eight hours, but it didn’t seem to bring me much benefit in these last few minutes of socializing with my first assigned infamous criminal.

      “Relax, Angie. You did good. We’ve been tracking this Zeus freak for some time, but it took you and your interchangeable nationality to nab him. You’ll do just fine here in New York.”

      Cain tosses me my recently earned, gold FBI identification badge and a paper bag containing more preferable work clothing. He leads the rest of the investigators to the main attraction, and I step back to watch the famed profiler live up to his reputation.

      One criminal down, countless more to go.

      Just six days back in my hometown and I’m already jaded. But for me, returning to New York City means more than a paycheck.

      “You clean up good, kid.”

      I eyeball Cain and reach for my coffee, contemplating the remaining hours of my elective double shift. No one wants to work on holidays, and I’ve quickly learned Thanksgiving is generally “volunteered” by singles such as myself. It’s as though the world assumes a person has nothing to do on a holiday if there’s no one to go home to. Whatever. It’s just another shift, and I’m indifferent to what the calendar has to say.

      I settle into paperwork, trying to produce order in my new work environment, though it’s not so easy with Cain’s files scattered throughout the office. Now that he no longer has this ten-by-ten-foot box to himself, I suppose the both of us will have to get used to sharing the quaint space. I just want to get some of the clutter organized this morning so I can get home before the Macy’s parade kicks in and holiday hell breaks out on the streets.

      Cain tosses a balled-up scrap of paper at me and says, “Angie, look pretty.”

      When I meet his eyes to give a few words of wisdom, I see we are no longer alone in Cain’s twenty-third-floor office at 26 Federal Plaza.

      “This is Detective Carson Severo from the Fifth Precinct, down on Elizabeth. My darling protégée, you are looking at one of NYPD’s finest.”

      The detective dons a humble frown, but it does little to affect his overall appearance. He looks as though he’s been on the job all night, too, but it doesn’t bring him below nine on a scale of one to ten. Ten would be too assuming. Though one thing I can assume with ease is this boy is homebred Italian.

      Severo extends his hand to shake mine and asks, “How are ya?” in just enough of an accent. My observation is confirmed.

      I study his dark brown eyes, focus and reply. “Molto bene, grazie.” His head tilts a little, and I can see his analytical senses are sizing me up.

      In a cautious voice, he asks, “Parla italiano?”

      “Un po’,” I say, before returning my focus to the stacks of paper.

      “Ignore her.” Cain hands the detective a mug of black coffee. “Or she’ll start in on Russian or Japanese next and we’ll both be screwed.”

      The detective’s brow rises. “Impressive.”

      “Yeah, she’s got her mind set on grandiose things, all right. Got in on that Foreign Language Proficiency jazz they’re doing in Quantico nowadays,” Cain explains, and I try to ignore that I’m being talked about within hearing distance. “Anyways, good to see you. What brings ya by?”

      I let my peripheral vision remain aware as to Severo’s presence, but return intent on getting these files caught up. As soon as this report is out the door, so am I.

      “Heard you got Zeus tonight. Figured I should drop by and extend my congrats.”

      Cain sets his ass on top of his desk, gently relaxing his posture into that casual, confident slouch I have seen on a daily basis. I’ve been in this office six days, but the old guy’s habits are as easy to read as a popup book.

      “My, oh my, news travels fast,” he says, slurping at his office brew. “Sure as shit we did. Couldn’t have done it, though, without this one,” he adds, poking a finger in my direction.

      “Is that so?”

      I meet the detective’s glance to measure his comment, but he simply offers me a friendly nod.

      “Hell if I could pass as a foreign hooker.” Cain’s crusty laugh sends a shiver up my spine. He’s a skilled profiler, but the guy could use some social skills. “My girl Angie’s got what it takes, if you know what I mean.”

      I toss a discarded wet tea bag at my mentor, but it lands in a corner bucket containing Cain’s dying six-foot-tall, leafy plant.

      “Now that I think of it,” Cain says, as he watches me stuff my file folders into an internal mail envelope, “maybe you can be of some assistance to me.”

      “How so?”

      “I need to grease her up for the field, show her what New York is all about, from the gritty perspective, you know? Seems to me, with you dealing with a variety of crap on a daily basis, you might come across something meaty to share.”

      “I’m more of the finders, keepers theory, Cain. Unless something comes up that’s task force related…”

      “Ah, come on. I’m not talking about running off with your caseload, Detective.” I watch as Cain jabs Severo in the side, and I wonder what is it that makes guys display camaraderie through physical force. “I’m just asking for a hand, is all.”

      I feel the detective’s eyes on me as I shoulder my bag and prepare to head home. “But Cain—” he leans in, whispering to my mentor “—it looks to me like you’ll need more than that.”

      “What do you think—carrots or corn?”

      I don’t wait for a СКАЧАТЬ