Santa Ana Wind Part III - Dillon
Chapter 2
Don pushed wearily through his apartment door, and began to shed the trappings of the day. Vehicle keys and ID went on the end table, and he trudged slowly back toward his bedroom, removing his shoulder holster as he went, and deposited it, complete with gun, on his nightstand. When he was in a relationship, he'd put it away, at least tuck it in the drawer, but there was no need these days. There was just him. He stretched, flexing his shoulders, adrift for a moment.
He'd stopped at Charlie's earlier, only to find no one home. He hadn't been over in a few days, and even though he'd seen Charlie in the office almost every morning that week, it was always a quick visit before his brother dashed off to campus, just to touch base on the tax fraud case. They really didn't get much of a chance to talk, and Don had no idea where either Charlie or his father was that evening. He couldn't expect they'd be there, especially when he hadn't told them he was coming, but he felt disappointed just the same. He wasn't sure he was up to another night by himself.
That, however, was exactly what he was facing now. He drifted into the kitchen, and took out a frozen dinner, tossing it in the microwave with the thunk of ice on glass. He punched in the time, and as the microwave buzzed to life, drifted over to the refrigerator, and stood with it open, eyeing the beer inside. It was a little too early to start drinking, and he'd been telling the truth when he told Bradford that he kept it to just a beer or two before bedtime.
He used that drink or two to get through the night, to find the sleep that didn't want to come, and that was plagued with nightmares when it did. He was still second-guessing his decision to bring Charlie back into consulting; the demon of residual guilt plagued him in his waking hours, and morbid dreams featuring his dead brother occupied his sleep. He felt as though he was slipping into a cesspool, and dragging Charlie with him.
He stared at the beer, and then shut the door with a sigh. Trudging out to the living room, he turned on the television to catch the news, waiting for the microwave to finish his lonely, pathetic excuse for a dinner.
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Charlie let himself into the house, fighting down the feeling that had the hair standing up on the back of his neck. He hated being alone here anymore; it didn't happen often – his father was usually home, but tonight Alan was at a dinner with clients. He lugged his briefcase over to the dining room table, casting a quick glance around the room as he went. He couldn't shake the sensation that Sean Moran was going to suddenly materialize from behind the sofa, even though he knew it was impossible. The man was currently locked up in a state hospital, a facility for the criminally insane. He shrugged off the uneasiness, and depositing his briefcase on the table, he headed upstairs to take a shower.
The hot water felt good; it alleviated some of the stiffness in his shoulders, and as he loosened up, he lifted his injured arm and placed it on the shower wall to stretch it, pushing it upward until it was over his head, using the wall to get the lift that he couldn't get on his own. He was still in therapy, but the improvements were now coming in smaller increments. He had good arm strength in his biceps and triceps, but he still had difficulty lifting his arm out to the side and up – he could only get it slightly higher than his shoulder. It made shampooing his hair an awkward job, and he set about that task with a sigh of resignation.
He turned the water off, and the ensuing silence made his skin crawl. He stood there in the steam for a moment; remembering that first shower in the hospital, and how grateful he'd been to get the dirt from his hair. It made him think of the grave again, and he shuddered; then began to towel off, when suddenly his head went up. He'd heard something, downstairs – what, he wasn't sure. His heart jolted, a spasm so hard he reeled for a moment, putting a hand against the shower wall to steady himself. Stepping carefully out, he put the towel around his waist, crept out of the bathroom and to the top of the stairs, and peered down. Silence – nothing. He was imagining things, or perhaps had heard something outside, a car door maybe.
Still, he stood there for a long moment, listening, standing on shaky legs, until he'd convinced himself that there was indeed no one in the house but him. Feeling slightly ashamed of his nerves, he headed for his room to dress.
Moments later, he was downstairs, hair still damp, dressed in jogging pants and a T-shirt. He headed for the dining room table, and pulling a folder filled with tests out of the briefcase, plugged in his laptop, sat down, and started to grade.
