reading

Chapter One

An Unlikely Coupling: The Prosecutor And The Escort, the headline reads. Its veiled censure makes my blood boil.

Personally, I don’t give a damn about this kind of sensationalist drivel. To me, it’s like water off a duck’s back, but I worry about its effect on Angelique because her confidence has already taken a beating, thanks in good part to the tabloid press like this rag. And this latest broadside could further crush her spirit and, quite possibly, cause her to question the wisdom of entering into a relationship with me.

I tamp down my anger and keep reading because I need to know exactly what we have to deal with.

Seeing Assistant District Attorney Adam Thorne in the company of a beautiful woman isn’t surprising. What did surprise this reporter was that his companion at a local dance production was none other than Angelique Bain, the woman at the center of the prostitution case involving Senator Justin Wade. Ms. Bain had, only weeks earlier, faced Mr. Thorne from the witness stand where, under his relentless questioning, she was forced to make humiliating admissions about her relationship with the senator.

Equally astounding was discovering that Ms. Bain, the star of last night’s show, is, in fact, an extraordinarily talented ballerina. The biggest shock, however, came when witnessing the intimacy between the prosecutor and highly paid escort. The pair appeared oblivious to their surroundings, caught up in an intimate bubble while chatting. Shown photographs of the couple taken last night, longtime social observers of Mr. Thorne commented that they had never seen him as captivated by a female as he so obviously was by Ms. Bain.

One of Boston’s most wealthy and eligible bachelors, the prosecutor had last been photographed in public with socialite beauty Lisa Delaney. Ms. Delaney, daughter of Judge Anthony Delaney, is a member of one of Boston’s most respected families. Her appearance on the arm of the man, who many predict will be our next district attorney, sparked speculation about them being Boston’s newest power couple. That conjecture seems to have been premature because Mr. Thorne’s taste in women has, very obviously, changed.

I turn to find Angelique’s face drained of color, her eyes fixated on the screen.

Shutting the laptop, I wrap an arm around her. “It’s nothing to be worried about,” I assure her, urging her toward the sofa. She remains transfixed, so I do what I’ve longed to do so many times over the past weeks. I sweep her up into my arms and carry her across the room to sit on the sofa with her cradled in my arms, whispering over and over that it’ll be all right; that, together, we’ll weather this storm.

In time, I loosen my hold only to grasp her hands, afraid that if I break physical contact, she’ll decide that it’s not worth it—that I’m not worth it.

“We can’t do this… your job…” she finally speaks, her voice ragged as she stares down at our entwined fingers.

“Angelique stop,” I gently admonish, lifting her chin to look at me. My heart breaks at the shame and defeat reflected back at me. I cup her cheek, “I knew this would happen. I expected it.”

“Adam, they’ll destroy your reputation. That woman—she’s part of your world; you should be with her.”

“Do you care for me?” I ask.

“That’s not —”

“Just answer me; do you care for me?”

“You know I do.”

“Tell me,” I insist.

“I care for you,” she says, a stray tear dropping onto our hands.

“And I care for you; very much,” I tell her, bringing my other hand to her face. “I know this is probably too fast for you, but I can no longer deny my feelings. I hoped we’d have some time before having to face the media, but it’s happening, and we’re going to deal with it. I don’t regret being at that performance, Angelique. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

I know I’m about to push her, but I need to for both our sakes. I have to know, without a doubt, that she wants this relationship, and she needs to believe in it, or she’ll never withstand the public scrutiny we’re sure to attract.

“Can you see a future with me?” I ask, and after a moment of agonizing silence, Angelique nods, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Say it,” I tell her.

“I see a future for us,” she says, and I lower my face to touch my mouth to hers. She wraps her arms around my waist as I tangle my fingers in her hair, drawing her close to deepen our kiss. My heart stammers as she surrenders, allowing me to explore her warmth in a kiss filled with passion, hope, and promise.

“I’ll do anything, everything to secure our future together,” I assure her when, some time later, we’re settled on the sofa once more.

