See the Prologue for the disclaimer and general info.
clairlz: Thanks for the comment. :)
p2880: No, no rewrite, I just felt the need to post what I had already written on the site to try and get some encouragement to continue. and writers block caused a long hiatus. I definitely plan on finishing it. It is all planned out. I just need the motivation and to get past one point that is causing me strife.
Chapter One: Monday, May 27th - 12:01am
Veronica's Apartment
"Although I agree silence in New York should be savored and cherished-"
"Why?" Logan pushed.
The silence in the room had become deafening. While Veronica was thankful Logan had reacted following a good ten minutes of knuckle cracking, toe tapping and curious glances, being cut off mid-sentence always managed to push her aggravation level up a notch. The side of Veronica's mouth curled up in a crooked grin as she spoke. "Why should silence be cherished?"
There was no reply, the question more of a diversion tactic than anything else. The feel of movement, a sudden shift in body angle, had left Veronica no choice but to look up from the fascinating red wine stain dotting the corner of the couch cushion. She'd tried, but it was just too much of a struggle. Too hard to face his reluctant concern, as his brown eyes bore into her. She knew what she must look like on the outside. What a stranger would see if they walked past her on the street. Having not had the chance to see for herself, she imagined the faint red mark under her left nostril, the bruise-like darkness under her eyes. Her skin was too pale and her hands were constantly moving, rubbing, scratching, anything but staying still.
"Oh, yeah. I remember how this one goes..." The tremble in his voice was easy to detect. "This is where you completely avoid the matter at hand, then manage to turn the conversation 'round 180 degrees to place the blame upon me." Although his tone had a tinge of bitterness at the edges, the knotting of his brow and his relentless stare obliterated any ill will in his accusation.
Maybe if she hadn't looked up, she would have taken offense at his deliberate attempt to spur some emotion in her. Luckily, she'd had a lot of practice analyzing people, seeking out their flaws, their triggers, and their insecurities. At this point, Logan was the last person she wanted to analyze. Doing so meant she would be forced to see the unwanted in herself, uncover the concealed truth, the undeniable reality the cocaine which was running through her system was supposed to be suppressing right about now.
However, it had been an hour since her last line. Feeling herself slowly come down from her high, Veronica unfolded her legs and brought her knees down from underneath her chin, trying to get comfortable for the inevitable conversation. No point in stalling any longer. Minimal information should be enough to get him to leave her alone. But then again, it was Logan. Minimal was never enough for him when it came to revealing her secrets.
"Fine. I'll tell you why I was in a run-down Irish pub, throwing back whiskeys, if you tell me what the hell you were doing in the same pub?"
"Felt like slummin' it." His pause was brief as he switched from sarcastic to serious. "Your turn." She wasn't going to let him get away with the blatant brush off, but Veronica knew he had the right to be as curious as he was.
Eyes downcast, her reply was laced with hesitancy. "It's complicated, Logan. Not to mention highly confidential."
"You've never been one to follow the rules, Mars. Why start now?"
O'Malley's Pub
40 minutes earlier...
Johnny Fallon was terrible at hiding his emotions. One could always decipher his mood by observing his posture and the position of his hands. Right now, he was seated on a miniature stack of crates, shoulders slumped, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his faded jeans.
It was time she pulled the man out of his troubling thoughts. "Where were you? We were supposed to meet forty minutes ago," she said in a neutral tone.
With short mousy-brown hair stuck at odd angles by an exuberant round of finger combing, Johnny's eyes closed briefly before he started to explain. "One of our best contamination exterminators quit a week ago. A live snake was found in one of the shipments at Red Hook..."
Veronica could tell he was racking his brain, trying to make his excuse sound plausible. The 'no reliance' rule seemed to be fading with every passing day of their three month relationship. The more she witnessed 'Johnny the Gentleman' or 'Johnny the Man with a Conscience', the more she wished he would escape the grasp of his uncle. But an absent nephew would destroy all hope she had in making the bust. She had worked too hard, committed and relinquished too much of her mind and body to have it all evaporate with the disappearance of her only source.
