2. Admiral
2
ADMIRAL
I hated cold coffee. One would think, given how often I drank it, I would’ve acquired a taste for it by now, but I hadn’t. Its bitter dregs served as a constant reminder of all the times I’d gotten too wrapped up in cases and forgot the steaming cup on my desk.
“Hey, Admiral. The boss is waiting for you to start the briefing,” Tank said, sticking his head in my door.
“Yeah, I’m coming.” Both Tank and I were former military, and he knew as well as I did that my cavalier attitude would’ve never flown with an active-duty commander. Back then, being thirty seconds late for any briefing would’ve earned me a creative form of punishment involving push-ups, extra duties, or both. The memory of those days still made my shoulders straighten instinctively.
The FBI was different. These days, I was almost always the first one in the room, and being kept waiting pissed me the hell off.
This particular meeting was one I would’ve given just about anything to avoid. If an urgent call came in right now, requesting a special agent in charge, I’d be all over it. Hell, I’d take a cat stuck in a tree if it meant dodging this briefing. The weight of what was coming pressed against my chest like a bulletproof vest worn too tight.
Knowing I’d stalled longer than I should have, I picked up my cold coffee and walked down the hall, hoping my boss had already started and wouldn’t notice me walk into the room. It wasn’t that I was worried about him giving me shit for being late—we were long past that kind of formality. No, I wanted to stay as far from this case as I possibly could.
It involved a death linked to the Castellano crime family, currently one of the most powerful Mafia organizations operating out of New York City. That the woman who’d died was a six-year agency veteran who was undercover at the time of her death pushed this case ahead of all the rest. But that wasn’t what made my stomach churn. Soon, I’d have to recuse myself, and when I did, I’d be forced to finger a guy who’d been like a brother to me when we were growing up.
Bobby. My cousin. Born four months after me, he was my only male relative on my father’s side in my generation. In high school, he’d been the football star, well-liked by everyone, and destined for greatness. Me? I was the kid who spent lunch periods in the library, reading about military history while Bobby held court in the cafeteria, and who was still only half his size when we graduated.
It wasn’t until I went to college that my growth hormones finally kicked in. In my first semester at Cornell University, I shot up six inches, then grew four more in the following six months. I filled out enough that, if we were still in high school, I could’ve given Bobby a run for quarterback. But by then, our paths had already diverged so dramatically that comparing ourselves seemed pointless.
Sadly, while my life had improved exponentially, Bobby’s took a turn for the worse. In his first semester playing college ball, an injury had him sidelined for the season. He got addicted to the pain meds his doctor prescribed, and when it came time to wean him off, he moved on to the harder stuff. Or so was the story my father had told me, his voice always dropping to a whisper when he talked about it, as if speaking it too loudly would make it more real.
At the time, I was at Cornell on an ROTC scholarship that required I serve four years in active duty after graduation. Between the crushing academic load of an Ivy League school, classroom instruction, field training exercises, leadership labs, and the physical fitness required to keep my scholarship, I spent every break at school rather than going home like most other students. The military had become my new family while my blood relatives became increasingly distant figures in my rearview mirror.
Consequently, by the time I’d served two years post college before being recruited out by the FBI, I had zero situational awareness of the road my cousin had taken. The Bobby I remembered from childhood existed only in faded photographs and holiday memories. The man he’d become was a stranger wearing my cousin’s face.
Six years later, that stranger was back on my radar, but for all the wrong reasons. I’d recently been promoted to the bureau’s Criminal Investigative Division—or CID. It was the primary unit responsible for overseeing investigations of traditional crimes such as narcotics trafficking and violent attacks. In particular, transnational organized crime. The irony wasn’t lost on me that my first major case would involve the boy who’d once defended me from schoolyard bullies.
“Admiral?”
“Here, sir,” I stood and responded when my boss called out the code name I’d been given by my college detachment. Being named Pershing, after the famous World War I general, it was almost inevitable I’d end up with a military nickname. Though I suspected my unusual fascination with naval warfare history and my service in that branch of the military had influenced it equally.
I glanced over and saw the bureau’s deputy director, Chad Sweeney, walk in and stand near the back. We made eye contact and both nodded.
It was Sweeney who’d convinced me to transfer to the Manhattan field office from Albany. He was also the person who’d originally recruited me and negotiated my early release from the Navy.
While I didn’t get to work directly for him then or now, I’d always admired the guy. Regardless, I couldn’t help but wonder why someone two ranks above the man speaking was attending this briefing. Was it because the victim was an agent? That seemed like a stretch. Another thing that confused me was why our division—Criminal Cyber—was so deep in an investigation that should’ve belonged to the branch specializing in organized crime.
“Admiral, my office, as soon as this briefing concludes,” I heard the executive assistant director of our division, Drake Harrison, code name Grit, say from the front of the room.
“Yes, sir,” I said a second time, my throat tightening. This was it—the moment I’d been dreading since I first saw the surveillance footage.
