A few keystrokes in the right database turned up an owner for the vehicle. Raphael glanced up from Don's laptop. "It belongs to Martin Wilson."
"Wilson?" Brooke repeated. "Ed Keesing said he hired Leo on that man's recommendation."
"Why would Wilson drive over to see Leo, then leave without his truck?" Casey asked.
"'Cause it broke down?" Raphael suggested.
"Or Chernov showed up," Brooke said, "and upset Wilson so badly he fled without it."
Raphael's heart beat faster at the possibility of a new witness. "I gotta speak to him."
But the agent proved elusive. According to his neighbors - and confirmed by the stack of mail on his doorstep - he hadn't been home since Sunday afternoon. And his boss had only received a text message that he was unavailable until further notice due to an allergic reaction to medicine. Current missions were to proceed as scheduled except for two that were on hold pending further instructions.
Raphael called Wilson's cell, but no one answered. The message he left was brief and urgent, but he deliberately omitted any mention of Leo or Chernov in case someone other than Wilson gained access to his phone.
Further investigation determined the agent had a son, Sam, who owned an art gallery on the other side of town. It made sense to question him in person about his father's whereabouts, so Raphael, Brooke, and Casey piled into Casey's truck at dusk. Doing any above-ground missions called for discreetness and shadows, Raphael's specialty. This time, Raphael donned his trench coat and large hat for good measure since they were going to be out in the open longer than he felt comfortable with.
As they cruised up the street, Raphael scanned the vehicles parked at the curb. "Ion like how Sergei seems to show up where we go."
"Ya want me to stay back and watch for him?" Casey asked, cracking his knuckles. His voice held no trace of his earlier animosity. Casey and Raphael butted heads constantly - this was no different.
"Thanks, bro," he said. "If ya see anything suspicious, don't kick his ass. We can't spark attention, just call my cell and we'll figure out what to do."
Casey nodded, his bloodshot eyes hidden behind sunglasses. He dropped Raphael and Brooke across the street in a dark alleyway from the studio, then drove off to find a parking space.
It was the first time Raphael had been alone with Brooke since Casey's arrival at the house. As she surveyed her surroundings, he gazed at the curve of her neck and remembered nuzzling her there, her skin slick with water from the shower. After their lusty lovemaking, he'd sensed the sweet, sexy gesture had surprised her. It had surprised him, too. The fact that their shower play had led to another richly satisfying encounter had been a bonus.
It occurred to him that she hadn't looked at him at all during the drive to the studio. Maybe Casey's crack about their "private celebration" had made her self-conscious. Or maybe she didn't want to appear emotionally clingy. Whatever the reasons, he wanted her eyes on him again.
"Hey, pretty lady," he murmured, settling his hand on the small of her back.
The light on the traffic signal changed, no cars were around as it was getting late - Brooke set off as if a starting pistol had sounded, her showgirl legs speed-walking across the street. He practically had to jog to catch up to her. He gripped her arm and guided her off to the side.
Turning her to face him, "Is there a fire I ain't know about?" He smiled, but she didn't smile back.
"Why weren't you honest with me?"
His confusion must have shown because she continued, "Why didn't you tell me about the trouble between you and Leo?"
His first reaction was a knee-jerk, defensive one. "It ain't relevant."
"It was relevant to me. I believed you and Leo were close."
"Ya assumed we were close."
"You had plenty of opportunity to set me straight, but you didn't. I think I know why. Because you wanted to believe you and I share the same values about the importance of family."
He felt a guilty twinge, but irritation overrode it, possibly because their argument could attract the attention of others around. Being stealthy didn't seem to be of importance to Brooke. "I'm close with Donny and Mikey."
"But not Leo. Why not?"
"This ain't the time to sort this out."
Her only concession was to lower her voice, a person exiting a shop a few hundred feet away made her realize she needed to be quiet. "You misled me, so I'd stop resisting and get friendly." She uttered the last word like a curse.
"That ain't true." Damn, he didn't want to fight with her. Not when the image of her naked body moving against his was still fresh in his mind.
"Then prove it."
