Hey,
A huge thank you to everyone that has read and reviewed so far. Hope you're all still enjoying the story.
Here's Chapter Seven for you all. Please, read and review!
Chapter Seven
"Ah, Sean." The Auld Man rose from his seat, leaving his cigarette smouldering in the ashtray on the table, harsh scented tobacco smoke rising in the air between them. "Come in, sit down."
"Thank you, Mr Cassidy." Sean O'Neil fought against the urge, the need to cough, feeling the tendrils of smoke slide down his throat with thick, cruel fingers.
"How's my boy doing?"
"He's doing well, Mr Cassidy." Sean swallowed hard, his eyes darting nervously around the room, his forehead beading with sweat, his throat dry, suddenly aching. "He's holding up well, Mr Cassidy."
"Holding up well." The Auld Man held his gaze with faded blue eyes, his wheezing laughter echoing around the empty room. "Holding up well. That's my Declan." He clapped Sean on the shoulder, half turning him to face the other man in the bar. "I was just telling Michael that my Declan would hold together, wasn't I, Michael?"
Michael Caffee didn't look up, stirring sugar into his coffee, the spoon scraping against the bottom of the cup. "You were."
The Auld Man laughed again, guiding Sean towards the chairs, arranged around the small table. "Sit down, Sean. Sit down. Hows your father doing?"
"He's doing well, Mr Cassidy. Thank you."
"I knew Sean's father back in the day. His mother was Mary Connor from the Connors that lived down in Brooklyn. Did you know them, Michael."
Michael stopped stirring his coffee, lifting the cup, leaning back in his chair, fixing Sean with dark, cold eyes. "No."
"I'm sure your mother would." The Auld Man glanced briefly, quickly at Michael, then looked back at Sean, his eyes suddenly vibrant, clear and focused. "Did my boy give you anything for me?"
"Yes." Sean fumbled quickly through his suit pockets, his fingers suddenly clumsy and unsure, feeling Michael Caffee's eyes burn through him like ice, cold and burning. He pulled out the small piece of paper, folded and refolded, the lines creased into the page.
How many times had he looked at that list during the night? How many times had he changed his mind during the night?
He knew what he was doing.
He held out the page to the Auld Man with a trembling hand. Closing his eyes as the Auld Man snatched it out of his fingers, his hand falling against the knee of his expensive suit like the clattering of a gravel.
xxxXXXxxx
"I think, in the current financial and political situation, every precinct should be showing greater forethought in the allocation and application of available resources…."
She sighed heavily, toying with her pen, the speaker's voice drifting into her head with the comforting warm sensation of a familiar blanket. This meeting had already dragged on for two hours.
How the hell did Mac cope with this every week?
No wonder he was enjoying being in court so much.
"What do you think, Detective Boneserra?"
She started, Gerard's voice dragging her out of the day dream she had almost stumbled into. She glanced quickly around the table, scanning the unfamiliar, disapproving faces, desperately trying to remember what they had been discussing…
"Detective?"
"I agree with what you said." Her voice sounded loud, too loud in the room, and she realised that this was the first time she had actually spoken in one of these meetings. "About the allocation of resources."
"You do?" Gerard raised his eyebrows, his voice coloured with surprise.
"Yes."
"In that case, Detective, do you mind telling us why you have signed off on overtime for…" Gerard leaned forward, peering intently, gleefully at the sheets in front of him. "Detective Daniel Messer, Detective Lindsay Munroe and Doctor Sheldon Hawkes?"
"We have a lot of cases at the minute, sir." She swallowed hard, her throat and mouth suddenly dry, feeling like a butterfly pinned to the board for the brass to stare at and torment. "My people are working double shifts to cover the slack."
"Double shifts?"
"Yes, sir."
He peered at her, holding her gaze intently. She wondered if he glared at Mac like that, trying to intimidate a mistake, an error from her.
Mac wouldn't make a mistake, and neither would she.
"Lieutenant Francis." Gerard glanced away from her and she sagged, sighing in relief. "How are your people coping with the increased levels of violent crime in South Staten?"
xxxXXXxxx
"Hello, Eamon."
"Detective Flack." Nervous blue eyes, bright and vibrant beneath an unruly shock of ginger hair, darted around the bar, his hands never stopping the constant motion of the rag against the smeared wood. "Is this a social call?"
"Fraid not, Eamon." Don walked across the empty bar, leaning against it. It was warmer in here than it was outside on the streets. "business. I'll take a beer with you, though."