She knew exactly where he'd been, and what he had been doing. She knew he was involved in his uncle Larkin's drug trafficking ring. His job in the customs department for the Port Authority ensured the problem-free exporting and transportation of Larkin's cocaine shipments.
Two weeks ago, earlier than scheduled, one of Larkin's workers had left an old backpack containing 8-balls in the bus terminal close to the port. The plan had been to pick up the backpack and take it into Manhattan, where it would be delivered to a dealer, but it never happened. Port Authority police found the backpack before it could be retrieved. Luckily for Larkin, there was no way to connect the drugs to him or Johnny. Due to the worn-out look of the bag, and the small amount of cocaine inside, the police assumed it had been left behind by a small-time dealer, and didn't investigate further.
Hearing about the incident on the local news, and believing the backpack was one of Larkin's, Veronica collected the police and forensic reports, confident the backpack could eventually be linked to the mob. Knowing Larkin wasn't the type to let such an idiotic move slide, she'd made a note to check all hospitals in the neighborhood for victims of assault. Instead of dealing with the mess himself, Larkin had done what all bosses did; he'd sent one of his henchmen to do the job.
"How many drinks have you had?" His accusing tone pulled her concentration back to the agitated man in front of her. She was sure he'd been talking the whole time her mind had gone for a wander. Maybe that was the reason for the shift in the vibe of the dark storeroom.
Suddenly, she was conscious of her unfocused vision, her body leaning heavily on the rough stucco wall. "Not that it really matters, but..." she trailed off, contemplating her answer. "I don't know, you'd have to ask Mike." Her left arm was bent across her chest, index finger pointing in the general direction of the bar. "I don't often make it a priority to count them as I go."
"Yeah, well, maybe I had something to say. I'm not even gonna bother if you're drunk and high as a fuckin' kite."
She tried to act sober. Tried to collect herself and hoped he would continue to talk, to open up. Her hands started to shake as she watched him stare at the dusty painting of his immigrant ancestors hanging on the wall behind her. As her unrelenting gaze got more intense, his body began to withdraw, his eye-line drifting to the concrete floor a few meters to her left. It was all too new. Where was the crude mouthed, beer guzzling, emotionally closed-off guy she'd met four months prior?
Giving up, she grabbed the tiny clear packet from her jeans pocket. Drunk, she'd been unable to use her innate ability to foresee an opportunity to get closer, losing the moment. Having taken a seat on the footstool beside him, she turned to face her boyfriend. Trying to pull his forlorn eyes from the ground, she placed the baggy directly in front of his face.
His hand pushed the blow away, voice laced with resignation when he spoke. "No, Sam."
She was getting sick of her pseudonym, Samantha. Maybe she should have put more time into choosing one she actually liked.
"You sure? It'll help you relax. It looks like you could use a little... or a lot." The last three words were mumbled under her breath. She couldn't afford to lose his growing trust, yet her current actions weren't helping.
Before she could stop him, he pushed off the crates, standing tall. In the same moment, Veronica stuck her finger in the small bag, raised it to her left nostril and took a regretful hit. It happened all too fast. She would have stopped herself if she'd known he was about to leave. Head low as she sniffed the remnants of the blow, she observed Johnny's feet still on the concrete floor in front of her.
For the second time in ten minutes, Johnny reminded her how she'd managed to fuck up by getting caught up in the very lifestyle she was investigating. "Go clean yourself up. You look terrible," he forced out through the thin space between his firm lips.
It wasn't supposed to go like this. He was supposed to be the unstable one, to want to confide in her, not be put off by her acquired habits. She was the one who was supposed to be disgusted by what he was doing for extra cash. She was not in the wrong here and he couldn't use that against her. Both were dithering between redemption and damnation, too scared to face the finality of making a decision. When the gateway to drugs, violence and organised crime became the good guy, she knew something needed to change; she needed to change.
When she supplied him with nothing but a dumbfounded look, his expression softened. "I know this isn't you. Where's the woman I met a few months back? The one who stood proud and alert?"