“Are you ready to talk about it now?” I ask.

“I’m worried… and scared,” Angelique confesses.

“I’ll do everything I can to protect you.”

“I’m not just afraid for me,” she says with a hint of her earlier distress.

“How about I get us some tea, and we can talk while we have it,” I suggest.

“You don’t like tea; admit it,” she challenges with a tiny smile I’m relieved to see.

“I could get used to it,” I playfully counter.

“I’ll make you coffee,” she says, her smile widening.

I follow Angelique into the kitchen because I can’t bear to be separated while she’s still so obviously fragile. “Tell me exactly what you’re worried about,” I ask when we’re seated in the living room once more.

“I’m concerned about your reputation, your job, of course... and your family,” she says after a moment’s hesitation.

“I pursued a relationship with you with my eyes wide open, please don’t ever doubt that; and no harm can come to my family. They want to support us in this.”

She doesn’t seem appeased, so I place both of our cups on the table before taking her hands in mine. “I’m ready to deal with whatever happens, and you have no idea just how strong and determined my family can be.”

“What about your job, Adam? You can’t get involved with me. The press will question your position,” she counters, anxiety evident in the way she bites her bottom lip. I free it, using my thumb to stop her from marking her skin.

“Angelique, being in a relationship with you won’t obstruct my job. My growing feelings didn’t prevent me from grilling you on the stand— not that I’m proud of that,” I add before continuing.

“No one can legitimately claim that I showed bias. If anyone in the media even dares to hint at impropriety, I’ll issue a public challenge to prove it and sue for libel if whoever made the assertion can’t.”

“But what if you’re fired?”

“If that happens, it will prove that the reasons I became a prosecutor are no longer valid. I want justice for victims of crime, and you were a victim. I wish you’d see that.

“How just would it be if I were fired because I entered into a relationship with someone who’d been taken advantage of? I wouldn’t want my job if that were the case. But, if it would ease your mind, I’ll speak to the DA about our relationship,” I add when she’s about to protest.

“Hush now,” I soothe as her tears spill over. “I hate seeing you cry. I want to make you happy.”

“You do make me happy. I’m just overwhelmed that you’d risk so much.” She strokes my cheek, making my heart flip. I believed, for so long, that Angelique despised me that it reacts each time she initiates even the smallest physical contact.

I lift her hand from my face to kiss her palm. “Something you said earlier bothers me. Tell me why you’d think some other woman would be more suitable for me?”

“What?” I prompt as her eyes cloud over.

“ I… you should know…” She hesitates, and I hold her gaze, silently communicating that I’ll wait until she’s ready.

“I didn’t love Justin,” she eventually says, and I have to fight to keep an open expression. The mere possibility that she might have loved him cuts like a knife.

“I didn’t ever love him,” she adds as if reading my mind. “But I grew fond of him, and I foolishly believed he returned those feelings. I knew he accompanied other women, including Cynthia Buchanan, to social events. I also understood that I wasn’t in a position to object, but he didn’t once tell me he was in a serious relationship with anyone. It was a shock to learn that he and Cynthia are expected to marry.

“Seeing them at the courthouse brought me face-to-face with the reality of my situation. I felt humiliated and even more ashamed that you witnessed my embarrassment.” She looks away, mortified, and I tug at her hand until she looks up at me.

“I’m not sure if you know this, but Justin and I were once friends. Some might say we were the best of friends,” I tell her. Angelique’s eyes widen in astonishment, but I don’t stop to explain.

“Despite the differences in our background and outlook on life, I always thought of him as a good man at the core, and he hadn’t, until recently, caused me to think otherwise. I understood the burden that his family’s history and his father’s expectations placed on him, yet I thought Justin capable of being his own man. But, as I got to know him and Tom, I realized that they, like many from that world, believe in their privileged positions too much. Fundamentally, they don’t want to change. They may associate with people from the other side; they may even accept them as friends, but they’ll never view them as equals. I understood that, no matter how much they professed friendship, they’d never consider me their equal.

