Chapter 92: A Door Closes
Joe’s POV
After the disaster with Torres, I’ve gotten smarter about not trusting my fellow agents, but it is hard having my only contact be Mañoso. However, I have to give him credit. He’s leading me in the right directions. His information is spot-on and it makes the job of getting these guys to talk much easier. He can tell me their likes, dislikes, vulnerabilities and obsessions and I’m not having any problems finding common ground with my suspects.
Shit, if I had Mañoso passing information to me all the time like this, I would have a 100% conviction rate.
Lately I’ve been wondering about staying at Trenton PD. On one hand, I love my hometown and I’m proud to be an officer there. Trenton needs help more than any city I know, but the opportunities for promotion stink. I checked the website; there’s a new Chief of D’s, someone named Lt. Ward. I know him. He’s from Newark and he has a good rep but he doesn’t have half the years of experience I do. My conviction rate is better and I know the area. I would have been better but I’m on this op.
Moments like this remind me that Trenton PD has me work the worst, the roughest, and the toughest cases all the time but hasn’t promoted me beyond Senior Detective or given me a decent raise in a while. I’m paid shit to put my life in danger and remove killers and thugs from the street. I do it because I love the city and I want it to return to the safe, family-friendly place it was when I was a kid, but I want to be able to support a family there. Half the PD moonlights as security in town. More than once, Trenton PD members have considered applying at RangeMan but we know they wouldn’t exactly be thrilled to have us.
They consider us piss-poor cops, out of shape, overweight, and lazy. Outside the detectives’ bureau, I can’t exactly disagree with their assessment.
I remember how Mañoso was dressed the first moment he walked into the room in Fairfax. At least $25,000 on his body. I assumed it came from contract killing but I had a look at Miami. I saw Armando Cortes in his suit and that wasn’t a cheap suit either. His shoes cost more than my suits, well, until I upgraded (thank you, Uncle Sam!). I thought that maybe it was a one-off, but I saw Diego and Thomas in their suits for a meeting with the Feds. No one had on a cheap suit. Those guys were sharp, well-dressed and articulate. If I had not caught the gang tattoo on the side of Thomas’s neck, I would’ve forgotten that Mañoso hires criminals.
I hate to admit it, but Mañoso pays his people well. The men in Miami had an in-house housekeeper making their meals. They had a full gym, gun ranges, all the shit we’re expected to do on our own. They had soft toilet paper in the bathrooms. RangeMan Miami was a classy place and the men worship Mañoso.
I’m wondering how much he’s being paid for this op. I thought about it and I remember his words in Fairfax:
“It’s a contract negotiation, De Luca. I’m a businessman. The government is dragging their feet. They either accept the contract or they don’t. If they don’t, they can find someone else to do this.”
If the government was dragging its feet on paying him, then that contract must have been insane, but I’m thinking about this again. Thirteen agents, all moving around different cities, all needing money (and if they’re spending like I’m spending, those are ridiculous credit card bills), all needing electronics, hotel rooms, apartments, clothes, food . . .
I’d charge at least $10 million for this. Maybe $15 million. Not a penny less.
This time away from Steph has been eye-opening for me. Eight months without her and I have finally acknowledged that the only thing I miss about her is the familiarity. I miss her blue eyes and her crazy brown curls. I miss the amazing sex.
I really miss the amazing sex.
But I don’t actually miss her because there’s nothing to miss. I can’t talk about my day with her and she doesn’t talk to me about hers because I can’t take it. She doesn’t cook or clean and she can’t remember to keep gas in her car or food in her cabinets half the time. I’m sure when I don’t fill her gas tank, Mañoso does. All we share in common is a Burg childhood, Rangers hockey, Pino’s and sex. I love her and I’m concerned about her and her safety, but that’s not enough to base the rest of my life on.
The only times I think about her now are first thing in the morning when I have to take care of my own ‘morning wood’ and late at night, for the same reason. It isn’t much of a difference from normal when we’re ‘off’.
