Alex Davis had been in jail before. His long and somewhat varied criminal career had started at the tender age of thirteen, when he had boosted his neighbor's car. He was sent to juvie for a year and was on probation till his fifteenth birthday.
He got popped again when he turned sixteen for possession of marijuana, spent another six months in juvie.
At nineteen he got his first felony charge and did two years up state for assault. He got lucky after that, had managed to stay under the radar until he turned twenty-five and got sent up for assault with a deadly weapon.
When he got out of prison the second time something had changed in him. His need for violence had grown exponentially along with his need to induce pain. He had also learned the best way to achieve his needs was through careful planning and precise order.
The first woman he raped was a freshman at NYU named Alyssa McKenzie. He attacked her while she was walking across campus to her dorm room. He grabbed her from behind and fucked her under a tree that was well out of range of the security lights. She was only eighteen years old.
He had worn a condom, gloves, and she had been able to fight back, so he was never caught. Six months after the attack Alyssa committed suicide. She couldn't live with what had happened to her, at least that is what the note that she had left her mother had said.
The second girl he raped was sixteen year old Maria Sanchez. She had been walking home from a friend's house and he pulled her into an alley. He beat her first before raping her, and after repeated blows to the head she was never the same. Her grades started to slip and she couldn't comprehend certain simple concepts anymore.
The third girl he raped was where he made his first mistake. Her name was Dominic Wilson, she was fourteen, and she saw his face. The NYPD had to cut him loss because she had only caught a glimpse and she had been unable to identify him in a line up.
The fourth girl he raped, fifteen year old Melissa Jenkins, also saw his face but when they put him in a line up for the second time she had been too frightened to identify him.
Melissa Jenkins became a turning point for Alex. She was his transition from rape to murder, for one simple reason. If his victims were dead then they couldn't identify him, or so he thought.
Alex stood in the corner of the closet that Rikers Island tried to pass off as a visitation room and twitched. He took a nervous drag of his cigarette and checked the gray walls for the clock he already knew wasn't there.
He couldn't believe that bitch CSI and her partner had found that bag he had thrown away three blocks from his house. He didn't even know what could have possessed her to look there.
Davis cursed and check around the room again. He was wondering where the hell his attorney was, not that he was all that thrilled to be meeting with him.
Truth be told, he didn't trust Mr. Carl Riker as far as that pretty little bitch CSI could push him. When all that shit had gone down with that guy, Messer, he had just been spouting any kind of shit he could think of at their boss. Then next thing he knows this attorney whose mug he'd seen in the papers shows up and says he's representing him.
He'd gone along because it was better than a pubic defender any day, and the guy had told him that he would be able to get the evidence against him thrown out. Said he could make life difficult for the detectives who arrested him.
It had all sounded good a couple of days ago, until Davis found out that Riker, the little pissant, couldn't find them.
He took another drag of his cigarette and paced to the other side of the room. He swore he wouldn't go back to prison, not after that last time. Rikers he could deal with, because they were only holding him until his preliminary, but he couldn't do another joint up state.
He drew in another nervous puff and jumped when the door to the small room creaked open. A guard was at the door and he escorted his attorney, Carl Riker, into the room. The asshole had the nerve to shoot a warning glare at him before he left them alone.
Carl smiled that plastic smile that made Alex want to rearrange his dental work and sat down.
"You're late," Davis hissed. A flash of annoyance crossed Riker's brow, but it was gone an instant later.
"Contrary to what you believe Mr. Davis, you are not my only client."
Davis snuffed his cigarette out on the edge of the table, while Carl put his briefcase down in the middle. The expensive Italian leather looked out of place against the dented metal.
"So, hows about telling me why I'm still in here. I thought you were going to get the evidence they had on me thrown out?"
Riker ignored his snarling client and sat down, opened his case, and took out a file folder.
"I would have but unfortunately I can't seem to locate the detectives that found the evidence. Without them it would do no good at this point to surprise the A.D.A and have them move the trial date up again."
He watched his client frown and pace to the other end of the cell. He seemed to be even edgier then usual.
"Whaddaya mean it wouldn't do any good? It would get me outta here." The attorney shook his head.
"You're mistaken. As of right now the detectives who arrested you are her witnesses, not mine. She's the one that gets to call them to the stand and she has complete control over when that might be. They have to, my relative shock, managed to protect their key pieces and right now we are in check."
Davis glared at him and fumbled in the front pocket of his prison issue jumpsuit. He pulled out another cigarette, put it between his lips, and lit up. He took a long, calming pull before meeting his attorney's eyes.
"Ya wanna know what I think? I think this is bullshit. That whole discrediting thing was all ya had and now that little hick bitch and her shit head partner have messed it up for ya by pullin' a disappearin' act."
Riker scowled at his client. If this human piece of filth hadn't been the best way to get to Mac Taylor and his team then he would have never taken this case in the first place.
"I can still discredit them. It will just be later rather than sooner. Never fear, soon you will be a free man. Now if you will excuse me, I have a luncheon to attend."
He was in the middle of snapping his briefcase shut when Davis rushed forward and grabbed him roughly by the arm.
"You listen here. I ain't gonna let you fuck this up for me. I'm gettin' outta here, one way or another."
His attorney glared at him and pulled his arm forcefully out of his grip.
"You touch me like that again, and useful or not, I will personally make sure that you spend the rest of your days buried deep with-in a cell in Attica."
Riker called for the guard and the two men glared at each other until the attorney was let out. The guard returned a few minutes later to collect Davis. He finished his second cigarette and let the guy cuff him and lead him back to his cell. Riker was one crazy motherfucker if he thought that Davis was going to let him get away with gambling his future. It was time to say the fuck with Carl Riker and to take matters into his own hands.