“It didn’t upset me,” I add at her pained look, “I’d already dealt with those emotions when I learned the truth about my biological father. His family, like Justin’s, has wealth and power dating back over two centuries. Eleanor was young, beautiful, and innocent. Adam Winston wanted her, so he had her and then discarded her when she fell pregnant. He didn’t view her, or me for that matter, as being good enough to be part of his life.

“So you see, it’s not only because you were an escort that caused Justin to think you unsuitable. Unless you were part of his world or could, in some way, advance his ambitions, I doubt he would ever have seen you as suitable. Cynthia Buchanan shares his background and has always been in love with him. Justin didn’t love her then, and I’m sure he doesn’t now. He tolerates her because a union between their families would serve his political ambitions.

“Most importantly, Angelique, you should realize that I’m not Justin Wade or anything like him in that regard. I’ve dated women from that world, but I have never seen a future with any of them—and most certainly not Lisa Delaney. So, if you’re afraid that I’m going through some phase, or that I’m looking to pass time with you before settling down to marry someone else, let me assure you that I’m doing none of those things.

“Only you; I’ve only ever seen and wanted a future with you.”

She lets out a strangled sob and clambers onto my lap. I hold her for the longest time before raising her face for a kiss. I let her know with every stroke of my tongue, every thundering beat of my heart, just how much I want her.

When passion threatens to overwhelm me, I settle us back onto the sofa into the position we were in before Cait chose to interrupt our perfect day.

Images

On Monday, I race from one meeting to another and, at lunchtime, end up gulping down a sandwich at my desk. It’s mid-afternoon when I Rita calls to inform me that the DA can accommodate the meeting I requested early that morning.

Bristly’s shocked, of course, when I tell reveal my newfound relationship with Angelique, and his first question, predictably, is to ask when we became involved. I detail the timeline of every meeting, including my visits to the dance studio when I hadn’t even spoken to her. He then subjects me to a first-hand experience of just how lethal a prosecutor he’d been as he barrages me with question after question, from the time of our first meeting to the end of Justin’s trial. Finally, appearing somewhat mollified, he relaxes his stance.

“You could have made this a damned sight easier on yourself and everyone else by waiting, Thorne,” he declares, his even tone tempering the severity of his words. I suffer a momentary pang of guilt, but I don’t come close to regretting my actions. Instead, I offer to resign. “If you think it would best for the department, Sir,” I add.

“Unless you’ve wantonly demonstrated bias or broken the law, neither of which I can see, there shouldn’t be a need for that or to dismiss you.”

“Perhaps it would be better if I step down as lead counsel on the Cordi case. Jodi could take over, and I could second-chair.”

“That won’t be necessary,” he replies without hesitation. I assure him that Jodi’s more than capable.

“I understand Maddox’s talents,” he says pointedly, “but I want you to prosecute.” He then asks whether I’m sure it’s all worth it. I know that what he’s questioning is whether Angelique is worth it.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” I say emphatically.

“I can see your mind’s made up. Just remember that these cases have attracted a lot of media attention and have shed an even bigger spotlight on you. You’re a damned fine prosecutor and adept at handling the media, but how do you plan on dealing with questions about Ms. Bain, Adam? Their aim will be to provoke you into responding irrationally and then cast doubt on your ability to do your job.”

I start to answer, but he cuts me off. “The only time I’ve seen you even remotely lose objectivity was when reporters last questioned you about the young lady. Don’t misunderstand me, I endorse what you said in Ms. Bain’s defense, but you know as well as I do, that their interest in her will escalate dramatically when news of your relationship gets out.”

I tell him that I intend, at the first media question about my private life, to make one, definitive statement on the matter. He nods, and, after debating the pros and cons of my plan, we agree that I provide him with a copy of my proposed statement by the end of business the next day.

“And Adam, you should know that I’ll be reviewing everything, including the court transcripts, related to the Wade case. I’ll also be questioning Jodi to check that your account matches hers. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but my priority is to protect the reputation of this office,” he tells me, looking me straight in the eye.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less, Sir,” I assure him, grateful that the meeting’s gone better than anticipated.