With this gift of clarity, I finally understand why Mañoso is hung up on her. He has a housekeeper so he doesn’t need Steph to be domestic. He has a child so his biological clock isn’t ticking like mine. What he wants is someone who understands and accepts his crazy ass life, someone who loves him. He doesn’t need from her all the things that I do.
I love her but not enough to truly accept the bounty hunting, the exploding cars, and the years without children. If she agreed to marry me today, I would immediately start pushing for her to quit bounty hunting for the sake of my nerves.
I don’t love her enough to marry her without her becoming someone she isn’t. He can take her as she is now.
The morning I wake up with this thought is the happiest morning I’ve had since I joined the op. I walk around smiling, lighter in spirit, calm within myself. I’ve spent months on this op wondering if Mañoso was fucking Cupcake every time he moved around Miami or Newark, but now I don’t care.
If he wants her, he can have her. I’m out of the game permanently. I’m stepping off the Stephanie Plum roller coaster.
Sharon notices my happy mood and smiles. I’ve been working with her in Boston for the past month and I like her. She’s 5’8″ with bigger boobs and a rounder, tighter ass than any other woman I know. And she’s a blond with big blue eyes. Gorgeous eyes. I look at her and I don’t see any other woman I’ve ever dated. I see ‘Sharon’ and that’s important. Normally, I meet a new woman and I pick out the features that remind me of someone else. Sharon’s different. I see her as she is.
We hit the shooting range and talk shit to each other while trying to see who has better aim (I do). She’s serious about the gym and I’ve had to step it up with her around. Every morning at 5 a.m., she’s running five miles. I’m fine with going with her as long as she runs in front of me. Watching her ass flex in her tight shorts has given me a third leg a few times, but I’m getting back to the fitness levels the RangeMen had me at when they were training me. I outswim her in the pool and I’ve given her tips to improve her stroke while trying not to make dirty jokes.
No problem. She makes them for me.
If not for this case (and Torres) I’d make a move to get to know her better. See if it could go anywhere. Then again, how well can you get to know a woman when everything you tell her about yourself is a lie?
Still, I might try to keep in touch with her when this case is over. In my mind, and heart, it’s truly over for me and Steph. I just need to tell her first. I’m not a womanizer. I’m not my father.
I’m bored and restless in this building. So far, I’m not seeing any possibilities and Mañoso hasn’t passed me any, so this task force may be clean; then again, Massachusetts lost 75% of its task force already, so the dirty ones might already be dead. I’m watching SportsCenter and ESPN, waiting to see who’s going to the World Series.
“You OK there, Smith?”
“Yeah, Thomas. Anything going?”
“Nope. Nothing new. Listen, I hear a nor’easter is supposed to blow in tonight and I’ve never had to live through one of those. You mind if I bunk in with you?”
“Nor’easter? This time of year?” It’s mid-October. That’s almost unheard of.
“Yeah. Weather Channel. They’re saying it’s rare, but the last one like this was Halloween 2005 and Boston was covered.”
Oh yeah, I remember that. Hell, Jersey got hit again the next year. If they’re calling another one, we will have to plan to be snowed in. But snowed in with another agent? That’s a tough one. Since Torres, I don’t trust female agents, but . . . something about Sharon is different. I’ll chance it. Worst that happens, I’ll have to set her up like I did Torres.
“Fine. Bring at least a week’s worth of clothes. I’ll grab a pizza on the way back.”
Her nose wrinkles.
“Look, since you’re allowing me to stay, how about I make dinner tonight? I haven’t had a chance to burn anything for a few weeks. I’m feelin’ antsy. How’s smothered pork chops sound to you?”
You kidding me?! “Sounds great.” I smile and she smiles back.
“Alright then. I’m hitting a grocery store and grabbing my bags. I’ll meet you back here in, say, two hours?”
I give her the thumbs up. The moment she’s clear, I call Mañoso and tell him. He’s silent. I start timing him.
“I don’t think she’s dirty.” Hmm . . . a full minute.