The truth of the matter was; in spite of the fact that he hadn't picked up his full load of classes when he came back that semester, he was woefully behind. He'd been spending a lot of time on the tax fraud case, which had been difficult, because he hadn't told Amita yet he was back to consulting. There was no doubt in his mind that she wouldn't take it well, and, although he knew he couldn't hide it forever, he couldn't bring himself to tell her that he was essentially ignoring her wishes. A piece of him kept thinking that if he gave her enough time to get over what had happened, maybe get a couple of cases under his belt without incident, she'd be more accepting of his decision. So he'd put it off.
Larry knew, which was a bit unnerving, but not because Larry would ever intentionally divulge the secret. Larry was actually someone in whom Charlie had always felt he could confide. No, the fear with Larry was that he might forget it was a secret, and inadvertently spill the beans. It made Charlie uneasy whenever Amita was in the same room with him. Of course, it also made Charlie nervous to work on the case at school, in case she would walk in on him, but he did it anyway. It was like a siren call – irresistible, something he couldn't ignore, and was the reason he was behind in grading the tests.
By the time Alan showed up, after ten, Charlie was nearly done. He'd gotten into a groove, plowing through test after test, and was completely immersed when he heard the door open. He sat up with a start, and took a deep breath as he saw his father, trying to hide the wave of relief.
Alan caught the flash of fear, the wide eyes in the pale face. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," he said.
Charlie shrugged, putting a bland look on his face, even though his heart was thumping. "No problem," he said. "How was the dinner?"
Without appearing to, Alan studied his son. Still the same, he thought fleetingly. Still pale, too thin, too tense, resonating with the undercurrent of whatever he was feeling, deep inside. Charlie hadn't begun to deal with what had happened to him, not by a long shot. Of course, Alan could say the same thing about his older son; and for that matter, about himself. They were all trying to carry on as though it hadn't happened. Maybe that would work in the long run, but none of them seemed to be making a lot of headway. He answered. "Not bad. The usual – butter them up, schmooze a little. The food was good. Did you eat anything?"
Charlie nodded. "Amita and I got takeout. I came home to grade tests."
Alan shot him a glance as he headed for the kitchen for a glass of water. "She hasn't been spending a lot of time over here."
"She's been pretty busy," Charlie demurred.
Alan paused at the door. "Did you tell her you were consulting yet?"
Charlie's gaze wavered, and he looked at the floor. "Not exactly."
"Meaning, 'no.'"
Charlie looked up guiltily. "Right."
Alan sighed. "Son, I'm not questioning your decision to go back to consulting – you know I have my own opinion about that, and even though you knew what it was, you told me anyway. You need to be just as honest, maybe more so, with Amita."
Charlie's brow furrowed. "I'm afraid she won't take it very well."
Alan raised a brow. "That's not an excuse, Charlie."
Charlie shook his head. "No, Dad, you don't get it. She was really upset when I talked to her about it after… anyway, she was really upset – she said she couldn't live with that. I'm not sure what that meant, but if I tell her now without giving her a chance to calm down, to get over -," he waved his hand vaguely – "this, I don't know what she'd do."
Alan sighed. "Charlie, you're old enough to manage your own relationships, but I can tell you from experience, honesty is a fundamental piece of any partnership."
"It's not like I don't plan on telling her," Charlie grumbled. "I'm just not ready yet."
"So I take it that's why you haven't had her over," said Alan. "You don't want her to see your work?"
Charlie looked away, evasively. "Yeah."
Alan stood for a moment, studying his profile. "Just don't let it go on too long, son."
An hour later, Charlie climbed into bed, trying to fight down the gooseflesh. What he hadn't told his father was that his consulting work wasn't the only reason he hadn't had Amita over. It was easier, far easier, to go to her place, because then he could come up with an excuse to leave before it was time to go to sleep. Once she was at the Craftsman, it was much harder to tell her to go home, especially if it got late – and sleeping with her was one thing he couldn't do right now.