"You tell me."
He was gone with a shake of his head, but before Veronica made the decision to follow him out, she bent down to pick up a card-sized notebook that had fallen from his shirt pocket.
Exactly ten minutes had passed since Veronica went out the back hallway. As Logan looked up from his watch, the man she'd greeted earlier rushed through the pub and straight out the front door. Not wanting to risk being seen by Veronica, he pushed his empty glass away, getting ready to leave the pub.
Before he got the chance to get the hell out of there, Veronica emerged from the hallway. Reflexes fired up, Logan's body remained frozen in place, his mind racing to come up with a way to remain unseen. It was too late. Shock reflected on Veronica's face, replacing an expression of pure determination. All Logan could do was watch, her eyes pleading with him to show no recognition as she slowly made her way to the exit. If they were both undercover, there was no way he was going to screw up the investigation. No need to start doing that again.
In the fleeting moments preceding her final steps towards the exit, Logan glimpsed Veronica placing a small notebook into her pants pocket. To his discomfort, two of the men in the corner had also seen the subtle action. By the way one of the guy's brow had morphed into a V, Logan could tell the book was important. He made a mental note to look into it later. Maybe even question Veronica about it. That was, of course, if he ever saw her again.
Having decided to avoid attracting attention by staying seated, it took all of Logan's will power not to say 'fuck it' and storm out of the bar in pursuit of Veronica. He raised his glass for another refill, waiting, killing time until he could make his move. The men in the corner also remained seated, causing Logan to believe they did not feel the need to follow her out. In perfect synchrony each man picked up his poker hand and continued to play as if nothing had happened.
Seven minutes and forty-three seconds – the exact amount of time to evade suspicion. Throwing a twenty onto the table, Logan shoved his hands into his pockets, casually making his way out of the pub. Once he was through the doors, he filled his lungs with the fresh night's air and glanced down the street in both directions, trying to remember where he'd originally come from, momentarily having lost his bearings. Apart from the distant noise of a stray Jack Russell terrier rummaging through garbage bins, the street was silent. Logan sensed Veronica was close by. The only place she could have been hiding was an alleyway to the left of the pub. Recognising a building further down the street, Logan headed in the opposite direction of the alley. If she were going to spy on him, he'd humor her until the last possible moment.
Only a few steps down the sidewalk, Logan heard a quick cry behind him. He turned toward the brief but high-pitched yelp. Ass firmly planted on the filthy concrete, right hand loosely clutching her left ankle, Veronica slouched to the side, her left hand supporting her body. Her back was turned to Logan, as if she'd deliberately spun around on her way down, avoiding a confrontation. Always prepared, that one. By the look of things, she'd managed to stumble on a small, empty, half-bottle of spirits abandoned in the middle of the sidewalk.
"Veronica..." He couldn't keep the impatience out of his voice. "You're gonna have to get up at some point. Just take my hand, or get up on your own, if you prefer."
Logan stood stoic at Veronica's feet, arm extended in front of her face, offering his hand. She wouldn't meet his gaze, whether from embarrassment, nerves, or fear, he couldn't tell. But he wasn't going to stand there much longer. It was up to her to reach for his hand. Logan hoped she would ignore her pride and just accept help for once in her life.
Finally, she looked up. Even under the murky glow of the streetlights, he could see Veronica was still high. There was no way she would be able to get up of her own accord; she had no choice but to take his offer. So he wasn't surprised when she raised her hand to his, her tiny, clammy fingers fitting into his firm, warm grasp. As he lightly pulled Veronica to her feet, Logan placed a hand on the back of her shoulder in order to keep her upright.
"Thanks," Veronica mumbled under her breath, meeting his gaze, her hand still nestled in his.
Logan nodded, flashing her with one of his classic smirks. "Come on, I'll get us a ride."
He led her down the street, away from the dreary pub and towards a more populated area. Flagging down the first cab in sight, Logan reluctantly let go of Veronica's hand so she could crawl into the back seat. Climbing in next to her, he ordered the driver to head north.