“Great. I still plan to set her up. I’ll use the Michael Giordano name again.” I still can’t believe that no one is catching that I’m calling myself ‘Michael Jordan’. “If you start hearing chatter about that name again, you know what’s up.”
“Clear.”
We disconnect and two hours later I direct Sharon to my apartment in Boston. Mañoso has really come through for us on the digs. This is a huge, gorgeous two-bedroom in Boston near the wharf. I shudder to think how much this place costs a month. Sharon went all out with the grocery shopping. So far, I’ve spotted pork chops, a Boston butt, steaks, ham, bacon, salmon, and cod. She’s muttering about what goes where and casts a disbelieving eye at my refrigerator. I have pizza and beer. What? She checks my cabinets for cookware and is astonished to discover that I really don’t have any. Why would I? My meals are delivery.
“Come on. We need provisions. You aren’t even set up for basics here.” She starts a grocery list and a shopping list and for some reason, I find myself not fighting it. We hop into her Expedition and hit Bed, Bath, and Beyond for cookware, sheets, and towels (what?! I’m a single man. Blanket, pillow, warm socks. That’s all I need. The place isn’t mine.). I try not to choke at the price.
“Government credit cards,” she says.
Good point. I’ve run up some rather nice bar tabs on Uncle Sam. Top shelf stuff I’d never be able to try otherwise.
We hit the local Whole Foods, a place I never go near in Princeton. I like having my paycheck. The grocery bill there is about six grocery bills from the local Stop and Shop but the meat case is a thing of beauty. At my insistence, we grab a few more steaks and some sausages and she grabs a lot of seafood, crab legs, sea scallops, sea bass, and some lamb chops, the really good stuff. We take all of it back to the loft and get it stowed in the fridge.
This is the start to one of the best nights I’ve had with a woman in years that didn’t end in sex. I stay in the kitchen, trying to help but mostly in the way, while Sharon cooks. She laughs and situates me at the bar with a beer. We joke around about the op, sharing information about what we’ve learned so far.
She’s a powerhouse in the kitchen. She gets the pork chops sautéed and starts slow cooking them in the gravy. At the same time, she’s got the rice and green beans going as a side and she’s placing that Boston butt in a slow cooker for pulled pork. Pulled pork? I didn’t even know you could make that at home.
We talk about our families, in generalities only, and a little bit about our jobs. I glean that she’s a state cop and she’s definitely a southerner. She hides the accent well, but the longer we talk the more it comes out.
Dinner is spectacular. The pork chops are tender and the rice and green beans are excellent. I didn’t notice that she bought dessert at the store, but we have cake and ice cream and wash it all down with wine. I’m Italian; the one thing I am good at is choosing a good wine and we walked away with two cases from Whole Foods.
“This is excellent,” she says, swirling it. “I can’t choose wine to save my life. Iced tea, lemonade, wine in a box”—I cringe—”that’s what I know.”
“Well, stick with me for a while and I’ll have you swirling like a sommelier. I grew up on it. Started drinking it at 12.” She looks at me in surprise. I shrug. “In my family, alcohol was a part of life. Wine and beer wasn’t really considered a big thing. It was the hard stuff that would get you.”
And the overindulgence but let’s not talk about my paternal relatives.
“Well, lucky you. My family is pretty much tee totaling. Even wine gets sniffs of disapproval.”
An early winter nor’easter is rare but this one blows in as promised. We are buried under five feet of snow. We get messages from the task force that no one is to report for a week. Gang bangers are too cold to be out. Our checks with Mañoso are fine. No chatter in the networks, no intel he needs us to follow up on. He tells me that unless something happens in the next ten days he’ll probably pull us from Boston.
“How do you like working with Sharon?” This was his idea. I had no interest in having a partner but he insisted. He didn’t have to say it but I get the feeling he thinks I’m in danger. I keep reminding him I’m no amateur at this.
“Really good. She’s sharp. Why?” I’m bouncing a tennis ball at the wall. I like to imagine that he hears the noise and it makes him grind his teeth.