It was late when Mac finally got out of the office and made his way to the pub three blocks from Cozy's, the club he played bass in on Wednesday nights. The pub was on the corner and it was a blink and you'll miss it kind of place, the kind that made no pretensions about what it was and served beer, wine and hard liquor on the rocks or in shots.
Even its name dispensed with any sort of ostentatious B.S. The place was simply called McAllister's, and it was packed.
Mac gingerly made his way through the crowed; pass the gleaming polished hard wood bar, to the far corner booth in the back.
The man he was coming to meet was already there, smoking a dark European cigarette and nursing two fingers of twelve year old Chivas Regal scotch, straight. He swished the gold tinged amber liquid gently and took a sip. He had yet to acknowledge that Mac was standing next to him.
"Detective Taylor, I presume. Please, have a seat."
Mac eyed this man and had a little trouble equating him with the man that Horatio had spoken so highly of. His little run in with Davis was too fresh in his mind and he couldn't help but see the similarity between this man and the attorney.
Then Mac saw his hands and his opinion shifted. Lewis Whitney had the hands of a man who had seen more of life than just the inside of a nail salon. His nails were just as neatly kept as Riker's but he had scars and calluses over the expanse of his skin. There was nothing pampered about Lewis Whitney, elegant yes, but never pampered.
What made Mac sit down across from him though, were Whitney's eyes. He had eyes that were slat gray, intelligent, calculating, and he wasn't afraid to stare straight into Mac's face.
"Horatio speaks highly of you." Mac said. Whitney's lips quirked into a small smile.
"Which did not stop you from forming your own first impression. I find that I admire men who are careful not to let hearsay, even from a respected colleague, influence their judgment."
Mac's own lips twitched up into the barest hint of a smile.
"I don't think I know a police officer who is blindly trusting, at least not one that is alive."
Whitney inclined his head in agreement and motioned for the waitress.
"Would you like a drink, Detective?"
A pretty red head, who was nineteen if she was a day, came over to the table. She was dressed fairly tastefully as cocktail waitresses went.
"Deana lass, please fetch Detective Taylor a drink and have Ryan put it on my tab."
The waitress smiled warmly at Whitney and asked Mac what he would like.
"I'll have what he's having but with ice." Deana winked at booth men, giving Mac a quick once over, before heading off to the bar. Mac shook his head and focused his attention on the P.I.
"So your accent, Scottish?" The other man raised one perfect eyebrow in surprise.
"Very good, Detective. I must admit to being impressed. Most Americans, New Yorkers especially, seem to think that I am English. I even had one drunken Chap call me a mick once, a mistake which I strongly corrected, but to answer your question, yes, I am Scottish. I was born in Edinburgh."
Deana returned then and placed Mac's drink in front of him with a flirtatious wink. He smiled but it had a rueful, disbelieving quality to it. She left them to see to another customer and they resumed their conversation.
"Deana seems to have taken a fancy too you," Whitney remarked. Mac shook his head, slightly embarrassed.
"I'm flattered, but she's…very young."
The Scotsman snubbed out his cigarette and took another sip of his scotch.
"I must say I hadn't expected to like you Detective Taylor. There are not many men that I do. Now, you mentioned on the phone that you needed someone investigated. Who is this man and why are you unwilling to pursue him through the proper channels?"
Mac shifted uncomfortably and took a sip of his own drink.
"He's an attorney. His name is Carl Riker." Whitney let out a low whistle.
"Powerful man. I say, you sure know how to pick quality enemies." Mac's half smile returned.
"I'm starting to find that out. He is currently trying to discredit two of my CSIs and I would very much like to know how he is getting his information on them. He has found out things about them that he shouldn't know."
"And you believe that if you were to start a formal investigation then he would find out, and you would be unable to obtain the answers you seek," Whitney concluded, correctly.
The P.I. tapped one graceful forefinger against his glass and took another sip. He was regarding the CSI with an unfathomable expression.
"You're ex-military are you not?" Mac started and gave a slow nod.
"Why do you ask?"
Whitney shrugged in an elegant fashion and shifted in his seat so he could cross his legs.
"Mere curiosity. I find that those who once were members of the military still carry themselves as if still enlisted. Old habits, I suppose."
He smirked and pulled an engraved, silver business card case out of the inner pocket of his designer suit. He snapped it open with one hand and handed Mac a card. It was printed on heavy, expensive beige paper and simple read Lewis Whitney and Associates, on the back were two numbers.
"I will investigate this attorney for you Detective Taylor. On the back you will find both my personal office line and my mobile number. Now, if you would be so kind as to excuse me."
Mac nodded, neither surprised nor fazed at Whitney's abrupt departure. He had been a cop much too long to let much of anything surprise him anymore.
"You have my number."
Whitney inclined his head.
"Certainly; until next time Detective."
With a flourish the P.I. placed enough money on the table to cover his tab and added a generous tip for the lovely Deana. He left without saying good-bye.
Mac finished his drink and declined another when Deana came by to collect the money Whitney had left for her, and tried to interest Mac into coming by her place for a night cap. He sort of grinned at her in a bemused fashion and politely decline. She seemed disappointed when she collected the two empty glasses and headed back to the bar.
Mac shrugged into his suit jacket, got up, and left the small bar, almost blushing as Deana shot him one last flirtatious smile. As he cleared the door his thoughts turned towards the man he had just met.
He now understood completely why Horatio spoke so highly of Mr. Whitney. He was an intriguing man, but despite his appeal Mac truly hoped after all this was said and done, that he never saw Mr. Whitney again.
He had a sinking feeling that if he ever did see him again after this mess, he wouldn't like the circumstances.