Veronica spoke up a few blocks in to the ride. "I live here in Bay Ridge."
"You couldn't have said that when we first got in?"
"Thought you already knew. You know where I drink, why not where I sleep?"
In the awkward silence that ensued, the cab driver covered his laugh with a forced cough and turned back towards Veronica's apartment. Logan thought it was ironic - Bay Ridge was known for its conservative, strong family presence, yet it was also home to a considerable number of Irish pubs. The neighborhood was nicknamed 'Bar Ridge' by many, or 'Slay Ridge' after the unsolved murders that had occurred in the mid 90s.
Unseen by most, what happened late at night, in the back room of a pub, the family room of an Irish home, the shadows of a dock, was usually the most dangerous activities of organised crime. Who would suspect a drug lord could successfully run his illegal business out of a wealthy district in Brooklyn, a suburb of predominately middle-class citizens? Logan was sure Veronica's government paycheck allowed for a nice brownstone apartment in the area.
While Veronica attempted to rattle off her precise coordinates to the driver, Logan observed the passing buildings, all the while listening to the conversation going on beside him. Her directions were futile, a stop/start collection of words all muddled together. It was obvious the driver understood her broken sentences only because of his thorough knowledge of the local streets. An outsider would have thought she was trying to provide the directions to Timbuktu.
For a middle-class Brooklyn neighborhood, Bay Ridge had its fair share of rundown homes hidden between modernized brownstones. The cab headed west of the popular 3rd, 4th, and 5th Avenues, further from the expensive harbor views of Manhattan and Staten Island, to an area within walking distance of the Irish pub they'd left a few minutes ago.
Logan couldn't remember the last time a two-minute cab ride had felt like an hours journey. He'd spent the short time trying to decide whether to; a) walk Veronica to her door and leave, telling her he'd be back to talk; b) walk her to her door and follow her inside; or c) stay close to the cab and give a weak wave as she ascended the steps. With little desire to further prolong the evening, he settled on the last option. He needed time to process, to calm his nerves and devise proper questions, ones that could lead him to answers that would impress his supervisors. After three years, he didn't want the first significant conversation he had with his ex to be a heated argument. Now that he'd seen her in the flesh, seen what her current condition was, he needed time to cool off in order to prevent a disaster. The decision to leave her without so much as a goodbye left him with a dull ache in his chest. He comforted himself with the reminder that she wasn't too coherent. Any conversation they had tonight would be pointless.
By the time Veronica reached the front door, Logan had reentered the cab, having promised to return. Refusing to look back, he ordered the driver to take him straight to the Marriott at the Brooklyn Bridge.
It took him all of ten seconds to change his mind. Asking the driver to make the first left and pull up around the corner, he shook his head and released a frustrated sigh. How she kept such a stranglehold on his conscience, he didn't know. Even now, after so long, Veronica had an uncanny ability to make him question the simplest of actions.
With all the energy drained from her body, Veronica rested her head against the dark wooden door, trying to push the night's events out of her head. With a sharp intake of air, she shoved her hand into her purse to retrieve her keys, mystified as to how she'd managed to keep hold of her purse the entire evening.
Hearing heavy footsteps before she heard the arrogant greeting, Veronica spun around to see a figure across the street, his destination made obvious by the hollered, "Hey, you!" An added cliché whistle of approval and an obscene gesture was followed by, "How 'bout you bring that fine ass over here. Show me what you can do with it!"
The comment wasn't completely out of place. The vulgar man had just exited the building directly across from her own, where a house party raged on the top floor. Classic rock played loudly and voices could be heard trying to make conversation over the blaring speakers.
The sleazy guy started to cross the street, heading directly for her. Clutching her keys, she yanked them from her purse in record speed, only to end up doing the mandatory fumble. A sharp cry escaped her lips as an arm circled her waist, shoved a hip into hers. Instantly she recognised the soft embrace. Not a hard grasp, but the smooth feel of a body fitting perfectly into hers.