“No chatter about Michael Giordano out there so I’m thinking I may send you back to North Carolina. Both of you. I’ve cleared the way for you to go back.”
I’m nervous about returning there but eight months so far. I’m learning to trust him with my life.
“Why her?” I don’t usually question his decisions but I want to know. He hasn’t had me work two states with the same partner at any point.
I get the usual extended silence that occurs when I ask a question. I set the timer on my watch. The tennis ball hits my gut and I wince. “Her intel and capture rate is second only to yours,” he says.
I stop the timer. 54 seconds. He’s getting faster.
“I’m hearing you two work well together. I want you to start working as a team because the next place I’ll move you is Miami. I’ve got serious intel there but I need you to have a partner, a sharp one, one you can trust. Build a rapport with her. If North Carolina works out, you’ll be in Miami till the end.” Click.
Calls with Mañoso. I write a reminder to find a dentist.
I poke my head out of the room and yell for Sharon. She appears with a mud mask on and I smile.
“Pretty.”
“The price of beauty,” she shoots back. I laugh. “What’s up?”
“Aguilar should call you soon.”
“OK.”
I settle into the bath when Sharon’s phone rings and I’ve just gotten out when she walks into my bedroom. It’s that lovely awkward moment. I’m naked and partially aroused. She’s wide eyed and not moving. I smile. “This is just the reaction to the cold. You should see actual arousal.” That’s causes her cheeks to pink and she runs from the room. It’s the funniest thing I’ve seen in months. I dress quickly and go in search of her. I find her in the kitchen with her head in the freezer and I laugh.
She removes her head, completely red, and opens her mouth, to apologize probably, but I cut her off. “It’s OK. I’m not embarrassed or upset. It happens. I apologize to you. He wasn’t really showing at his best. Catch me first thing in the morning when I wake up.”
The statement causes her to stop, pink, then laugh. She laughs so hard the tears are running down her face.
“Still, I should know better. I should have better manners than to simply walk in. I apologize. I should’ve knocked.” She really is a gorgeous woman. I shift. OK, this is when I miss Cupcake too. “I just got off the phone with Aguilar. He said that we may end up staying partners for the conceivable future.” I nod. “OK, well, I just want to say that although I can think of worse things, you aren’t that bad.” I give her the one-finger salute and she laughs. “Since we’re stuck here anyway, we should get to know each other, I mean, as best we can since we’re working under aliases.”
“Agreed.” I’m happy to have a reason to get to know her better.
And a bit pissed that Mañoso’s the reason why.
Over the week we talk about ourselves more. I learn that she is southern by birth (I thought so) but went to school in the Midwest. She’s single with no kids and no pets. Her parents run a farm and both her sisters and her brother are married. Her parents request prayers from the entire congregation every week at church that she give up her dangerous job, come home and have babies. She enjoys hunting and fishing and was a debutante as a teenager.
I tell her about my military career, which is difficult without giving branch or specifics, and that I’m also single with no kids. I tell her my dog is being watched by my Momma and my grandmother is probably at Mass every day praying for my life. I live for hockey season and I’m Italian on both sides, so the pizza she saw is the basis of my food pyramid. That gets a smile but I’m curious about something she said earlier.
“So, if I may ask this entirely inappropriate question, why are you single? I know plenty of men who would love a wife who likes hunting and fishing and carries a gun. What gives?” I get a long suffering sigh in response.
“In the South, at least where I come from, the expectations are different. I wasn’t supposed to go into law enforcement in the first place. I definitely should not carry a gun. This is hard, dangerous work meant for big manly men with muscles, not little ‘ole me.” She flutters her eyelashes and simpers, which is amusing.
“I’m thirty with no prospects in sight. I enjoy my job. I enjoy putting dangerous people in jail. I enjoy the excitement and danger of it all and I want a man who accepts that I’m good at my job. I’m trained, I carry, and I stay in the range making sure I don’t lose my edge.”