Twenty minutes later, I followed him out of the briefing. Grit moved with the same precise efficiency he’d learned in the service, though he’d traded the structure of the military for a more relaxed FBI environment a few years ago.
“Have a seat,” he said, motioning to a conference table that had seen its share of difficult conversations.
When an electronic evidence board lit up, I cleared my throat. “Before we get started, sir, there’s something we need to discuss.”
“Your connection to Bobby Kane?”
“Yes. He’s my cousin, sir.”
“Took you long enough,” said Grit, leaning up against the wall with folded arms. “I take it you watched the footage from the night Agent Gordon died?”
“Affirmative, sir.”
“Can you positively ID him? And before you answer, can you cut the ‘sir’ shit?”
I shook my head, a ghost of a smile touching my lips. “It was beaten into me, same as it was you.” Metaphorically speaking, anyway.
“Yeah, well, it’s annoying. So, you’re thinking of recusing yourself, aren’t you?”
“Isn’t it mandatory?”
“I’m making an exception. I think you can get him to turn state’s evidence.”
The suggestion hit me like a punch to the gut. “Sir—err, Grit, I haven’t seen Bobby in years.” Not since our grandmother passed away, and then, it hadn’t gone well. I’d barely recognized him when he walked into the funeral home, and based on the looks I’d seen on several faces that day, few others did, either. But I’d been the one he set his sights on, and once he had, he refused to relent.
At the conclusion of the service, when my parents invited everyone back to our house, he’d gone on the offensive, telling stories about things we’d supposedly done as kids, most of which he attributed to me, but that I’d never been a part of. Considering he was either high, drunk, or both, I hadn’t engaged to defend myself. It would’ve been pointless. Instead, I’d walked away, and I’d never regret doing so, even if the memory of his glazed eyes and desperate expression still haunted me.
“Regardless of what your relationship is with him, once we bring him in, I predict he’ll want to talk to you more than anyone else.”
“How close are you to making an arrest?”
“While the footage we have of him coming out of Sarah’s building places him at the scene of the crime, we don’t have any additional evidence. At least not yet.” Grit’s expression suggested he expected me to change that. “See what else you can find, Admiral,” he added, confirming I’d guessed correctly.
When he walked over to his desk and took a seat, I picked up on his cue that it was time for me to leave, pushed my chair from the table, and stood. “Anything else, sir?”
His eyes scrunched when he looked up at me. “Not at this time, jerkoff.”
“One more question. What was Sweeney doing at the briefing?”
Grit shrugged one shoulder. “My understanding is that you know him better than I do, so if you figure it out, let me know. I wasn’t even informed he planned to be in New York.”
I nodded and walked out.
On my way back to my office, I stopped in the break room to grab a fresh cup of coffee. When I saw there wasn’t any made, I brewed a pot, then leaned against the counter, waiting for it to finish. The all-too-familiar smell did nothing to settle my churning thoughts.
“Hey, Admiral. I was just about to do that,” said Tessa, a junior agent, motioning to the coffee. Her constant attempts at friendliness were starting to wear thin.
I nodded, not knowing what one might say in response.
“A bunch of us are going to McSorley’s after work today.”
Again, I didn’t respond with more than a head nod, hoping she’d take the hint.
“If you want to join us, you’d be welcome.”
“Thanks.” I turned around, poured a cup even though the machine wasn’t quite finished, then stalked out of the room. It wasn’t the first time Tessa had mentioned a night out and had been met with the same response from me. I had no interest in fraternizing with her or anyone else in the department. With very few exceptions, I had a policy of keeping friends and work separate. And relationships? Not that I had any to speak of recently, but I’d never consider dating anyone from the office. The job was complicated enough without adding that kind of drama to the mix.
Forgetting the coffee was freshly brewed, I burned my tongue when I took the first sip. For a split second, I thought maybe I should consider giving the stuff up, but how would that work since it was my main source of hydration every day? Besides, I needed something stronger than water to face what was coming.
After logging in on my desktop computer, I got up and shut my office door before settling in to reread the brief on the case Sarah Gordon had been working prior to her death. Part of me wished I’d been around before she was given the assignment. But even if I had, would I have warned her away from her plan to use getting involved with my cousin as a means to infiltrate the Castellano family? Would she have even listened? If the situations were reversed, I doubted I would’ve. We all thought we were invincible until we weren’t.
As much as I hoped—for our family’s sake, anyway—that our hunch was wrong and Bobby wasn’t involved in the woman’s death, that he’d been seen leaving her apartment an hour before her sister discovered her body didn’t look good. Adding in that he was a known drug runner made it even worse. The Bobby I knew would never have hurt anyone, but as I reminded myself, that Bobby had died years ago, replaced by someone I no longer recognized.
“Come in,” I hollered when there was a knock at my door. Tank stuck his head in for the second time this morning, his expression grim.
“Grit wanted me to let you know the toxicology report came in on Gordon.”