The other bright spots in my day are Angelique’s text messages. I sent one first thing this morning to make sure she’s okay, and then, an hour before her matinee performance, sent another wishing her luck. She answered the first by telling me she was working an early shift at Starbucks before the show and sent a second, sweet message of thanks for my good wishes. Both were signed with several symbols for a kiss.

Bec walks in just as I’m reading Angelique’s last text. “You look happy,” she says, handing me a sheaf of documents.

“It’s been a good day,” I acknowledge, ecstatic that Angelique’s messages reflect no trace of yesterday’s doubt.

It’s eight by the time I get home, have a quick shower, and then settle down to make my much-anticipated call. Angelique answers almost instantly. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of hearing her say my name, especially when said with such apparent delight.

“How was the performance?” I ask.

“The audience loved it, I think, and it was so rewarding to meet them after,” she says. I listen, enjoying the sound of her soft, husky voice as she relates anecdotes of the performance and conversations with the elderly attendees. When she asks about my day, I update her on my conversation with Bristly, which seems to ease her concern. She tells me, then, that Mom called and that they’ve agreed to meet the following day. My smile nearly splits my face when she says she’s decided to accept the job offer. “I’ll tell your Mom tomorrow,” she adds.

“She’ll be thrilled, and I can’t wait to celebrate. Would you let me take you to dinner on Wednesday if you’re not working?” I ask.

“I’m not, and I’d love to see you,” she responds immediately. “Why don’t you come here? I’m not much of a cook, but I’m sure I can rustle up something.”

“That sounds fantastic, and I’d happily eat a sandwich as long as we have it together.”

“I think I can do better than that,” she promises, laughing lightly. “I’d better let you go, Adam, so you can eat.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow evening; enjoy your lunch with Mom. Sleep well,” I tell her when, in reality, I want to say so much more.

Chapter Two

On Wednesday, just after lunch, my phone rings.

“I can’t fucking believe it!” Jon practically yells.

“What?”

“Joseph’s in general population. I’m going to string that warden up by his balls!”

I understand just why usually unflappable Jon is so riled. Remand prisoners, because they’re awaiting trial, are meant to be held in facilities separate from the general prison population, who are, in fact, convicted offenders. Those held on remand face fewer restrictions. They’re exempt from work service, allowed to wear their own clothes, and may be permitted more visitors. I doubt that anyone on remand would willingly move into general.

In reality, though, due to overcrowding, remand prisoners are often mixed in with the general prison population. In the case of the Cordi brothers, however, we petitioned the court for them to be separated not only from the general population, but also from each other. The judge stipulated it as a condition of their confinement, so I’m more than a little curious to know how and why Joseph was transferred.

“We need to question that warden, Jon. In the meantime, can you find out who’s being held in that facility, who left, and who arrived during Joseph’s time there and let me know? I want to uncover why he was transferred and just how far his influence reaches.”

“I’ve already demanded that the warden gets his ass down here. I want him to experience what it’s like to be interrogated like a common criminal.”

“When are you expecting him?”

“He was conveniently unavailable when I called, but I told his secretary that I expect him here tomorrow at ten. I’ve also said we’d be out there later in the day to question Joseph and make sure he’s back in remand.”

“Sounds like you have it under control. Is there anything you need from me?”

“Just scare the shit out of him tomorrow.”

“I’m sure we can manage that between us. I just need that list of prisoners beforehand.”

“I’ll get it to you as soon as I can, and I’ll confirm when the warden will be here,” Jon says, sounding much more like himself.

That evening, Angelique and I are cleaning up after a delicious meal she cooked and managing, somehow, to navigate her tiny kitchen without obstructing each other. It feels as if we’ve been doing it for years.

“They’re a couple?” she asks, surprised after I shared an anecdote involving Jodi and Jon.

“They are. Just think of me as a latter-day Cupid,” I joke, and at her puzzled expression, tell how I encouraged their budding relationship.