She hands me a stack of plates and I stack the dishwasher while she puts away all the breakfast stuff. Pancakes, eggs, bacon and OJ. I did a great job on the bacon, which made her laugh. All I had to do was put it on the baking sheet and make sure it didn’t burn.
“Someday I do want to take a desk job and have kids. I’m thinking that day is coming sooner rather than later because I’ve been doing this for almost a decade. But I need the right man, someone who accepts that I’m a modern woman. I’ll never give up my job and I’ll never stop working. I want children but I need a job and activity to keep my brain from rotting. I don’t see myself in the Junior League or someone’s insipid book club. I love hunting and football season but I also like cooking and I can sew.
I don’t intend to marry any man like the ones I know back home. The ones who think that once I get married I should quit my job and become a secretary or a stay at home mom. The men I know, they think being a teacher or nurse should be my job, as if I’m going to give up my guns and pretend I didn’t spend a decade putting murderers, rapists, and the general scum of society behind bars. That’s why I’m not married. Show me a man who can handle that and I’ll show you a man that can get a date with me.”
At the end of this speech, she’s looking me straight in my eyes, completely sober. She’s serious about that and I respect that attitude to her life and career.
I’m thinking I’d like to ask her out.
I’m also thinking about Sharon’s words in response to what I know about Cupcake. The difference between the two is startling. Sharon knows who she is and what she wants in life. She sees being good at her job as an aspect of continuing to do it, which I really appreciate. I’ve seen her work a room and I’ve watched her break down suspects. She’s professional and serious when she does it and I agree: She’s good at her job.
I love Steph, but I’m tired of showing up at her scenes. I’m tired of hearing the jokes. I’m tired of being the butt of laughs because she can’t do her job without getting hurt. I’m really tired of never knowing what her plans for the future are. I never wanted to be ‘domestic’ and I don’t consider myself ‘domestic’. My aunt left me a house. I have a dog. I have a bike and a Jeep, a steady job, and my body is still in shape.
Hell, I’m a decent bachelor, a catch, and other women in town didn’t mind reminding me of that whenever Steph and I were off. So why am I settling for the crumbs of her affection?
Cupcake runs from all decisions and has no clear plan for the future. She sees succumbing to ‘Burg standards as her eventual destination instead of deciding what she can live with and fighting for it, like Sharon. And she continues to bounty hunt with no real skill or training. Momma told me she blew up another car two months ago, a BMW this time. I shook my head and realized that she would never really get it.
Good thing Mañoso’s rich; who else could afford her disasters? She blew up my Explorer and it took me months to save up for the Jeep, which is why she’s never driven it. I eat extra antacids every time she’s on the bike.
I once called her a ‘pit bull with a soup bone’ and ‘freakin’ lucky’ and that about sums up her skill at her chosen profession. If the RangeMen have trained her and she’s still blowing up cars, it’s time for her to consider a desk job. I’ve been asked to arrest her as a menace to public safety (her and Edna) and I’ve always avoided it. I should probably let her know that this new Lt. will have her arrested the first chance he gets. Greg Ward is a by-the-book cop and he won’t give a damn that she’s the local celebrity.
Sharon hands me a dishtowel and the Lysol spray and I wipe the kitchen down while she checks the fridge and decides on lunch and dinner. I tie the trash up and take it out while continuing to think about my pathetic love life.
Sharon is the kind of woman I want by my side, one who takes her job and her life seriously, and she doesn’t see having some domestic skills as an attempt to tie her to a kitchen. I have domestic skills and I don’t consider myself tied to a kitchen. I’m Angie Morelli’s son. I was going to learn to cook and clean and, although I don’t do it often, when I do it I’m better than Steph is when she’s trying to avoid thinking.
Sharon is the kind of woman I wish Steph was, someone who doesn’t see the ability to care for herself as some sort of burden. Someone who knows what she wants and is clear about it. Someone who wants a partner and a friend, as well as a lover.
I left my heart open and the truth has trickled in little by little. Now it’s flooding in. I have more options than Cupcake. Steph. I have more options than Steph.