He studied her flush face under the glare of street lights and stormy eyes. "How?"
"Tell me what happened between you and your brother."
He could shut her down in a heartbeat, but he sensed if he did, they were finished. No more intoxicating kisses, no more magic back rubs, no more explosive releases. And no more tender moments. He didn't want to end what had only begun - but neither was he a pushover. She had to be willing to expose something deeply private, too.
"Are ya ready to talk about gettin' shot?"
"That's not a fair exchange," she protested. "What happened to me was work-related. It didn't cause me to reject a member of my family."
He propped his shoulder against the brick wall. "If ya want to check out my skeletons, ya have to be willin' to open up your closet door, too, babe."
"I could ask Casey."
And Casey probably wouldn't think twice about enlightening her. "So why dontcha?"
She was silent, her thoughts impossible to fathom. Finally, she answered. "Because I want to hear it from you."
"No matter how lousy it is?" he challenged.
Her eyes held his. "Trust me to understand."
He cupped her face in his hands. "I will, if you will."
A horn from a car driving down another block made her jump, then she gave a rueful shrug. "You're right. This is a bad place to have this conversation."
"We'll find a better one and finish it. But first, let's talk to Wilson's son."
The studio, aptly named Edgy Art, featured canvases with explosive bursts of color and compelling designs, as well as photos that had been digitally altered into surreal, fantastical images. The shops hours stated they closed in 20 minutes. Good, that's enough time. Raphael considered letting Brooke lead the discussion but the possibility of getting more information out of the son while exposing himself was worth the risk. Who'd believe him, right?
Raphael strode past the displays to the back, he realized Brooke was moving at a slower pace, her eyes lingering on the artwork. Too bad they didn't have time to browse. Maybe after Leo was found and Sidorov arrested, they could come back. What is he thinking? She's going to want a normal life, go shopping, eat at an outside cafe DURING the daytime, stroll hand in hand in the park without getting freaked out looks.
Now wasn't the time to divulge in those thoughts, Raphael thought sadly.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps. A guy with spiked blond hair, multiple piercings and elaborate sleeve tattoos on both arms sauntered toward him. His eyes were on Brooke, not him, which allowed Raphael to strategize the next few steps.
"If you like Betrayal," the guy said to Brooke, who had been studying a nearby canvas, "you might enjoy the one called Fury hanging on the next wall."
Brooke noticed in the corner of her eye Raphael was standing out of view so that the guy doesn't get startled by his appearance. Here goes nothing. "Are you the artists?"
She leaned closer, reading of the signature in the lower corner. "Sam Wilson?"
"Yes, but only the acrylics are mine. The photo creations are my girlfriend's. Jasmine and I opened this place together six months ago and also sell our work through our website." His pride and enthusiasm were at odds with his tough looks.
"You're both very talented," she said sincerely.
He beamed. "Thanks. We'll be closing soon so feel free to wander around. I'll be at the back if you think of any questions."
Raphael stepped in his direction, raising his chin making his entire face in view. "I have one."
Sam fell back against an architecture, stammering. "Wh-what?! You're the vigilante! A frea-"
"I'd choose ya next words wisely, bub," Raphael gritted his teeth. Brooke's fists tightened in response to his 'almost' remark. She hated how people saw Raphael, is this how his life will always be?
The studio owner took a second to collect himself, still shaking and swallowed before speaking. "I'm-I'm sorry. I don't want no trouble!"
Raphael sighed deeply and crossed his arms in front of him. Got that out of the way. "Do ya know where ya father is? He ain't been at work or home for a few days, and he ain't answerin' his phone."
Wilson's face was pale as he dragged his eyes to meet Raphael's, his expression confused as to why he was being asked this. "I'm the-the last person you should ask. We've barely spoken since I told him I wanted to make my living with a paintbrush instead of a hammer."
Another estranged family. Different issues, same sad outcome.
Disconcerted by his musings, Raphael told Wilson, "He could be in trouble."
"What? What kind of trouble? What's going on?"