“I don’t think it was you; it was those chocolate croissants,” she giggles. I can’t resist the sound and embrace her from behind.

“Mmmm, I love when your hair’s in a ponytail, it makes this so much easier,” I murmur, running my nose up her neck. She shudders delicately.

“I should have dressed up more,” she apologizes, but I loved finding her in a pair of yoga pants and t-shirt. They, the pants especially, show off the lines of her body and accentuate the graceful way she moves.

“You’re perfect,” I whisper, inhaling her delicate fragrance.

“I’m not,” she protests, another tremor running through her. I smile against her skin, thrilled to know I affect her as much as she does me.

“You’re perfect to me,” I say, placing a soft kiss beneath her ear before returning to my task of drying dishes. “Mom’s over the moon about you agreeing to work with her.”

Angelique smiles because, by next week, Mom and she will both be employed by The Thorne Foundation. Mom will, initially, work only two days a week as she helps settle in her replacement at her current job, whereas Angelique will be working full-time.

Eleanor’s Place is still under construction, and Angelique’s suggested setting up a part of her living room as an interim office for herself. I haven’t mentioned it yet, but I plan on turning over an area at home as a place for her and Mom to work from. I can’t deny how thrilled I am at the thought of her being there on a daily basis.

“I’m looking forward to working with her too… I don’t know how to thank you both enough,” Angelique tells me.

“There’s no need for thanks; we’re incredibly lucky to have you,” I assure her.

She smiles gratefully but then, when she turns to make coffee and tea, turns contemplative. Once settled on the sofa, I remove her cup from her hand and place it with mine on the coffee table.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“It bothers me,” she says, gnawing on her bottom lip.

“What?” I urge, reaching out a finger to stop her.

“I…I’m far from perfect, Adam, and it disturbs me that you think of me in that way. I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.”

I lean in to kiss her. “How does that feel?”

“Good; really good,” she says, her cheeks turning a rosy pink.

I ease her back against the armrest before wrapping an arm around her waist, and then, cupping the nape of her neck, kiss her passionately.

“How does that feel?” I ask.

“Wonderful,” she whispers.

“Perfect?”

“Perfect,” she agrees, her blush deepening.

“See, perfect for me, just as I hope to be perfect for you.”

We spend the rest of the night talking and exchanging slow, heated kisses, and, at eleven, I reluctantly announce that I should leave.

Early the next morning, I receive a message from Jon, advising that Warden Banks will be at the precinct at nine-thirty and that he’s emailed me the list of remand prisoners.

“What happened to the paperless society?” I joke at the sight of Jon’s desk when entering the squad room.

“I’m not sure, but it obviously hasn’t reached here,” he returns dryly.

“Is he here yet?”

“Been in the interview room for fifteen minutes, and I intend letting him wait for at least another five,” he says with a self-satisfied grin.

“You’re enjoying this aren’t you?”

“You bet I am. Banks is an arrogant prick, and I can’t wait to deflate his ego. I’ve got good news and bad news.”

“Let me have it.”

“The good is that we’ve located Victor Perez. The bad is that Joseph’s in the infirmary complaining of stomach pains. I think that sneaky bastard’s just showing he can still control things; but whatever the truth is, we can’t see him until a doctor clears him.”

“Let’s show him who really calls the shots by arriving unannounced tomorrow,” I suggest after a moment’s thought.

“I like your thinking. What about his lawyers?”

“I’ll call Jones from the prison. It’s only a forty-minute drive. If he’s that worried about his client, he’ll get there.”

Jon’s smile practically splits his face. “Would you like coffee?” he asks, gesturing toward the refreshments table.

“No thanks; I’ve heard how bad that stuff is around here.”

“Well, in that case, let’s go and put Banks out of his misery—or add to it,” he laughs and gets to his feet.

Images

“So, what you’re saying is that you arbitrarily decided that Mr. Cordi was the best candidate for transfer?” I ask less than ten minutes into our interview with Banks.