The hole Stephanie Michelle Plum tore in my heart in February finally closes. I’ll always love her but I’m done. I don’t want to be her option and that’s all I’ll ever be. I want her to choose me and I see that as long as Mañoso is around, she never will. I’m moving on. If Momma called me right now saying she wanted a trip to Italy, I would tell Momma to tell her to take a trip to Cuba instead. That’s where she wants to go.
I hope, for her sake, that he wants her once she’s his. As horrible as it was for her to finally tell me, honestly, that she didn’t love me, I don’t wish that on her. I hope she has better luck with him than I had with her.
“Looks like some pretty hard thinking there,” Sharon says. I blink. I’m back in the loft and staring at the refrigerator door. I shake my head and smile.
“Yeah. I’m thinking about my ex.” Sharon snorts and hands me a beer. I smile my thanks. “I love her but I called it off before I even heard about this case. She’s you without the backbone.” Or the interest in being good at her job. Or the domestic skills. Or any interest is growing up.
Sharon whistles. “Being me is difficult. Most can’t manage it. Even I have trouble some days.” She laughs.
“Yeah. She can’t.” I smile. “We broke up once over peanut butter.” She laughs and I’m determined not to talk or even think about Steph anymore, so I turn the conversation towards football and we spend the day arguing over that.
“Hey, Ma!”
“Hey, Joey! Are you safe, son?”
“Yes. OK, catch me up.”
Momma is off in a shot, telling me about what’s going on at home. Carl was cleared in his shooting, Ward is cleaning up the PD, enforcing standards and making sure men are working, and the Chief is happy. Crime’s down 2%.
There was an outbreak of STDs in Trenton PD that reached throughout the city. A lot of my fellow officers were demoted, fired, or put on probation. The police union couldn’t bail anyone out because they were using the Stark Street hookers, on and off duty, to get laid in exchange for not arresting the girls for minor offenses.
The RangeMen did the investigation with the State Office of the Attorney General. He’s running for reelection soon. The guys are toast.
I’m completely dumbfounded. What a bunch of idiots! Momma tells me, quietly, that Carl and Big Dog were busted down to Traffic and I wince. Fuck. I wonder if they were screwing the Stark Street girls. If they were, they deserve the demotions.
Joyce was the center of the infections.
I shiver and congratulate myself on having never screwed her. I like playing with real body parts, not silicone. I write a note to go get a full exam done.
Cathy’s still not pregnant (she and Tom could not care less), Angelina is having a boy soon (I roll my eyes) and Grandma is bored. Apparently Edna’s moved to Florida. Stiva’s throwing a good-bye party next week.
“Sounds like no one will miss Edna, Ma,” I reply, laughing.
“Bella and Helen do,” she replies. “Your grandmother is now the most hated elderly woman in the Burg. Before, she shared the title with Edna. And Helen has one less life to try to direct all the time.”
I fall back against the pillows laughing.
“Well, anything else?”
“No,” she says, sounding surprised. “You don’t want to know about Stephanie?”
“I don’t care.” I can hear my mother’s intake of breath. “It’s truly over for me. Can you deliver a message?”
“Sure.” I hear a chair scrape and my mother comes back within minutes. “OK, what’s the message?”
“Invitation for a trip to Italy rescinded. No longer interested. Try Cuba and good luck.”
It’s silent on the phone as I listen to my mother write that down. “Is it truly over, Joey?” she asks quietly.
“Yeah,” I reply. “I’ve met someone I’d like to get to know better when this op is over. I’m not breaking up with Steph because of her, Momma. Don’t get me wrong there. But talking to her, getting to know her, I know more about this woman’s hopes, dreams, fears, and desires than I know about Steph. I’ve known her for six weeks and I already have more of a relationship with her than I had with Steph. That tells me that we had nothing between us. Nothing we could build a marriage with. Nothing to build a life on. So I’m done and I want to make sure she knows. Please deliver that to her ASAP.”
“With pleasure, son,” my mother replies. I know Momma. She’ll deliver that message personally.
We get a visitor three days later.
Ding dong.