That the artist had asked the question was a hopeful sign he cared more than he wanted to let on. "Ya father was last seen at the same address as a Russian hit man." No need to mention Chernov was dead and his murderer remained unidentified.
"How do you know that? Who are you?"
"I'm exactly as ya see me. Imma turtle who lives in this wonderful city and, yeah, I put goons away. I like kicking bad guys' asses, that a problem?"
Sam shook his head quickly and Brooke smiled. Seeing Raphael stand up for himself and what he believes, it made her chest warm.
"A man is missin', and there's a good chance ya father knows what happened. Can ya think of anywhere he'd go?"
Wilson crossed his tattooed arms, the colorful patterns blending together like a kaleidoscope. "I only know where I wish he'd go. Straight to hell."
"Try again," Raphael growled. "And this time, limit ya suggestions to places on Earth."
Resentment and stubbornness radiated from the man. He wasn't going to cooperate. Raphael knew it even before he heard Wilson say, "I have no idea where he is and I don't care."
Raphael wanted to continue to press the artists, but his instincts told him the guy wasn't lying.
Brooke, who had been a silent observer up to now, addressed Wilson. "Just because you have issues with your father, is it fair to deprive your child of the chance to know him?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Your girlfriend's expecting."
"How do you know Jasmine's pregnant?" Wilson demanded, his eyes widening. "We've only told a few close friends."
"Your piece called Creation, dated last month, looks as if it were inspired by a sonogram."
Brooke's keen interest in the artwork hadn't been for enjoyment, Raphael realized. She'd been searching for clues. His respect for her, which was already considerable, ratcheted up another notch.
"If your father knew he was going to be a grandfather," Brooke continued, "maybe he'd try to make peace with you."
"You don't understand," he muttered.
"I understand better than you think," she insisted. "My old man was a first-class jerk. He undercut my confidence with unfair criticism, and his opinions were often narrow-minded and chauvinistic. So I eventually went about my life as though he didn't exit."
"Sounds like you made the right choice," Sam said, his posture relaxing.
"I thought so - until the day he had a heart attack.
She paused, her eyes bleak, before continuing in a subdued voice. "While I waited to find out if he'd live or die, I remembered times when he hadn't been a jerk. Like the many skating lessons he drove me to and the hot chocolate he bought after I came off the ice so cold my teeth chattered. Like the self-defense techniques he taught me after a date turned scary." Her lips curved in a wry smile. "I realized, although he sometimes hurt me, I had hurt myself more by not seeing him. And I decided if he lived, I'd make him part of my life again."
Raphael wondered whether Brooke's message of reconciliation was meant solely for Wilson or for him, as well. It certainly hit home. Only now did he realize how much he'd missed his brother's companionship and stupid bickering. He and Leo had many good times together. Fighting alongside together against the Foot growing up and defeating the Shredder.
"My father is a fitness freak," Sam told Brooke. "I don't need to worry about him having a heart attack for a long time."
"Forget clogged arteries," Raphael interjected. "Think gunshot wounds. Ya father's a man on the run."
"If you say so."
"You may have had a falling-out with him," Brooke added, "but do you really want him dead?"
Wilson stared at her intently but couldn't quite manage a dismissive comeback. Finally he shook his head.
"You must be able to name a few places he could be."
"We haven't spoken in years. I don't have a clue."
Raphael felt disappointment descend on him like a suffocating cloak. What supreme bad luck that his only promising lead to Leo was involved in family conflict and couldn't help him. Or was that poetic justice? Ironically, his anger toward his brother, which had once blazed like wildfire, had faded to glowing embers over the past few days.
"Call his cell phone," Brooke urged Sam. "If he sees it's you, he might pick up."
It was a long shot, but Raphael's muscles tensed as the guy placed the call.
Answer, damn you.
A moment later, Sam Wilson said, "Uh... hi, dad."
Raphael couldn't hear the other side of the conversation, but the older Wilson's surprise and concern were evident by his son's next words. "Nothing's wrong with me - except... well except for a turtle and a woman who are breathing down my neck. You gotta talk to them."
The artist shoved the phone at Raphael as if he couldn't get rid of it fast enough.