I stop behind his chair, forcing him to crane his neck to maintain eye contact. He’s arrogant like Jon said. Tall, with a florid complexion and steely gray, cropped hair, and an air of self-importance, it’s clear George Banks is accustomed to being in charge; and he’s been trying to assert his authority in this meeting.

“That’s not what I said. I said, in my estimation, Mr. Cordi was best equipped to cope with general population,” he counters, chin jutted out pugnaciously.

I’m facing him now and looking him squarely in the eye. “Because he’s adept at managing a band of ruthless thugs, or because he convinced you he was the best candidate?”

“I’m not on trial. I deserve more respect, Mr. Thorne,” he says, his face becoming even more flushed.

“More respect than you paid the courts? You’ve yet to give a plausible reason for Cordi’s transfer because none of the other prisoners on remand, including the new intake you claim you needed to accommodate, had court directives imposed on their stay.

“You either deliberately ignored a court ruling, or you were grossly incompetent. Which is it, Mr. Banks? Please explain how, in your estimation, you concluded that Joseph Cordi should be transferred?”

I ignore his uncertainty; the first time during this interview he’s revealed that emotion. “Either way, you’re in contempt of court. You appear to be a smart man, so I assume you realize the seriousness of your position?” I turn my back on him to look at Jon whose face remains impassive. His eyes, however, tell me he’s entertained. When I confront the warden again, there’s no sign of his earlier bravado.

“And you’d know the penalties you’re facing,” I pointedly tell Banks before taking my seat beside Jon. I’d occupied it for only moments after entering because almost as soon as Jon introduced us, I’d stood and assumed the demeanor I’d usually display when questioning an uncooperative witness. I’d intended, from the outset, to break George Banks down; incompetent or corrupt, he’d willfully rejected a court order.

“By ignoring a court order, you not only challenged its authority, you also provided a ruthless criminal with the opportunity to continue his illegal dealings from behind bars. You facilitated the opportunity for him to reach out and intimidate potential witnesses, thereby obstructing the course of justice; and you’ve also, potentially, endangered lives. I intend bringing you to account for your decision, Mr. Banks. Thank you for your time; you’re free to go,” I conclude.

His expression turns fearful. “I…I… give me a chance…” he stammers.

Jon stands. “You’ve had enough time to explain, and as Mr. Thorne’s indicated; this meeting is over. We’ll be in touch,” he says and strides across the room to hold the door open.

“Well, that was fun,” he announces, shutting it firmly behind Banks. “Are you going to press charges?”

“I sure as hell am going make sure he faces a judge. Whatever the outcome, he’ll be taken down a peg or two. It will be a long time before George Banks ignores a court order again. And if we prove that he’s accepted a bribe, he’ll almost certainly find himself behind bars.”

Images

“What the hell do you mean, you’re interviewing my client?” Bryce practically roars in outrage.

“Exactly what I’ve said. Detective Holmes and I will be interviewing Joseph Cordi in…” I check my watch, “exactly fifty-five minutes.”

“You should have contacted me earlier. My client has a right to have his attorney present during questioning. “

“I tried, unsuccessfully, to contact Travis Jones; now I’m speaking with you. I’ve done more than can be expected, given the circumstances, and you’re wasting time if you want to be here for the interview, Bryce.”

He’s still protesting when I hang up. I feel no remorse. Jones and or Bryce may not have had pre-warning of Joseph’s transfer, but he was out of remand for a week, so they should have known. And knowing, they should have ensured their client’s return to the remand facility. They should also, in my view, have notified the courts and the DA’s office of the breach.

I also gain a deep sense of satisfaction at the recollection of George Banks’ surprised confusion and then barely repressed anger at our unexpected arrival. He tried to bluster his way through with a reminder that visitors needed to be pre-approved, but I silenced him with a look, then told him we wanted to interview a prisoner, Ricardo, known as Ricky, La Fata immediately. I said we wanted to meet with Joseph half an hour later and warned him not to divulge the identity of his visitors. Banks’ eyes were filled with animosity as he tried to stare me down, but I held his gaze, silently reminding him of the precarious position he’d placed himself in. Then, while he arranged for La Fata to be escorted to an interview room, I called Jones and then Bryce.