Remembering, for a moment, a time when this was natural, Veronica briefly closed her eyes and let the tension leave her body. She was brought back to present-time when Logan spoke, his voice thick with intimidation. "Dude, back off. She's mine, and you ain't laying a finger on her."
The man halted, one foot on the curb. Running a nervous hand through his greasy hair, he stormed back to where he'd come from, muttering insults under his breath.
Veronica opened the door. The two pushed inside, and simultaneously shied away from each other. Her home was an old brownstone that had been converted into apartments. The outside of the building was deceiving. With a new coat of white paint, dark, navy windowsills and gothic railing, it appeared modern and warm. Once inside, however, the floorboards creaked, the wallpaper was a faded white, and the air was cold and stuffy, like the inside of an airplane. Veronica could see the surprise on Logan's face. Maybe he'd expected a vase full of flowers on a small, polished Victorian table, or an elegant chandelier casting a warm glow over the entranceway.
When she felt his attention on her, biting back an 'I'm a tough girl. I don't need protection' remark, Veronica asked a question seldom uttered by a person prone to running away. "Do you wanna come up?"
Without a word, Logan began walking up the stairs. Veronica just rocked her head up and down in a small succession and followed closely behind, holding onto the railing to keep herself steady on the way up.
Monday, May 27th - 12:04am
Veronica's Apartment
Carefully watching her every move, Logan waited as Veronica prepared herself. Rubbing her hands together in her lap, her eyelids only closed at random intervals, as if she had lost the automatic ability to blink. Never one for patience, Logan raised his eyebrow and turned towards her in expectation. "Today would be good."
As if his voice brought her out of her reverie, a puff of air escaped her lips in a scoff, her head lifting to look his way. Logan wasn't sure what caused such a reaction to his comment, but her brief response was quickly forgotten when she began to speak, her voice barely above a whisper. "For months now the Bureau has been investigating numerous murders around Brooklyn. Originally they were believed to be isolated incidents, but when a local mob member was placed at the scene of the crime, we were brought in to draw a connection between the murders and bring down the mob boss and his cronies."
"Larkin O'Malley. Irish dude with a taste for committing felony."
"How do you-" Veronica began. Logan raised both his brow and hand, cutting her question short. She continued when he gave no indication of divulging. "I guess that means you've heard about Larkin's notorious crime family. Generations of petty criminals manifested into one big organised mob. Larkin's been on Santa's naughty list for years, almost his whole life, really. After only a few weeks of surveillance, it was assessed that the murders could be part of a much bigger picture."
"The drug ring."
Although unnecessary, he'd felt an urge to interrupt again. Her fast paced explanation caught him off guard. He'd expected a quick, hollow reply, not a complete debriefing of her involvement. She'd brushed off his prior knowledge of Larkin too easily. He wouldn't put it past Veronica to be fully aware of his business in New York.
Eyes wide, corners of her mouth pulled up, Veronica confirmed his suspicions with a sarcastic cheer. "That's the one!" She lowered her voice to a more somber tone before adding, "Large-scale shipments and off-shore numbered accounts, plus the help of a corrupt border control allows for land, air, and sea transportation of the contraband. Larkin's got connections in all the required sectors, including customs. It's the whole shebang."
"And that's not enough to bring him in?"
"I...we don't have solid or hard evidence. All I've found is resting peacefully in here." Detecting her sarcasm on the word 'peacefully', Logan didn't need to be facing her to know she was pointed at her head. "'Bout to cause me an aneurysm. It's all hearsay, assumptions, fleeting glimpses, and overheard conversations."
"Then why doesn't the FBI bring in more people? If ones not enough, why not bring in a unit?"
He should stop asking so many questions. One too many could jeopardize his progress. Digging too deep was surely to result in silence eventually. Obviously he hadn't pushed her too far, as she continued, directly answering his inquiry without a second's hesitation.
"And raise suspicions? They trust me to collect enough intel to prosecute and make the bust. I'm almost there, I just..." Veronica's voice trailed off, a newfound hesitancy spreading across her features. Face changing to a blank expression, she looked Logan square in the eyes and asked, "So I assume the DEA have caught on to Larkin's shifty behaviour?"