Sharon answers the door. I’m standing there, gun drawn and pointed at the door. She opens it and one of Mañoso’s men is standing there. The one shot during the Scrog fiasco. I exhale and put the gun away.
“Yo.” Mañoso’s standing greeting. Anything else would require effort.
He merely nods, glances at Sharon and smiles. “You must be Sharon.”
“Nice,” she says tightly, her gun still pointed at him. “Now who the hell are you?”
“One of Aguilar’s men,” I reply, waving him in. He steps in, watching Sharon carefully. “I can’t remember his name but I know him.”
Sharon’s staring at me. “How?”
“Met him before.”
“Name?”
He’s watching us, a smirk on his face. I stare at him and he smiles. “You mean I get to join the conversation? How kind.” He turns to Sharon. “Juan.”
“An alias?”
“Of course.”
She sheathes the gun. “What did you want?”
He checks his watch. “Three, two, one. . .” The phone rings. He smirks. “Aguilar.”
I roll my eyes and go answer the phone while Sharon stares at him.
“Juan there?”
“Yeah. Thanks for the heads up.”
“Yeah. He knows the target. Let him review everything you have. I’ve called a new resource in and we’re planning a sting. Trying to get you home before Christmas.” Click.
Total time in conversation: 45 seconds. Ordinarily I’d say ‘Fuck you too, Mañoso’ but if he’s really trying to end this soon, then I’m grateful. I’ll spend extra time tonight reviewing the recordings and trying to learn more.
‘Juan’ takes all our info, everything we’ve been able to cull from the recordings and the paperwork, and starts reviewing. After three hours, he whistles. “CCE, RICO, conspiracy, multiple conspiracy, felony assault and battery, murder, manslaughter . . .” He sighs and sits back. “Makes me long for the good old days.”
“We’re not amateurs,” Sharon says, smiling.
He looks amused. “Aguilar would have bounced you if you were.” He accepts the beer Sharon hands him and smiles his thanks as she takes his lunch plate. He continues reviewing for another hour. Sharon gets started on dinner and I start cleaning the rest of the loft. I made a deal with her: she cooks, I’ll clean. It’s working out for both of us.
“How did you get here through the snow?” I ask, turning to him.
“Car.” He looks confused. “What? You think I strapped on snowshoes and hoofed it here?”
I shrugged. “No idea what it looked like outside.”
I go back to my bedroom and Sharon joins me.
“You trust him?”
I nod. “I’ve met him before.”
She stares at me. “You know Aguilar in real life, don’t you?”
Nope. No one knows Mañoso. He’s the original ‘invisible man’. I shake my head and strip the bed. “No. But he’s had me moving all over the place for months. I’ve worked with nearly everyone on this sting.” I exhale. “My first partner flipped. She put a contract out on me. Aguilar had me haul ass from where I was and I hid in Miami until he made new arrangements.”
By the end of this explanation, Sharon’s turned white. “Your partner flipped? She started working with the targets?”
I shrug. “She started sleeping with one. It was her MO. She fucked for information.”
Sharon’s mouth is hanging but finally she closes it. “Investigators like that piss me off and I have zero respect for them. I’m glad they’re rare. And usually, quickly fired.”
I ball the sheets up, take them to the laundry room and start a load. I can’t help but think about Steph again and wonder if she ever slept with Mañoso for help or info.
I decide it doesn’t matter. I’m out of it now. My heart is open for business.
A/N: Just for the record, my parents also allowed me to drink wine at 14. It was the beginning of teaching me to drink in moderation, which is why I’ve been drunk twice in my entire life. I never saw alcohol as some huge thing. It was just another part of dinner and, until my palate developed, a rather uninteresting part of dinner. My parents deciding that taking all of the mystery out of alcohol would keep me from becoming an alcoholic, which was a problem in my father’s family. It worked. I have the occasional glass of wine or beer and pretty much avoid the hard stuff. (author shrugs). So I kindly ask that you not judge Joe’s family for this. Everyone makes different parenting decisions. YMMV.