La Fata’s served five of a fifteen-year sentence for trafficking cocaine, and, according to Jon’s information, he’s built a formidable reputation as the leader of a small, but ruthless, band of prisoners who run a protection racket. Prison officials suspect but are unable to prove that he’s also smuggling drugs into the system.

During his stay in general population, Joseph was seen having lengthy conversations with La Fata. We believe that he may have taken advantage of La Fata’s links on the outside to contact his henchmen still at large. He probably used those same connections to have the note written and delivered to me, and we also haven’t discounted the possibility of him having made plans to intimidate potential witnesses.

Ricky La Fata, a bald, heavily muscled, and tattooed man stares at us impassively as a guard urges him forward.

“Take a seat, Mr. La Fata. I’m Assistant District Attorney Adam Thorne, and this is Senior Detective Jon Holmes.”

“I watch the news; I know who you are,” he says with an intimidatory glare.

“Then we don’t have to waste time on niceties,” I counter coolly. I’ve been in the presence of hardened criminals many times, mostly from across the witness stand, I admit; and Jon, too, has had his fair share of encounters. If La Fata’s intention is to scare us, he’s failed.

“We want to know what you and Joseph Cordi discussed,” Jon comes straight to the point.

“The weather. Isn’t that what strangers talk about?” La Fata responds.

“Cut the bullshit, Ricky,” Jon tells him.

“You’re up for parole soon, so cooperating to put Joseph Cordi behind bars would look good on your record. On the other hand, it wouldn’t take much to convince a review panel that you conspired to obstruct the course of justice,” I add, watching an opportunistic gleam light up La Fata’s eyes. So much for the saying about honor among thieves; in my experience, in most instances, it’s proven to be nothing more than a myth.

Just over half an hour later, Jon and I watch Joseph being led in. Other than a momentary widening of his eyes, he shows no surprise. There’s no doubting the man’s self-assurance; his body language denies the fact that he is, in fact, incarcerated and facing the distinct possibility of spending the rest of his life in prison. His lips lift into a sneer as he lowers himself into a seat across from us.

“Good to see you again, Adam,” he says, ignoring Jon’s presence. I turn to Jon, an indication that he should start because yesterday, when discussing this meeting, I concluded that Jon should do most of the talking. By doing that, in my view, we’d be denying Joseph’s almost certain desire to turn the meeting into a personal confrontation between him and me.

Jon rises to his feet and strides across the room. “I hope you’re feeling better, Mr. Cordi, and that you’re settled back comfortably in remand,” he says conversationally. Joseph is forced to turn his head to look at him and, by doing so, gives us with our first, small victory in establishing the upper hand.

“I am, thank you. Prison food doesn’t always agree with me,” he answers evenly, but his smug grin confirms our assumption that he’d feigned his illness.

“We’re not here to discuss your diet,” Jon returns.

“Why exactly are you here?” he asks casually, turning his gaze on me.

“To ensure you’re back in remand where you belong and to question you about your knowledge of some recent mail,” Jon says, moving again, but Joseph chooses to ignore him this time.

“Someone getting to you, Adam?” he asks snidely.

“Not at all, “ I answer impassively.

“What makes you think Mr. Thorne was the recipient?” Jon demands.

“Why else would you both be here?” Joseph asks, still looking at me.

“We know what you’re up to,” Jon says, unmoved by Joseph’s tactics.

“You know nothing, Detective,” Joseph replies, sparing Jon a cursory glance.

“We know more than you think,” I interject. “You don’t have quite as much clout as you once did.”

“Says who?” he challenges.

“Ricky La Fata, for one, and I’d say Victor Perez and Mick O’Flaherty when we bring them in,” Jon replies, and Joseph’s face suffuses with angry color.

“That’s right. Your new friend decided that having a chance at parole is more rewarding than whatever deal you made with him. I’m also sure that, like La Fata, Perez and O’Flaherty will decide that cooperating with the DA’s office will help their cases,” I add because La Fata, having weighed the possibility of his improved chances of gaining parole, decided to cooperate.

