Chapter Twelve
"When in Jersey"
The sun isn't up yet when I roll out of bed. I'd gone to bed around midnight last night only to find myself unable to sleep for more than half an hour at a time. Absolutely nothing worked, so it was something of a relief when I finally gave up and decided to get up and moving. I'm sure I'll be tired for the rest of the day, but I can worry about that later—after I've had enough coffee to keep me human.
After I've started my coffee I reach for my cell phone; there are no missed calls or texts, but I would have woken up if there had been. Years of getting phone calls in the middle of the night has turned me into a light sleeper. I check my voicemails and there are none of them, either.
On a whim, I decide to record a new voicemail message that doesn't include my last name. On the off-chance that Raphael Benevuto calls me, I don't really want him knowing my last name and getting the urge to look me up. I've already given him my first name, but I can make something else up for him to chase around if he deems it necessary. It takes me barely a minute to record the new message, and I try to sound as non-threatening as possible. It's a lot harder than I thought it would be.
The next call I have to make won't be nearly so easy, but it has to be done.
Mac picks up after two rings and his voice sounds as clear as it would have if he'd been awake for hours. It wouldn't surprise me if he has been. Since it's just beginning to show signs of life outside, I'm willing to bet that he's an early riser.
"It's me," I say and he doesn't offer a reply. "I'm taking you up on your offer."
"I hear Jersey's beautiful this time of year," he replies and I laugh.
"I'm sure it is," I say and take a look at the clock on the wall of my living room. "What time are you leaving?"
There's a brief pause on the line while, I assume, he's making a timeline in his head.
"I'll pick you up in an hour."
I disconnect the call and toss the phone on the couch, where I'll pick it up again on my way out the door. Strangely enough, I'm not apprehensive about this field trip at all; it's in extreme contrast from the last few places he's taken me. Worrying about what Mac is doing has taken up most of my thoughts for the last week, and I've had just about enough of that kind of stress. I'm pretty sure that was the reason I couldn't sleep last night. I make the silent resolution to quit being so suspicious of him—he's saved me once already, as infuriating as that is—so I think he deserves a little of my trust.
I shower and debate on what to wear, wondering if whatever research he's doing in New Jersey is going to require stealth. I'm pretty sure I can find something entirely black, but the practical voice in my head is telling me that comfort is going to be more important than color. More than likely his idea of research is going to be six hours in the car with a pair of binoculars. Besides, black in the middle of the day wouldn't have been very conspicuous. That in mind, I grab another pair of jeans and a white t-shirt that fits like it was made for me; I've had it for years now, and I dread the day that I finally wear it out. The outfit is comfortable, though, which is what I was shooting for.
I walk out of my bedroom and feel the same disturbance in the air that I felt a few mornings ago, when I'd found an intruder drinking coffee from one of my mugs. Knowing my luck, it's probably the same intruder. A quick look in my kitchen tells me that I'm right; he's leaning up against the same counter in the same way, drinking the coffee I'd made for myself. He raises his eyebrows as I walk in, his eyes immediately going to the small dark spots around my wrists from where Benevuto's bodyguard had grabbed me. I make a mental note to put on bracelets before we leave; I hadn't cared about the bruises before, but I will if he feels like staring at them all day. I throw the thought aside and clear my throat.
"Good morning," he tells me and offers another cup of coffee in my direction. I take it, because there are some things I just can't resist; caffeine is one of them.
"Not so far," I say and take a sip from the cup. Instantly I groan and I have no idea what he's done with the stuff I made, but this is amazing. "I stand corrected. What did you do to this?"
"Added cream," he says with a small smile.
"Hmm," I mutter and take another long drink before looking back up at him. "I thought you said you were going to knock."
"I did."
"And?"
"You didn't answer," he says as though it was the most obvious answer in the world. I refuse to spend any time wondering how I never heard him, because I've almost decided at this point that he has super powers of some kind. I send him a pointed glance but wave the argument aside; something tells me I wouldn't get anywhere, anyway. I don't always know which battles are worth fighting, but I know the end to this one before it even starts.
"Come on, then," I say, draining my coffee cup and setting it in the sink to wash later. "Whatever's in Jersey is waiting on us."
