Chapter 5
Benton didn’t wait for Avery to respond, not that she looked as if she had a response at the ready. Her face flushed red, and her glare couldn’t have been more toxic, but she remained silent. “Change of plans,” Benton said. “We’re taking Mrs. Coppola to the sheriff’s office.”
Benton directed his words to Vincent, but kept glancing at Avery, as if expecting trouble. He understood Benton’s concern. She was glaring like she was calculating their demise.
“Just as well,” Vincent said. “I searched her apartment pretty thoroughly and didn’t find anything. If it’s in there, she’ll have to tell us.” He heard Avery’s gasp and ignored it. Benton was in a rush for a reason. “What’s up?”
Deming tucked her ID back into her black suit jacket pocket. “We’ve confirmation Coppola’s men are in the area, and there are more of them than anticipated. They’ve good as found her, Modena.”
Vincent did his best to push down his anger, not wanting to show team discord in front of Avery. “We’ve been sitting here fifteen minutes, easily. It would have been nice to have this intel.” He glanced at Deming. “Sooner.”
“Maybe someone should answer his phone,” Deming snapped back.
“Get the witness into the van,” Benton said. He, Gilroy and Deming then hustled across the street to the van, leaving Vincent to deal with Avery.
He tilted his head toward the van, waiting, wondering if she’d give him a hard time. Surprisingly, she didn’t. Instead, she followed the agents at a fast clip, looking both ways, hopping inside the van without fuss. Vincent supposed hearing Coppola’s men were in the area had a way of reshuffling her priorities. Whatever got her to move was fine by him, because he had an itchy feeling between his shoulder blades, like a laser scope was aimed, a rifle locked and loaded, like he was taking his life in his hands by staying in the open.
The sun reflected off Special Agent Gilroy’s silver West Point college ring as the man jumped into the driver’s seat. Benton, Deming, and Vincent followed Avery inside the van’s interior and took seats in front of the computer monitors on small tables affixed to its walls. It was their mobile HQ in here, and now Avery was an inner, huddled against the far-right corner, eyes lowered, hiding in plain sight. He wished things could have worked out differently. There was no reason he couldn’t have groomed her more, got her to open up to him, maybe prompt her to ask for his help, but time, and events, were having their way. The FBI now had to be the hammer to Avery’s nail, and knowing what he did about her, it was going to be messy.
Hunched, feeling cramped in the back, he focused on her, looking for a way to move past what she had to think was a betrayal. “We’re on your side,” Vincent said. “It might not feel that way right now, but we are.”
“We’re the good guys,” Deming said. Sitting across from him, the profiler was studying Avery like a chemist might a boiling solution in a beaker. He was almost positive Deming had no idea how intense she was being, and if she did, he suspected she wouldn’t have the slightest interest in changing her ways. Deming was Deming. She was a damn fine agent, smart as a whip, and perceptive.
Avery ignored them all and managed to project the image of a waif, bruised and battered. He wondered how much of that image was true, and how much was a mask Avery hid behind. She pulled at Vincent’s emotions and made him want to hold her, and tell her everything was going to be all right. Which was ridiculous. She was a job. She had to be. And Vincent needed to pull his shit together and focus on the situation at hand.
“Deming, where’s Coppola’s men now?” Vincent drew his gun, checked the clip, and then chambered a bullet. Avery’s gaze focused on his gun, making him wondered if she was thinking about snatching it from his hand the way she’d snatched Jim’s knife. “Any updates?”
“There are no updates.” Deming inclined her head toward the driver. “Gilroy has a snitch and he said Coppola’s men were spotted five miles outside downtown.”
Vincent glanced at Avery, hoping to see a reaction. Nothing. She was keeping things close to the vest. At the diner, faced with crazed killers, she’d revealed plenty emotion. She’d been scared like the rest of them. Now? Stone cold. He wondered if she was disassociating, then decided it was more likely she was planning her next move. It was the team’s job to convince her she didn’t have one…unless they sanctioned it.