He revealed how, with his help, Joseph had been able to communicate with Perez and O’Flaherty through messages written on narrow strips of paper, which were then rolled into tiny balls for easy concealment. The notes were passed on to prisoners sanctioned by La Fata, who, in turn, unobtrusively transferred them to their visitors. La Fata’s contacts on the outside retrieved and then delivered them to Perez and O’Flaherty.

By now, Joseph must know that we’ve uncovered his deal with La Fata and, knowing that, he must also suspect that we stand a good chance of obtaining more damaging information through a combination of threat and incentive. He’s practically vibrating with anger at whatever plans he had being thwarted. Before any of us can break the charged silence, however, the door swings open to reveal a flustered looking Owen Bryce.

“Bryce, you’re late. We’re just about finished here, but you might want to advise your client about the penalties for the obstruction of justice,” I greet him.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he demands. “Mr. Cordi?” He turns to Joseph, who ignores him to glare at me balefully.

“I should have gotten rid of you when I had the chance,” he tells me.

“I have no idea what you mean, “ I say calmly, even as I feel myself bristle with anger.

Jon shows no such restraint. He steps right up to Joseph. “Are you threatening a public prosecutor?”

Bryce glances at me in alarm before turning to his client. “Mr. Cordi, threatening an officer of the court is a criminal offense.”

“What difference will another charge make?” Joseph scoffs.

“Your plans aren’t going to succeed; this trial will go ahead. I’ll prove your guilt, and you’ll go to jail for a very long time,” I tell him, rising to my feet and motioning to Jon that the interview’s over.

“Say goodbye to your mother, Adam,” Joseph calls out as I reach the door.

I stop dead in my tracks. Memories flood my brain as if a dam wall had burst. I see my young self, forlorn, as I watch Eleanor get ready to go out. She tilts my chin up. “I’ll be home before you can miss me,” she placates me. “You can play with your truck now, but when Mrs. Doyle comes to tell you, you must go to bed, Adam. Be a good boy for Mommy.” She kisses me on the forehead, and a faint smell, I only later identified as alcohol, assaults me.

Tears run down my cheeks as I follow her into the hallway. The man with the black hair and cold eyes looks down at me impassively. “Hurry up; we’re late,” he demands as Eleanor kneels in front of me.

“Go to your room, Adam; we’ll have ice cream tomorrow,” she whispers and hugs me tightly but pulls back with a start when he roughly commands her to get up. I feel afraid, not for myself, but for Eleanor.

“Say goodbye to your mother, Adam, “ he says, grasping her arm firmly. His smile, when he turns to look back at me, is filled with malice.

I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection before. My shock must be evident when I turn to face him because he’s showing that same malevolent smile now. Violent anger surges through me. I stride back to where he’s leaning back in his chair, smirking up at me. “Ah, you’ve finally remembered. I thought about getting rid of you then, you know—many times, in fact—but you proved a useful pawn in forcing your mother to obey.”

I lean across the narrow table until our noses practically touch. “I’m going to put you away for life, you son of a bitch,” I hiss, grabbing his collar.

Jon lays a restraining hand on my shoulder, and in my peripheral vision, I see Bryce step forward. I straighten up, shake my head to clear the red mist, and then nod at Jon tersely before turning on my heel.

“Your mother was weak, but she surprised me by what she was prepared to do to protect you,” Joseph taunts.

I spin around. Fuck being responsible; I’m going to strangle the bastard. I run straight into Jon, who places a hand on my chest and grasps my shoulder firmly with the other. “Don’t let him get to you; it’s what he wants.”

I stare unflinchingly into Joseph Cordi’s soulless eyes. “I’m going to make sure you pay—for everything. You won’t have any thugs to protect you in that courtroom, and you won’t be facing some helpless woman. It’ll be me, and I’m going to send you away for life.”

For just a second, uncertainty flashes across his face before his expression of arrogant indifference returns.