He complies by sitting his cup in the sink next to mine and following me out of the kitchen. I find my badge and my gun waiting for me on the table, and I send him a questioning glance that he understands immediately.
"I'm not planning anything, but it wouldn't hurt," he replies and I nod, picking the items up and attaching them to my waistline. He leads me out of the apartment and I lock the door behind us, wondering what state I'm going to be in when I come back to it tonight.
-----
I know that Newark is only a few miles from Manhattan, but it feels like two different worlds to me. I can actually tell that the sky is blue here, and it's not obscured by ridiculously tall buildings that jut into the air. It's a welcome break from the frenetic action of Manhattan, and I take temporary solace in it. The thought tells me that I need to get out of the city more often, but I rarely have the time or the inclination.
Not that I would go to Newark, anyway. Don't get me wrong—it's a nice little city, and much smaller than what I'm used to—but it wouldn't be a vacation if I did make it over. Right now the DEA is having it out with Newark because after 9/11 we closed New York's major ports, forcing drug shipments to be moved across the way to New Jersey. We've worked in conjunction with the DEA a few times, if a case had intersected. If I'm not mistaken, the cases we handled had Benevuto in common.
The more time I spend in the car, the more I realize that I know exactly what we're doing here. Mac's friend, Nate, had a problem with drugs—a problem that, I'm guessing, lead eventually to his murder. Since the Benevuto crime family traffics most of the heroin found in New York City, it makes sense that they would have a contact here. Our mission—or so it seems—would be to find that contact. Mac hasn't said as much, but I'm sure he's working up to that.
So far our journey has been silent. I've been staring out the window, and he's been concentrating on the road. We agreed on an oldies radio station five minutes after being in the car together, so it's James Taylor that's taking up the silence rather than conversation. Neither of us minds; it seems we like the same music.
We're weaving through Newark's morning traffic when my phone goes off. Mac shifts his eyes at me and I check the caller ID: It's Flack. I have no idea what he could want this early in the morning unless he wanted me to come in for a body, but even that's unlikely. He's always nagging at me about working too much, so he usually refrains from calling me on my days off unless it's an emergency.
"Hello?" I ask, forgoing my usual greeting of my last name. Flack knows who he's calling, so I don't see the need.
"Where are you?" he asks and he almost sounds annoyed.
"Out of town," I answer cryptically. "What's up?"
"I decided to surprise you with breakfast, and you're not home," he says and I read through the annoyance to find concern laced intricately throughout his words. I feel bad for his worry, but there's nothing I can do about it now.
"Since when are you up and moving this early on your day off, anyway?" he asks and I scoff.
"Shows what you know."
"Yeah, you don't say," he mutters into the mouthpiece. "Where are you?"
"Out of town," I repeat.
"You said that already," he replies. "What kind of out of town are we talking about? Greece out of town or Jersey out of town?"
I scoff. "You're closer than you think."
"Jersey?"
"Listen, Don, I can't talk right now," I say quickly, catching Mac's fierce look out of the corner of my eye. "I'll call you when I get back in."
"What the hell are you doing in Jersey?" I hear him ask before I quickly close the phone, not daring to turn and answer the question that I know is going to come out of Mac's mouth. I let the silence stretch on for a few seconds before he regards me in an expectant tone of voice.
"Well?"
"A friend," I cover but apparently that's not answer enough.
"What kind of friend?" he asks and I turn to face him.
"A work kind of friend," I say simply despite the fact that mine and Flack's friendship has a lot less to do with work than I've let on. He takes my explanation for what it is, though, and turns his attention back to the road.
A few minutes in traffic and he pulls off onto a street that ends eventually in a mostly residential part of town. It's upscale, but not nearly as wealthy as the neighborhood the Benevutos live in. He weaves around streets with ease and I have to wonder how well he knows his surroundings. A small playground comes into view and much to my surprise he pulls off into the parking lot, killing the engine of the SUV. I look over at him, confused.
"What are we doing here?" I ask bluntly. "Is there a fifth grader around that we need to get information out of?"
He catches my eye, and I see him trying to hold back a smile.
"I was thinking we could use a walk," he says and the tone of his voice has me concerned.