"Hmm. About that..." Before finishing he turned to face her at the other end of the couch and prepared to assess her response. "Why didn't the FBI feel the need to contact us?" His tone held a reasonable amount of indignation.
If Logan had to hear her release another sigh tonight, he was going to hit something. Hard. What little was left of his patience was hanging on by a thread.
"Did you not listen when I told you it was highly confidential?"
"Arrogant pricks," Logan muttered.
Ignoring the jab, Veronica went on to explain how investigations involving organised crime controlling and affecting such a vast number of people, businesses, state and government departments, was usually put under level four security measures. It was the top-secret clearance only one down from SCI, which was reserved for matters of national security and protection.
Veronica's anxiety levels peaked. She finished her speech in an exasperated rush. "Hell, I could get shot for telling you all this shit."
Logan didn't for a second question the truth of that statement. Then why was she letting him know the full deal? The old Veronica would have stopped at 'its confidential'. If the DEA found out he were conversing with a FBI agent on one of their own investigations, he'd be back to playing sidekick for months. While the two organisations occasionally played nice, neither wanted the other to steal their thunder, much like a child trying to outdo their sibling in the battle for cutest offspring. He had yet to tell her anything about the DEA and the reason for his placement here on the east coast. Both of them had made assumptions about the others presence, only his assumptions had just been confirmed.
Who said she wasn't lying? It could be the influences of whatever she was on. Having worked for the DEA for almost two years, Logan knew the one way to get a nosy bystander off your back was to claim the situation was top secret. While it left the person fascinated and craving more information, in most cases it guaranteed they'd back off in an instant. No doubt from fear that they themselves would get caught up in the crossfire.
From what Logan had read in the files on Larkin, the guy was bad news. There was no direct evidence linking the Irish crime family to the local murders or even a localized drug scandal. If Veronica had yet to gather sufficient evidence in the few months Larkin had been under close watch, Logan had a feeling he wouldn't be leaving the east coast anytime soon, and neither was Veronica. Not that she would ever consider moving back to California. She wouldn't rest until justice was served and the jerk was settled in nicely at a maximum-security prison, convicted of all possible charges laid upon him and those who followed his lead.
A cold draft cut through the small room. The four walls of Veronica's apartment didn't really block out the chilly night air. Wearing only a fitted cotton jacket over a long-sleeved striped top, Veronica felt the cold move swiftly from the tips of her toes to the centre of her spine, causing a shiver through her body. Johnny called her a wimp when it came to the forces of nature. Veronica liked to think of it as the consequences of having been raised in sunny, warm Southern California, where 48 degrees was considered freezing. The humid summer months were just around the corner, but so far, she'd failed to adjust to seasonal weather in New York.
She'd done her part; it was time to hear what Logan had to say. Not that it was required. She knew he worked for the DEA. It wasn't too hard to keep track of your ex. Not if you grew up an intrepid teen detective.
Veronica wasn't about to let Logan know she'd kept track of him for the past three years. Judging by his sharp stare, and the curl of his lower lip, Logan was processing the information she'd given him. She'd said a lot more than necessary, the words falling from her mouth before she could take control. Turning the magnifying glass onto Logan, Veronica asked a question she already knew the answer to, hoping he'd supply her with new intelligence. "How long have you been with the DEA? What do they have on Larkin?"
"Few years now, and I'm not telling you anything," he replied, waving a hand near his face, not willing to relent. "I didn't force you to spill all those details, but I'm not gonna risk my career..." Shaking his head, frustration clear, he struggled with the decision whether or not to give in to the girl he used to be unable to keep secrets from. "Fuck, Veronica... what did you expect?"
Rolling her eyes, Veronica announced, "Just stop, Logan. If you don't want to share, I'll figure it out myself. I'll even ignore this conversation, but only if you promise me you won't tell your superiors we're investigating. DEA is in the dark for a reason." She spoke the last part slowly and clearly, to ensure he understood.