Soon thereafter, Gilroy parked the van at the sheriff’s building. Not in the lot, but at the curb outside the entrance. When Gilroy jumped out, he opened the sliding side door, his gun at the ready, surveilling the area. Vincent took Avery by the arm and hustled her out onto the sidewalk, and retained his hold as he walked her toward the building, just in case she had ideas of running. Thankfully, she didn’t resist, because whether she wanted to admit it or not, they were saving her ass. The last thing he wanted was to fight her to do it, and if she played this smart—and there was no doubt in his mind that she was smart—she’d take their protection as the gift it was, and live.
Guns drawn, the agents escorted her to the building. Benton took point. Deming rear. Gilroy stayed with the van, keeping a watch out. Once inside, Vincent chose the stairs instead of the elevator, because long ago, he’d chosen differently, and when the elevator doors opened on their destination floor, so did a barrage of bullets. This building had two floors, so the climb was of little consequence. It wasn’t until they reached the top floor and Avery’s limp became pronounced that he’d realized his choice had caused her pain. By then, it was too late. The damage had been done.
The sheriff was waiting for them in his outer office. Ten deputies were retrieving rifles from gun lockers behind a caged room off to the left. Admin people were at their desks, some on phones, hopefully coordinating with neighboring town’s law enforcement, seeking backup. Fear was palpable in the room. Avery said they were small town, but he hadn’t imagined they’d be so young. Facing a worst-case scenario, something they’d trained their whole careers for, he didn’t blame them for being afraid.
Avery was busy checking out the surroundings, probably hoping to game the system, see her best route to escape. That’s what he’d be doing. The office was sectioned off by shelves that separated desks and paralleled the walls. Black metal shelves. They were mostly filled with files, some lay bare, or had legal tomes stacked in neat rows. The whole place wasn’t big, wasn’t much, certainly wasn’t enough. Not nearly for what was coming. Yet, he glanced at Avery, and saw she seemed detached from fear, and the frenzied activity. He wasn’t sure why he was surprised. She’d already proved she had nerves of steel.
Vincent caught the sheriff’s attention in the crowd, and indicated Avery with his thumb. “Where can I put her?” The sheriff pointed across the room. Holding. It was a small, white, Plexiglas-fronted room, with a caged door, located next to the sheriff’s office in the back of the main area. As he escorted Avery there, he saw an older admin wearing a floral blouse. She lifted a phone receiver in the air.
“Sheriff?” the admin said, looking beyond Vincent. “It’s Sam’s wife. She’s arrived to view the body and we need to coordinate with the coroner.”
Avery stumbled, and he had to tighten his grip to keep her upright as the sheriff took the call. Lips compressed, pale as paste, she kept walking as she looked over her shoulder, attempting to listen to the sheriff speak to the cook’s widow. Vincent suspected her anguish was the first authentic emotion he’d seen from Avery since she’d discovered he was a Fed. She’d obviously cared for the cook. It made Vincent suspect she was more Patty, the waitress than Coppola mob wife.
He told himself it didn’t matter. There was little she could do to convince the task force she wasn’t complicit in her ex-husband’s sins. She’d stolen syndicate files, for shit’s sake. She knew the syndicate was a criminal enterprise, that she’d benefited from its blood money. Who she was now didn’t matter, beyond being the FBI task force’s weapon, because they were going to use her to bring down her ex-husband.
“If you’ll excuse me,” the sheriff called out to Vincent. “I need to… I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He handed the phone back to the admin, looking harried, and then was soon gone, out the office’s door. Vincent didn’t envy the sheriff’s task. Not at all.
Vincent led Avery into holding and then shut her in the room. A uniformed officer locked the door, and then left after giving Vincent the key. She stood where he’d left her, in the white, ten by ten-foot room, her back to the office, to him. Was she scared? She’d be a fool if she wasn’t, because it was as if someone was turning a Jack in the Box lever. Only in Avery’s case, Jack represented a shit load of contract killers with one goal. Kill Avery.
He slipped the key into his pants pocket, and tracked down Benton in the center of the room. About twenty feet from holding, far enough away to speak without her overhearing them, they gathered around an empty desk. He and Benton, staring silently at Avery as she remained standing, ramrod straight, fists at her side.