He waited, a taut ball under a blanket, until his father padded down the hall to his bedroom and the light went out. His father didn't always peek in to check on him, but he did sometimes, and to avoid a confrontation, Charlie had to pretend he was asleep in his bed. As soon as darkness descended, he climbed out of bed, and curled in a ball on the floor. It didn't always work – he still had dreams about the grave – the sick, rubbery feeling of the dead fireman underneath him, the weight of the blanket of earth over him. The bed, though, with its soft mattress and suffocating blankets, was far worse than the floor, and was guaranteed to bring on unbearable nightmares. Shivering a little, he closed his eyes, and prayed for sleep.
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Mike LaBonte took a drag on the cigarette cupped in his hand, and stepped out into the dark alley, with a quick glance either way. He tossed it aside with an impatient gesture, and tucked his hands in his pockets, hunching his shoulders against the cold November air. Nighttime in Philadelphia in November called for a coat, and he cursed himself for not wearing one, along with the even blacker curses for his rotten luck. He was in deep before he'd even decided to go in on the game – he owed seventy grand to a man to whom no one should be indebted, and entering the game tonight had been a last ditch attempt to come up with enough money to stave off the hit men.
It was an illegal, high stakes poker game in a dingy backroom, and he'd backed out before he got in too far, but it was enough. He was in the hole even further, and he could feel panic fluttering in his chest. He vaguely wondered if he could turn informant. He was an FBI agent after all. He could come clean; have his mob man creditor arrested. LaBonte was terrified though, that his seamy lifestyle would completely ruin his credibility. Then he'd be out a job, and probably his life to boot.
As an agent, he knew better, he was normally more alert, especially in this part of town, but he'd gotten so immersed in his problems he didn't notice the figure lurking in the shadows. It separated itself from its leaning position on the wall, and moved out into the alley, just as he drew even. LaBonte stopped with a jerk, terror clutching his chest.
"Evenin' Mike," the figure said. "Let's walk."
Mike shot a quick glance around, then one at the figure, and fell into step beside him. Damn, they'd caught up with him already. He took another sidelong glance, trying to get a glimpse of the face under the brim of the fedora. Who in the hell wore a fedora these days, anyway?
"I hear you got cash flow problems," the figure said. "Word is that Joey Massaro is lookin' for you."
LaBonte shot him a glance that he hoped was icy. "And why do you care?"
He heard cold humor in the other voice. "I just think it'd be a shame to lose a good federal agent, that's all. This town needs all the law enforcement it can get."
LaBonte could feel a little of his initial fear subsiding. If this man had wanted to kill him, he would have done it before announcing his presence. He asked warily, "So what's your point?"
"I got a deal for you. I got someone who needs an eye on an investigation, regular reports. You do that for him, he wipes out your debt. Each report, you get some cash to pay it down. Simple."
LaBonte frowned. "What investigation?"
"One your office is conducting. Looking into the business affairs of Dillon Moran, and his associates in the Philadelphia area."
LaBonte shot him another look, and then directed his gaze to the sidewalk. The man had good intel – the Philadelphia office had picked up the Moran case just that week. "I'm not assigned to that one."
"Yeah, but I know how it works. You hear things, you guys talk to each other about your cases. And maybe, with enough incentive, you'll get yourself assigned."
"So who wants to know?"
"That's not important," said the man. His voice was cool, a half-amused monotone. "We're not talkin' a big deal here. Just a little information among friends. Of course, if you don't want it, I'll find someone else."
"Who said I didn't want it?" asked LaBonte, quickly. He looked around them as they neared the end of the alley. The man slowed, moved over into the shadows against the wall, and pressed an envelope into Mike's hand.
"That's your first installment," he said. "The first report's due tomorrow night. We want to know who's workin' the case, agents, consultants, and what their direction is. What leads are they followin' and so forth. I'll contact you with the time and place." The man paused, and Mike could make out the smirk on his lips in the darkness. "You made a wise decision. I'll wait here for a bit – you walk."
LaBonte shoved the envelope in one of his pockets along with his hands, and hunching his shoulders, strode out of the alley and down the street to his car, which he'd left in the parking lot of a bar, two blocks down. As he made the end of the block, he shot a glance behind him up the dark street. It was empty. The wind gusted, and he put his head down, and headed for the flickering neon light in the next the block.
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End Chapter 2