Raphael cleared his throat. "I'm looking for the disappearance of my brother, Leo. He's also a turtle which I'm sure ya already know that. I also know ya saw him on Sunday. A killer named Chernov showed up and ya left ya truck at the scene. The man who hired him is almost certainly lookin' for ya. I can offer ya protection, but ya have to tell me what happened."
A long silence followed, and he half expected to hear the click of a disconnected phone. Instead a deep voice said, "Fuck... Yeah, Leo took me by surprise with... who he was. Honestly, the shit I've seen on the force - nothing surprises me anymore, but I want more than protection though."
Raphael swallowed. "What do ya want?" If it was money, Mikey would give whatever was necessary to meet Wilson's demand.
"Go to my house. I've hidden something there. We'll talk again when you can tell me the color of my front door."
"Where are ya?"
"A place you'll never find unless you follow my instructions."
"Ya have to give me somethin' in return."
"Like what?"
"Tell me if Leo is still alive." Whatever the answer, regardless of the pain it might cause him, he had to know.
The agent replied without hesitation. "I'll do better than that. If ya do what I say, I'll take ya to him."
"Can we trust him?" Casey asked, after he'd met them at the gallery and learned of Wilson's promise.
Brooke couldn't blame him for being suspicious. Wilson Sr. had every reason to say whatever he figured Raphael wanted to hear. She glanced at Raphael, interested to now if he shared her misgivings.
"This ain't about trust," Raphael said. "We'll meet his demand 'cause he's our only lead."
"I'll stand on my head and sing karaoke," Casey said, "if it means I can see Leo again."
Raphael grimaced. "Fortunately, he didn't ask for that."
Casey rubbed at the stubble on his jaw. "I don't like the way he dodged your question about Leo. What if 'I'll take you to him' means 'I'll take you to where his body's buried'?"
Brooke was appalled by Casey's speculation, and her first instinct was to object. Then she realized she had no basis for ruling out the possibility - other than her fervent hope that it wasn't true.
"At least April and me and the guys could finally stop wonderin'," Raphael said softly, closing his eyes.
Raphael had finally spoken to Don and Mikey on the phone the other day and caught them up to date with the new information. Donny drilled him with questions and Raphael could only answer with what he knew - Leo may or may not be alive. Mikey was calmer and asked if Raphael needed him to come to New York to help out. Given it'd been a while since he'd seen his youngest brother, Raphael insisted Mikey stay where he was at.
"Let's head over to Wilson's house," Casey said, already pivoting on his heel.
Raphael stepped into his path, forcing him to stop. "I have somethin' else in mind for ya."
"What?"
Raphael called out to Sam who was locking the door to his shop, he allowed them to stay given their situation... and not wanting to piss Raphael off. "The people who are after ya father might try to get him through you. Casey can make sure ya girlfriend and you'z leave town without bein' followed."
"What about our gallery?"
"Lock it up and put a 'gone paintin'" note on the door. Ya safety's more important than a few lost sales."
Wilson nodded slowly. "Yeah, okay. Jasmine's been bugging me to take some time off before the baby's born, so it might as well be now."
"I'll take care of them," Casey told Raphael, "but I want to go with ya to meet Wilson."
"Okay. Call when ya done."
After Wilson wrote out his father's cellphone number, he turned to Brooke. "I'll think about what you said. My gramps took me canoeing most summers, and I loved hanging out with him, even though he and my old man weren't close. When my kid's old enough, I'll let him -or her- decide what to do."
Shortly afterward, they split up. Within minutes, Raphael and Brooke arrived at a two-story residence with an impressive portico and royal blue front door. They drove around the block checked parked cars. One was occupied by a guy smoking a cigarette. On their second pass, he tossed the cigarette butt out the window but didn't start his car.
"He's watchin' Wilson's house," Raphael said, voicing the same conclusion Brooke had reached.
"I have an idea how to get rid of him," she replied, "but I need your phone."
With a quizzical look, he passed it over. She dialed 911 immediately and reported seeing a man masturbating in his car while she was walking with her young daughter. She gave the location of the parked car and its license plate, but when asked to identify herself, she claimed her cell was dying and hung up.