“Look at her,” Vincent said. “That foolish woman would run, given the chance. She knows killers are out there just waiting for their chance to find her alone, unprotected. Why doesn’t she know she needs us?”
Benton waved Deming to his side. She’d found the coffee machine and was walking toward them with cup in hand. Benton indicated Avery with a glance. “Shouldn’t she be freaking out? She’s been in hiding for three years, on the run from a psycho ex-husband who has now found her. What the hell is going on in her head and how do we use it to our advantage? If she doesn’t want our protection, we have no leverage to negotiate for the files.”
“You don’t know she doesn’t want our help.” Deming shrugged, tucking a blond lock behind her ear. “What you’re seeing might just be an over-developed defense mechanism. People deal with stress differently, and you said it yourself. She’s been on her own for three years. Taking care of herself is what she’s used to.”
“She’s no wallflower,” Vincent said. “I’ve seen her in action. She’s got skills, and it was a ballsy move to steal her ex-husband’s files. Stupid, but ballsy.”
“So, why’d she do it?” Deming said. “Stupid, but ballsy was probably predicated by necessity.”
“Huh?” Modena said.
“She left a pretty cushy lifestyle,” Deming said. “She was safe. Think about it. Her family was massacred. Safe matters to her, so why’d she leave? Why’d she do something so ballsy and stupid as run away with stolen files that would assure her dangerous and powerful ex-husband would search to the ends of the earth to find her?” Deming sipped her coffee. “If she took the files to hurt Coppola, she could have released them on the Internet, or sent them to reporters, the law, rival syndicates. She had any number of ways to screw with him. Instead, she’s in exile, waitressing in a quiet town. That’s not vengeance. It’s certainly not justice. So, why?”
“Détente?” Vincent said. Leverage to keep her safe?
“Her husband put a hit out on her,” Deming said. “How is that détente?”
“She’s alive, isn’t she?” Benton said, his blue eyes flashing. “Enough guessing. The files are solid evidence.” He folded his arms, causing his suit to bunch up around his shoulders. “We need those files.”
Vincent exchanged uneasy glances with Deming, then felt a moment of panic. “Where’s the kid? The sister.”
Deming’s eyes widened. “Millie. Shit. She’s only ten.”
“She hasn’t been seen since yesterday,” Benton said. “Gilroy is directing local law to canvas the town.” He frowned at Vincent. “Avery give you any hints about Millie’s whereabouts when you were schmoozing over Chinese?”
Vincent shook his head. “She did a fine job pretending she didn’t have a sister.”
Deming watched Vincent over her coffee mug, and he could tell she was trying to be subtle. It was something she did. Her profiler thing. He found it annoying as hell.
“Vincent, why aren’t you in there talking with her?” Deming said. “You looking for an invitation?”
He grimaced, narrowing his eyes at the profiler, before turning his gaze back toward Avery. “I don’t have a handle on her yet, and she’s pissed. I don’t want to screw this up.” Everyone else looked at Avery, too, watching as she sat on the built-in platform that served as holding’s chair and bed. All evidence of her earlier anxiety was gone.
“We don’t have time for nuance.” Benton shook his head, clearly struggling to rein in his impatience. He looked exhausted, and the bruising around his split lip had grown more colorful; dark purple, with green, and yellow on its edges. “I need answers.”
“Look at her,” Vincent said. “She looks like a coed, but she’s as calm as a lifer. Most people collapse under this kind of pressure, but not her. How exactly am I supposed to force her to do anything? Even if I were willing to scare her, I’m not sure I could. She’s tough.”
“She survived marriage to Coppola. Survived the diner. How is she alive?” Deming said. “I heard that meth head, Jim, put a knife to her throat.”
Vincent nodded. “And she didn’t just survive Jim, she sliced him to ribbons, and left him with a fractured skull.” It seemed impossible to imagine Avery, so delicate and pale, being the one who’d done that, but he’d seen the evidence close up and personal.
“Stop.” Benton lifted a hand, dismissing their concerns. “Deming, she’s alive because Modena saved her ass.” A young man, clipboard in hand, approached and Benton barely hid his impatience as he scrawled something on the form. “Modena, your quick work saved everyone in that diner, and Avery Toner Coppola is alive thanks to you.” He handed the clipboard back, and scowled at Vincent. “Be sure to remind her of that when you ask her for the files.”