Logan stood abruptly, running his fingers through his hair. Surprised by the sudden movement, Veronica blurted the first thing that came to mind. "Do you want a drink?"
Even though she could think of no reason to keep Logan in her apartment any longer than necessary, the truth was, other than the criminal element she'd infiltrated, Veronica hadn't socialized with a human soul in a long time. The lack of morality, decency, and goodwill was getting to her, more than she would ever admit, especially to those who loved her more than she could comprehend. At present, her desire for a healthy, regular conversation outweighed her shame over her condition. She would play at normality tonight, and in the morning, wake up alone, and try to forget she'd spent time with Logan mere hours before.
Caught off guard, Logan ignored Veronica's desperate ploy and tried to find a safe way to end their conversation. He needed to get out before insults and rude ruminations were unleashed. "I think I've got the gist of it. We stay out of each other's way and pretend this never happened. You solve the mystery, and then I save your life. Gotcha."
"Logan..."
There it was again, the desperation surfacing beneath her words. He really needed to leave, before their conversation turned volatile. "I don't know about you, but I can barely keep my eyes open." A white lie was almost harmless, but just like a paper cut, it always managed to leave you with a persistent sting. "I'm gonna go."
Logan could see she was disappointed. Three years ago, their positions would have been reversed. She'd be making up excuses to leave, running away from her problems, and he'd be exposing his emotions full-frontal, begging her to stay.
Not believing the old Veronica was gone for good, Logan relished the moment she reverted back to her old ways. Retreating within herself, Veronica kept her face shuttered, moving to see Logan out. "Right. I guess it's getting pretty late."
Halfway to the stairs, fake smile in place, Logan turned to say goodbye. He really didn't want to leave so soon. Judging by the way Veronica supported her weight with a shaky hand to the door, she was still under the influence, their conversation a clear contrast to her physical state. "We'll catch up later. Good luck, Veronica."
"It was good seeing you, Logan. Maybe next time we can catch up under less dramatic circumstances," Veronica added, wearing what looked like a genuinely happy smile.
And the surprises keep coming. If he could turn back time to when they'd run into each other earlier that night, he'd of made more of an effort to exchange pleasantries. He should have asked her how she was. What she did to kill time. Whether she missed Neptune. How her dad was. Whether the man from the pub was her boyfriend.
"Nah, it's what makes us us. Normal never worked. Mysteries, secrets and hostility have always been our specialty."
Before she could reply, Logan loped down the stairs, away from Veronica, and out the front door.
1:10am
Not bothering to remove her clothes, Veronica let her body fall flat on top of her bed. Body perfectly still, she dragged her head to the side, glancing over at the bottle of Grey Goose sitting close to the edge of her bedside table. She needed a drink. Just one. One that would help her sleep and cover up the nerves for the days to come. Logan would be once again in her life, making her emotions run amok. She wanted desperately to witness the man he had grown up to be, but any interaction with him could be disastrous to the case. From the brief encounter and nosy digging over the years, it looked like Logan had made a real effort to become a respectable, content, working man, and that scared her shitless.
Releasing a frustrated sigh, she twisted her body to face the ceiling. Ignoring the urge to fill a glass, Veronica pressed her eyelids together tightly and wished away the following weeks, hoping beyond hope they could both get back to their lives on opposite coasts, leaving no time for memories of Neptune to emerge. It wasn't the man she wanted gone; it was what he brought with him. She had gotten over the deceit and corruption; it was the reminder of who she once was that frightened her.
Although it was late in Brooklyn, it was early evening on the west coast. Her father would be sprawled out on his couch, watching baseball or MacGyver repeats. She needed to hear his voice. No matter what went wrong, her father always managed to sooth the unease that spread to every crevice, every vulnerable part of her. Decision made, Veronica grabbed her phone from the bedside table, hitting '1' on the speed dial.
"Hello there, daughter." All it took was a 'hello' to get Veronica to grin. "What spurred you to call your dear father this late? You haven't been arrested have you?"