A few minutes later, she watched with satisfaction as the guy was hustled into a squad car and taken away. Hopefully, he had a record and the police would hold him for a while.
"Remind me neva to get on ya bad side," Raphael murmured.
They set off for the house, moving quickly so to not get anyone's attention. Wilson had said to call again, and Raphael was punching numbers into the phone when she grabbed on to his arm.
"What's wrong?" he said, looking up.
She pointed to a broken window that had been hidden by a lush mulberry tree. Glass shards littered the garden underneath it. Quickly trading his phone for his Sais, Raphael positioned himself next to the window, his body stiff, listening intently. Brooke's stomach knotted, remembering the lone surveillance guy. Were more of Sidorov's men lying in wait inside the house?
Several long minutes passed. Raphael darted a look inside the home, then crawled carefully, smoothly through the broken window. After what seemed like an eternity, the front door swung open, and he gestured for Brooke to enter.
The chaos in the living room took her breath away. The coffee table had been overturned. Papers and magazines lay strewn across the Persian rug. The leather couch cushions had been sliced open at intervals and stuffing protruded from the gashes. In the kitchen, every cupboard, every drawer had been emptied onto the floor. The fridge door hung open, and the smell of rotting food nearly made her gag.
She glanced at Raphael, whose tight jaw and clenched fists communicated his alarm clearer than any words. If the intruders had discovered what he'd been sent to retrieve, he'd be unable to fulfill his part of the deal with the agent.
While he dialed Wilson's number, Brooke noticed a broken picture frame containing a photo of a younger Sam Wilson. Amazing how different he looked without tattoos and piercings. She must have spoken aloud because Raphael muttered, "Ya not kiddin'."
A moment later, he was speaking to the agent. "Ya front door is blue. I got ya on speaker mode so I can search with both hands. What did ya hide?"
"Proof that Chernov injured, and probably killed, my friend Danny MacAteer."
"What kind of proof?"
"Surveillance video from his auto parts supply business. Danny had the equipment installed because he suspected one of his employees had been stealing from him, but instead it recorded Chernov threatening him. The bastard tied him up and held a lighter against his chest until he agreed to allow his business to be used to launder money. Then he was told not to speak of what had happened or his place would be torched."
"So he told ya 'bout all this."
"We've been friends for years. He gave me copy of the surveillance video for safekeeping. I wanted him to involve the police, and he said he'd think about it. He was scared for himself. The next day, his body was found in an alley... he'd been shot twice in the head."
"Have ya told any of this to the police?"
"No. I can only assume Danny took my advice and somehow Chernov found out and decided to shut him up."
A shiver went up Brooke's spine. It sounded as if Sidorov's man within the police department had intercepted Danny MacAteer and learned about the incriminating surveillance tapes. That would explain why MacAteer had been killed and Wilson's place tossed.
Brooke spoke in a low voice intended for only Raphael's ears. "Ask him if Chernov was alone when he visited MacAteer."
Raphael repeated the question to Wilson.
"No, another guy was there. He was the one in charge, issuing orders and smiling while Chernov burned Danny."
Raphael's gaze met her and she knew what he was thinking. The video could be enough to arrest Sidorov for extortion and possibly for ordering the murder of Danny MacAteer.
"Where did ya hide the copy?" he asked the agent.
"In the basement."
Raphael and Brooke raced down the stairs, while Wilson called out further directions.
"Go into the room on the right."
Raphael entered first, then halted abruptly. Peering over his shoulder, Brooke took in the damage that had been wrought on what appeared to be a guest room. The mattress, stripped of its bedding and subjected to deep slashes, sprawled on top of a knocked-over dresser. Debris crunched underfoot with every step. "The room has a floating ceiling," Wilson said. "The tiles are removable."
Broken chunks of white tiles littered the floor, making it look like an Arctic wasteland. Whoever had searched the house had been very, very thorough.
"Check the tile in the corner by the window."
Brooke gazed upward. Where the tile was supposed to be was an empty space and several exposed two-by-fours.