Vincent knew better. Without Avery’s well-timed interference, everyone in that diner might have died this morning. Every one of them. “I guess.”
“The files,” Benton said. “Right now, that’s all that matters.” He turned to the admin. “We good here?” The young man nodded, hurrying off, leaving Benton to exchange glances with Deming, before smiling at Vincent. “That form I just signed allowed me to use Coppola’s men in the vicinity to buy us FBI backup. They’ll arrive within an hour.” He narrowed his gaze. “I did my part, now it’s your turn. Offer Avery Coppola a deal. Anything. Just get us the files and do it quickly. In one hour, we’ll have enough personnel to transport her to the safehouse to be processed by Federal Marshals. We’ll want her to testify, Modena, but we’ll settle for the files.”
Deming continued to sip her coffee, frowning at Avery, ignoring the people rushing about. “I’d suggest using her sister, Millie, as leverage, but I’m thinking Avery has her tucked away somewhere safe, or she’d be climbing the walls. They’re obviously very close. More mother and daughter, than siblings.”
“Gilroy’s on Millie Toner. Only so many places to hide a ten-year-old girl,” Benton said. “This town isn’t that big.”
Deming shrugged. “Control Millie and you’ll control Avery.” Then she glared at Vincent. “Is there a reason you’re not in there talking to her yet? Stop second-guessing yourself, or is this you fishing for compliments?” She waved a hand toward holding. “You’re amazing at what you do, so go do your magic, Modena, and be quick about it.”
Vincent smiled, winking at the profiler. “Not the first time I’ve heard that.”
Deming narrowed her eyes, her lips thinning with irritation. “Don’t be stupid. You know what I meant. Charm her. Make her think you’re on her side.”
“Get the files.” Benton nudged Vincent toward holding. “Whatever it takes. Understood?” Vincent nodded as he navigated his way past the officers and admin people. Deming caught up with him, and handed him a file she’d lifted from a nearby desk.
“I had one of the assistants print these photos. They might help. Also, this,” she pointed to a thin file inside the thicker one, “is what we have on Avery Coppola. Most of it you’ve seen before, so you know it’s not much.”
Vincent nodded, took the file, and reached into his pants pocket and retrieved the holding door’s key. Once inside, he waited until the lock clicked behind him, then he moved deeper into the room. The Plexiglas wall muffled the sounds in the office beyond, so it was a bit of a relief to be in there, and it was exciting. For the first time since they’d met, they were having a one on one, as themselves, rather than Patty and some random hiker who’d wandered into her diner. His body grew taut with anticipation as he approached her on the platform.
She lifted her chin, adjusting her seat, crossing her legs. “I have a bus to catch,” she said.
He sat next to her, recognizing her anger. So, no more flirty smiles, licking her lips, lingering gazes raking over his body? He’d miss them. He’d enjoyed them. Vincent put the file on the platform between them, and flipped through the pictures inside. “Your bus will have to leave without you.”
“Charge me or release me,” she said.
“Charge you?” Vincent shook his head. “Avery, you’re a hero. I want to give you a medal.”
“Let me go,” she said. “You can mail it to me and we’ll call it even.”
“You saved a lot of lives today.”
“Yours included, so do a woman a solid and unlock the door,” she said. They both knew that wasn’t happening.
“Coppola’s men are on their way.” And they wanted to kill her. She had to know that.
“So, you say. I wouldn’t know. I have nothing to do with my ex-husband, or his business associates.” Her expression remained unmoved, which impressed Vincent. They both knew how brutally efficient Coppola contract killers were. If they wanted her dead, nothing would stop them from trying to get at her.
“No, you’re right. It’s family business,” he said. “Right, Patty?” He winked, as he kicked up a cheek, giving her a half smile. “Avery Toner Coppola. Daughter of the last boss, ex-wife of the current boss.” She averted her eyes, but otherwise, didn’t move a muscle.