"A walk?"
He nods.
"Okay, then. A walk it is," I say and take my holster off my hip to lock it in the glove box while we take this walk he's talking about. I keep my badge with me, though. I've discovered that it always pays to have it nearby if an occasion arises.
We get out of the car and I walk around to his side, following him out of the parking lot and to the sidewalk that runs around the playground. There are no children there this time of day—they're all in school—but I see his eyes drifting over there anyway, always aware of his surroundings. We're close as we walk; anyone looking out their windows might have thought we were enjoying a morning together rather than casing a drug dealer's house. If I'm not careful, I'll start believing it too. I forget how easy it is to be comfortable in his company.
"You were right," I say finally. "The view isn't bad."
"No," he says, catching my eye. "No, it isn't."
I give him a tight smile but the sliver of warmth that slides down my stomach doesn't go unnoticed. In fact, I might hate myself for it. If I were a lesser woman, I might have even giggled. There's no way in hell, though, that Stella Bonasera is ever going to giggle—about anything; much less an offhanded comment that's as innocent as the one that Mac just made. That's just not my style, and it takes no small amount of effort to get me to even consider it. I don't know how I feel about the fact that it took him no effort at all.
We go down one block before he leans in to tell me something; his lips graze my ear for barely a second and I hold my breath until I realize that I should be paying attention whatever it is he's saying.
"You see that house up there?" he asks me. "The big white one with the blue trim?"
I nod.
"It belongs to Marco and Theresa Emiliano," he tells me. "Theresa is Michael Benevuto's youngest sister. Her children run New Jersey's leg of the operation like Roberto runs New York City. They've lived here for twenty years."
I can tell. The home is older but obviously well-kept, and the garden is flourishing with what looks like careful attention; undoubtedly a woman's touch, from the look of the flower choices. The tire swing tied to a branch in the front yard seems completely out of place when I consider whose home it is, but then I can't imagine what I would find there instead.
We walk a little farther, observing the house from afar. I have no idea what he's waiting for, and I'm not entirely sure I should ask. He doesn't offer any information, but finds a tall tree to lean against and if I were anyone else, I would have thought he was just hanging out for the sake of the weather. The calculating look in his eyes, on the other hand, tells me that's the last thing on his mind. I stand next to him and wait for him to tell me what to do. He doesn't talk much, and I'm not a mind reader, so it doesn't end up being as beneficial as I might have hoped.
Just a moment before I had planned to ask him what he were doing, the front door of the house he's watching opens and two men walk out. One is tall with lighter hair and the other is short and apparently balding. I can't tell who's older from this distance, but Mac is watching my observation and sees the question in my eyes.
"Brothers," he says simply.
"Right," I say, "Like Danny DeVito and Arnold Schwarzenegger are twins."
He laughs a bit and we both watch them walk into the garage and climb into a green SUV that looks more like a tank than anything else. I glance up at Mac, and he's regarding them with careful eyes. The engine on the SUV starts up and they start pulling out of the garage, followed closely by a white boat that's been attached to the back of the vehicle. We watch them as they turn out of the driveway and head east down the street. They're out of sight before my companion turns back to me.
"So," he says, hands in his pockets, "How do you feel about boats?"
"That depends," I reply and can't help but worry about where this morning is headed.
"On what?"
"The size of the boat and the circumstances that put me on it," I say and he laughs as though I'd just asked him why the sky is blue. "Just how much thought have you put into this?"
"I made a few arrangements," he admits. "Enough to get what I need."
"And what do you need?" I ask him.
"I'll know it when I see it," he says cryptically and I start to wonder why I even bother asking him questions when all he'll give me are riddles in return. I know, though, that whatever he has planned isn't going to be something I want to miss. So, I step away from him and wave my arm out.
"Lead the way," I instruct and he smiles, starting back down the sidewalk we came from. I shake my head, trying to shake the feeling of foreboding, and I can feel his eyes on me again.
"Don't look so excited," he says and I don't miss the irony.
"I'll try."
A/N: This was kind of a filler chapter, obviously, but I hope it entertained anyway. Mac and Stella are about to have quite the adventure ahead of them. =) Any comments? Thanks—again—to Lily.