I motioned for him to come in.
“Have you seen it?” I asked after he’d taken a seat.
Tank scrubbed his face, a gesture I’d learned meant bad news was coming. “She had almost twenty times the prescribed amount in her bloodstream.”
Bile rose in my throat. “Jesus,” I muttered. The implications were clear—this wasn’t an accidental overdose.
“Does the report say how it was administered?”
“Intramuscularly.”
“So it could’ve been against her will.” The words came out barely above a whisper.
Tank nodded, his silence more damning than any verbal response could be.
“Which means the bastard stuck around long enough to make sure she couldn’t get help.”
“Most likely,” Tank muttered.
I stood, knocking my chair over, and left the room. The walls were closing in, and I needed air.
“Hold up,” said Tank, following me to the nearest exit and outside. The bitter winter wind bit through my suit jacket, but I welcomed the sting.
“I swear to God, if Bobby was in front of me, I’d kill him with my bare hands.” The words came out in white puffs of steam.
“I know you would,” he said while I paced in front of him.
“I don’t get it, you know? I grew up with the guy. It wasn’t like he had a mean streak.”
“Drugs will do it to anyone.”
“He killed her.”
Tank nodded again. “Allegedly.”
I stopped and put my hands on my hips, trying to control the rage building inside me. “We need to find something—anything—that proves he did it.”
“I’m with you, Admiral.” He motioned to the door we’d come out of. “What do you say we head back inside and get to work before one or both of us freezes to death?”
“Give me a minute.”
He stuck his hands in his pockets but, otherwise, didn’t move.
“You go ahead.”
His eyes met mine. “I’ll wait.”
Tank was one of the exceptions when it came to keeping my friends and work separate. I’d known him a damned long time before I suggested bringing him and another guy I’d worked a serial killer investigation with into the bureau on a contract basis. He’d seen me through some dark times, and I knew he wouldn’t leave me alone out here, even if I ordered him to.
“Come on, asshole,” I said, pulling the door open. “By the way, where’s Blackjack today?” I asked, realizing I hadn’t seen him at the briefing.
“Pounding the pavement, looking for more security footage.”
Once inside, I returned to my office and Tank went to his, another thing I appreciated about the guy. I didn’t need him to hold my damn hand, but I had needed him to listen.
I logged into my computer a second time, but rather than opening the brief or the footage I’d intended to look at, I brought up a family photo that had been taken years ago. Back when I was a skinny nerd of a kid and Bobby was a football star. Looking at it now broke my heart. I could only imagine how my aunt and uncle must feel. How different would his life have been if not for the injury that not only ruined his prospects for an NFL career but had forced him to drop out of college, then resulted in an addiction to the painkillers he’d been prescribed?
None of that was reason for him to turn to a life of crime by aligning himself with a Mafia organization, nor was it cause for him to murder an innocent, young woman. The choices he’d made were his own, and now, we’d all have to live with the consequences.
Rather than look at footage I’d already seen, I went back several days to see if there were any other instances of Bobby being at Sarah’s apartment. Before I found any, I paused on footage of her with another woman who matched the description of her sister, Alice. Zooming in to study her, my breath caught. It wasn’t that she was beautiful in what I considered the traditional sense—hell, there wasn’t a single thing about her appearance or attire that could be called traditional—but something about her spoke to me. It felt more like a siren’s call, an enticing appeal of someone alluring but potentially bad news.
I continued watching, picking up on the way she repeatedly tucked her Titian hair that was woven with pink streaks behind her ear as her eyes darted about. My guess was she didn’t miss a thing. Not someone passing her who paid more attention than they should or a noise that stood out from the typical thrum of a busy city street. There was an awareness about her that spoke of someone who’d learned to watch their back.
I reopened the brief on Sarah Gordon. She was five years older than her only sibling, the woman whose image I’d paused on my screen, whose height, weight, and other physical attributes matched those in the dossier. I couldn’t tell from the video, but according to the report, Sarah’s eyes were green. Were Alice’s too? The thought shouldn’t have intrigued me as much as it did.
Digging deeper, I found a reference indicating that, while there was little proof, she was believed to be the hacker some in the media referred to as the “Zero Day Robin Hood” since she was known to discover and exploit tech vulnerabilities days before the developers even knew they existed. Which is what the term “zero day” referenced. A vigilante with a keyboard—just what anyone in law enforcement dreamed of. I shook my head at the sarcastic thought.
The next message I sent was one I knew I shouldn’t. It was to Tank and Blackjack, requesting they initiate immediate and round-the-clock surveillance on Alice Gordon. My gut told me she was going to be trouble, but something else—something I wasn’t ready to examine too closely—told me she might also be exactly what this investigation needed.
I took another sip of my now-cold coffee and settled in for what promised to be a very long night. Between my cousin’s involvement in a murder and my growing interest in the victim’s sister, I had a feeling things were about to get a lot more complicated.