"Sure thing, Detective." Eamon wiped his hands fastidiously on his jeans, taking two bottles from the fridge, opening them and sliding one across the bar to Flack. He took a mouthful of his own, and then another, quick, jerking, nervous motions. "What is it you want to talk about, Detective?"
"The Auld Man."
Eamon shook his head, taking another drink, his eyes darting, sliding across Flack. "I don't know anything about him no more."
Flack toyed with the bottle in front of him, his fingers picking at the saturated label. "I heard he had a new guy organising things, with Declan up at Rikers." He glanced up from the bottle, pinning Eamon with ice cold blue eyes. "You wouldn't know anything about this guy, would you, Eamon?"
"Ah, Detective…"
"Give me something I can use, Eamon." Flack shrugged. "Maybe I don't tell my buddies down at Narcotics about some of the things you and your girl are selling out of the back room here."
"Ah come on, Flack, you're making me squeeze my shoes here."
"It's your call, Eamon."
"Fine." Eamon sighed, staring at his feet. "I don't know who the guy is. but I know a man who will."
xxxXXXxxx
"Hey, Danny."
"Hey, you." He stopped in the corridor, switching his case to his other hand, glancing around quickly. Pulling her close. "I missed you."
"Yeah." Her voice soft, muffled by his chest. "We closed out our case, then caught another shooting off Broadway."
"You get any sleep?"
"Some." She pulled out of his embrace, shaking her hair back out of his face. "You?"
"Still working this Irish thing." He shook his head. "I think Flack knows more of whats going on than he's telling me." He looked around again, shifting his case back to his other hand. "I better go. We got another call."
"Okay. See you later?"
"I'll keep my fingers crossed."
xxxXXXxxx
"How'd you find me, anyway?"
"I talked to a man who knows a man."
"Damn Eamon." He laughed long and loud, the sound guttural and liquid. "He never could keep his fucking mouth shut."
"Yeah." Flack leaned against the wall, his hands in his pockets, his shield bright and golden. The room reeked of cigarette smoke and his fingers itched, rubbing together. "Its one of the things I like about him."
He laughed again, the sound turning into a rough, harsh cough. "I guess you would."
"I want to know who the Auld Man is using."
"What makes you think I'd know that?"
"Cos Eamon said you would." He bit at his lip as the man lit another cigarette, blowing another cloud of thick, dark smoke into the stained corners of the room.
Dammit. He hadn't smoked in…
"Did he now?" He took another drag, inhaling the harsh tobbaco, smothering another cough behind his hand.
Flack sighed, hiding his impatience.
"The Auld Man wouldn't trust any of his boys. Not after….well, you know. Anyway, he went to an out of towner. An old friend of the family." He took another drag, the cigarette burning with a dark, enticing flame. "Michael Caffee."
xxxXXXxxx
She left the office as the sun was setting, the fragile warmth of the day already fading into the bitter promise of the night. Walking swiftly along the streets of New York, her breath frosting out in front of her in the chill air, her heels striking against the pavement with a rapid rhythm.
After three blocks, she could hear the footsteps behind her, beating against the street in counterpoint to her steps.
Keeping time, keeping pace.
She glanced over her shoulder, the shadowed figure, hanging back, just at the edge of her vision.
She could feel him, staring at her.
Jessica Rossi swallowed hard and picked up her pace, watching as the subway sign grew slowly, steadily, larger, closer.
xxxXXXxxx
"Dr Callaghan, I need you to sign off on these tests."
She sighed, taking the chart off the nurse, reading quickly through the notes. She scribbled her name at the bottom and handed it back, frowning as she saw two men move through the corridors of the hospital.
They didn't so much walk as skulk, their movements careful, precise, sinuous. She shivered, her skin prickling with goosebumps.
"Who are they?"
The nurse looked over her shoulder, following her gaze. "Visitors for Samuel McCann. I think they're family or close friends. They asked Darren for Our Sam."
"Our Sam." She watched as the nurse walked off, unable to shake the dread creeping, slinking across her skin. She shook her head, grabbing the phone, dialling rapidly, drumming her fingers against the admit desk. "Come on, come on."
"Flack."
"Don, its Katherine."
"Katherine?" His voice mumbled, disappeared, then returned, stronger, clearer. "Katherine, what's wrong?"
"I don't know. Maybe nothing. But I think you'd better get over here."
xxxXXXxxx
"Is this the place?"
"Yeah." Michael Caffee leaned against the wall, his hands deep in the pockets of his leather jacket, scanning the building with cold, hard, dark eyes, no emotion drifting across his face. "This is the place."
End of Chapter Seven