He threw down a picture of her family in happier times. A crowd of smiling faces at a well-to-do family reunion celebration. Vincent was disappointed to see no reaction from her beyond a glance at the photo. Did she see herself in the picture? She was in it, just turned seventeen, and her little sister, Millie, who was two at the time, was also in it. Held in her mother’s arms, a woman who looked like a slightly different version of Avery; red hair, strong jawline, but her lips were thinner, whereas Avery’s lips were more like her father’s.
Vincent forced himself to look away from Avery’s stalwart expression, and focus on the picture. The sun was shining, setting the scene, and everyone was smiling, happy, and seemed normal. They weren’t. They were the Toners, a crime family that ran a syndicate that controlled a large swath of the illegal drug and gun business along the east coast. But that was eight years ago. Things had changed. Dante Coppola had taken over and ran things now.
“If this is about Dante, I told you, I haven’t seen him. Three years ago, I divorced him,” she said. “I can’t help you.”
“Yes, you can, and you will.”
“No. I can’t. So charge me or release me.” He threw down the material witness warrant. She flinched, obviously recognizing what it was, or at least, suspected. “Why are you doing this?” she said.
“You’re a witness,” Vincent said. “The cook, Sam Rutherford is dead. Charlie Humphrey is dead. Murdered, this morning. You were a witness to all that and this piece of paper allows me to keep you here for twenty-four hours.” Now that got a reaction. She flushed and glanced out the Plexiglas window, seeing all the curious gazes staring back.
Her outrage shifted to resentment. “My tax dollars at work.”
Vincent kept his smile in place. “Would that be Patty Whitman’s tax dollars or Avery Coppola’s tax dollars?”
Her eyes flashed with anger, and then just as quickly he saw her shut it down. The woman looking back at him now was composed, and if anything, mildly amused. “Twenty-four hours will come and go and I’ll still have nothing to say. About anything.”
“We’ll see.” The Feds weren’t the only people who would benefit from tearing down the syndicate. Why didn’t she recognize that she had something to gain? Avery was smart. He had to assume she knew the Feds were her one shot at a life after Coppola, so why the resistance? What did she know that the Feds didn’t? The potential answers to that question unnerved him. She’d stolen the syndicate files. Maybe they held some truths that weakened the Fed’s hand.
“I’ve been authorized to offer you freedom for the files you stole from your husband. Once they’re verified as authentic, you can go. Hell, you might even make your bus on time.” Unlikely with Coppola’s men on their way, but she had to know that, and he had no doubt Avery knew how to negotiate. This was his opening offer. Vincent was curious to hear her follow up bid. It might give him some indication of where her head was at.
Avery pulled her lower lip into her mouth, biting it, avoiding his gaze. “I’ve got nothing to say.”
He found it difficult to take his eyes off her lower lip, now reddened and damp from her mistreatment. “The bus won’t wait for you.” Her cheek kicked up, and Vincent saw the humor in her eyes. She seemed intent on dismissing these proceedings as simply an irritation.
“I can buy a new bus ticket,” she said.
“Coppola’s men are coming. Now.” His composure slipped, and his tone hardened. Where was her fear?
“Let them come.” Her contempt made him think her behavior was less about surviving and more about thwarting the FBI. They both knew time was running out, and waiting for the next bus was a fantasy. Hell, holding her here for twenty-four hours was a fantasy, too, but if she hadn’t figured that out on her own, Vincent wasn’t about to tell her. He wished he knew why she wasn’t freaking out. What was the missing piece to this puzzle? Incriminating files, baby sister to protect, hiding from an ex, she should be begging the Feds for protection.
She stared back at him, giving him…nothing. Vincent supposed being married to a man responsible for hundreds of deaths, millions of dollars-worth of drugs and guns peddled onto the streets, had a way of making a person numb. Was that what he was seeing? Her inability to process the enormity of the danger she was in? He just didn’t know, but needed to if he had any hopes of controlling her.
“Why did your ex-husband put a contract out on your life?” he said.
Avery’s smile faltered, and her shock pleased him, because it meant she either hadn’t known her husband wanted her dead, or was horrified to discover that Vincent knew. Either way, it gave him leverage, he just had to figure out how to use it to make her give up the files.