"Now why would you assume I only call for help? I haven't pointlessly called you thousands of miles away the other half dozen times I've been in the slammer. Why would I start now?" Veronica made sure her joke came across as innocent. If her father found out she were in any kind of trouble, he'd be on the first flight over. The less he knew, the happier they both were.
Dropping all fronts to relax into conversation with her father was becoming harder by the day. She now had to make an effort to appear happy, even when it was only her voice he heard. He was finally enjoying life without her. The greedy child within wanted to pout and whine at his newfound contentment, but she never let him know how it made her feel. To Veronica, her father deserved the happiness more than anyone in the world. He had risked so much for her in the years following Lilly's death. The only way she knew how to show her gratitude was to leave him alone and tell him she loved him more than anything every chance she got.
Keith played along with her banter. Numerous B & E instances, espionage, and revenge schemes lightly rolled off the tip of his tongue.
Loosely following his playful rant, Veronica interrupted her father before he could finish his improvised list of incriminating behaviors. "I love you." The timing was off, yet it felt right to say it at that exact moment. Any earlier and he'd think she was in immediate danger. Any later, and he'd think she'd said it as a form of goodbye to end their weekly phone call.
The soft sound of a slowly released breath of air traveled through the line. "You too, sweetheart. Now, are you sure you're alright? The seasons are changing, you could be having an adverse reaction to that thing they call seasonal weather."
"I'm fine, Dad. I promise. Work has just been a little rough. Nothing to worry your pretty, shiny bald head over." That joke may have gotten old, but it never got stale in her mind.
"Thank god. I may love you, but I don't want to delve into my retirement fund to deal with any uncooperative colleagues. I'm looking forward to using that money to build my very own Tony Gwynn memorabilia collection."
If only eye rolling was a verbal communication tool. It'd make her responses to his silly comments all the more clear. While their conversing was doing a great job at stabilizing her mentally, Veronica's physical state still contradicted her words. Her hands still shook and it felt like a worm was eating at her insides, feasting on her anxieties.
Too drained to climb in under the covers, Veronica said goodbye to her father, reassuring him no late night calls would be made from a hospital or police station anytime soon, before resting her head firmly on her pillow. In six hours she'd have to report back to the office. Every last second of sleep she got may be vital to how well she presented herself later that morning. What a pity sleep never came easy these days.
8:21am
Marriott at Brooklyn Bridge
Marc Rodriquez, Logan's DEA supervisor, was a straightforward man, with little or no sense of humor. He was a man so focused on the job; he had no wife and no life to speak of. He could list his friends on a single hand. Piss him off and he'll never let you forget. He won't openly despise you or hold a grudge. Instead, he'll wait for the perfect opportunity to humiliate you in front of your peers, a menacing smirk always in place to make even the strongest man falter, as if he got pleasure from destroying those he found inferior. What he lacked in interpersonal skills, he made up for in double with professional efficiency. Logan had yet to get on his bad side. It took a lot for Logan to fear a person. Rodriquez was one of the only human beings that truly intimidated him. Keith Mars and a determined Veronica being the only others.
When Logan called in to his boss, he'd expected the first words out of Rodriquez's mouth to be a question on the case. He wouldn't be greeted and niceties wouldn't be exchanged. A muffled cough, a moment's pause, then he'd get straight to the point. "Did you get anything?"
"Not yet. The place was dead. I was there for over an hour and only two people came in for a drink. There were three dudes in a booth, furtherest away from the door. They drank a lot and played poker the whole time. Not once did they move. Barely a word was spoken by anyone."
Logan didn't want to mention Veronica. They didn't need to know she was there. If they found out, he could be the catalyst of dire consequences.
"You only just got there. We'll get something eventually. Recognise any of the men from the file?"
"Hard to say. The joint was just like a typical Irish pub. Dark, low light, and it stunk of beer. The guys were large, but none of them fit the pictures or even the descriptions. I think they could be involved, but I don't think they're important enough to tail."
"What about the girl?"
Oh, shit.