Chapter 14
Beckett had tried his damnedest to get information out of the US Marshal, but to his credit, he’d given them absolutely nothing.
In fact, Deputy Kolinsky had failed to respond to a single one of Beckett’s taunts.
After they’d gotten into the government-issued SUV, Kolinsky had sent a single text, given them a few humorless smiles in the rear view mirror, and refused to engage in any conversation.
Almost like he’d been briefed in advance of this evening’s festivities about Beckett’s particular superpower.
They’d been driven to a small house on a nondescript street.
Only after parking in the garage of the house did Deputy Kolinsky finally break his silence.
Looking stern, he’d laid out the ground rules for them, staring directly at Beckett the entire time.
The rules were straightforward. Under no circumstance were they allowed to physically harm Franklin.
Nor were they allowed to divulge to anyone at any time the fact that he was alive and well.
Hayes had readily agreed, but Beckett had demanded, “Take me to the asshole!” However, Deputy Kolinsky staunchly refused to entertain Beckett’s nonsense, and basically ordered him to confirm that he’d heard, understood, and agreed with each one of the rules he’d set out.
Much to Hayes’ surprise, Beckett caved and agreed, albeit begrudgingly.
The events of the night had definitely served as great distractions for Beckett: grave robbing, Kolinsky’s appearance, and driving to the safe house.
It was hard to believe that Franklin really was alive.
Conducted into the kitchen and instructed to sit at the table, they watched Franklin walk in and take a seat across from them.
He looked the same as he had in November at Jackson’s store opening.
“I told them my brother would fuck it up—they didn’t believe me,” Franklin said with his typical, know-it-all smirk.
Hayes thought it was quite the bold opening statement and remarkably unapologetic.
“Glad to see death didn’t change you and you’re still an asshole,” Beckett replied without missing a beat. The two brothers stared at each other from across the table, waiting each other out.
“How’d you know?” Franklin asked, when Beckett didn’t give in first.
“You’re not surprised, so why do you care?”
Franklin snorted. “Humour me.”
“You remember what you told me when I came home and refused to talk with Dr. Forester?” Beckett was surprisingly calm in dredging up old memories and contentious interactions.
“If you shoot yourself because of the shit you’ve seen, you’ll be the asshole,” Franklin replied.
Beckett’s expression was cold as he snapped, “We’re both assholes, but we don’t hurt the people we love.”
Franklin sighed resignedly and nodded.
“It was wrong of me to say that,” Franklin admitted with genuine regret. “But you’re my brother, and I just remember thinking you’d have been better off dead if you had to spend the rest of your life looking like you did back then.”
Hayes nearly leaped across the table then, but Beckett gripped his arm firmly to keep him in place. The fucking nerve of Franklin to say such a thing, but then—
“I was desperate, and I figured making it about everyone else was the only way to get you to care again.”
“It worked,” Beckett said, voice tight with suppressed emotion. “It doesn’t explain why you did what you did.”
Franklin sighed again and looked away. Despite their being left alone to talk, neither Beckett nor Hayes was stupid enough to think that meant Franklin could tell them everything.
“I fucked up,” Franklin confessed.
“Yeah—I’m going to need more than that to go on,” Beckett growled, not appeased in the least.
Franklin took a deep breath and nodded.
“Do you know who the Rosarios are?”
“Yes,” Hayes answered.
“No,” Beckett chimed in, simultaneously.
“You don’t read the news?” Franklin asked his brother, sounding surprised.
“I read,” Beckett replied, clearly offended.
“He reads gay smut,” Hayes interjected.
Beckett elbowed him in the ribs.
Franklin rolled his eyes and continued with his story.
“The Rosarios are New York royalty who recently acquired some properties in Montreal. They’re real estate moguls—at least on paper.”
Beckett could feel a headache brewing, but he gestured for his brother to continue.
“It’s not a world I’m involved in, so it never concerned me, until the oldest son of the family ended up in my office last May.”
“Why? Was psychiatric counselling court ordered?” Hayes didn’t know much about the oldest son of the Rosario family, but he’d heard enough about them in the news to gather that seeing a therapist would not have been high on their list of things to do for entertainment.
“No,” Franklin said, shaking his head. “He booked an appointment at the center where I work, and he was referred to me.”
“The center?” Hayes asked, wondering how he’d missed this part of Franklin’s life. He could recall Beckett mentioning something about his brother’s psychiatric practice, and his job at the local university, but he didn’t remember ever hearing about a center.
“I work at a wellness center outside the city. It prides itself on offering the best possible care while preserving the privacy of its patients.”
“So—rehab for the rich?” Beckett easily translated the glossy brochure lingo his brother was spouting.
“Among other things. They offer all kinds of services. Plastic surgery, rejuvenation treatments, rehabilitation therapy—and yes, most of my clients are—very well off. We cater to most of the local celebrities. And just like anyone else, Matthew called in—was referred to me, and showed up at my office for some counselling.”
“Is there a punchline to this story? Your babysitters have us under a time constraint,” Beckett said, gesturing towards the guys hanging out in the living room.
“Matthew came in—with a lot on his chest. And he quickly began to confess things.”
“Things? Could you be a tad more specific? What are we talking here? Running around the house in his mother’s knickers, or kicking orphans for fun on Sundays?” Beckett asked with a sarcastic sneer, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“He mostly spoke about his family business. Drug trafficking and money laundering—the occasional clean up job.” Franklin swallowed hard on the last one.
“Why did you keep him as a patient?” Hayes understood that in the initial counselling sessions, Franklin would not have known much about the guy he was treating.
But after Matthew started confessing things about the criminal enterprise his family had built in Montreal, Franklin should have re-assessed his position of counsellor to a known criminal.
“Pride, I guess,” Franklin admitted without any sign of his usual arrogance.
“I literally had a Mafia boss in my office. He wanted to talk to me. Hell, he needed to talk to me. I felt—important. And then, well—he was genuinely distraught. Here was a powerful man, handed a life and a burden he didn’t really want, and caught in the middle of so many storms. I suppose I began to empathize, which was definitely my first mistake. ”
“What happened?” Hayes pressed him for more details to get the full picture.
Franklin took a deep breath and sat up straighter.
“At first, we talked about his guilt. About the family name and what it meant to him. He was struggling to balance the expectations of his family, and his own desires. It was a rather complex issue. Occasionally, he’d mention a past—struggle, but there was nothing I could do about those—eh—indiscretions. ”
“Indiscretions—is that code for big fat crimes?” Beckett leaned forward, suddenly fully engaged in the story.
Franklin gave a sharp nod.
“And you didn’t want to go to the cops?” Beckett asked skeptically.
“Our sessions fall under doctor-patient confidentiality. Besides, Matthew was never really—hands on in any major offense.”
“Matthew? You’re on a first name basis with a Mafia mob boss?” Beckett’s voice was a little high-pitched.
“You mean he doesn’t hold the gun,” Hayes said, correctly interpreting Franklin’s statement.
Franklin nodded, ignoring his brother’s questions.
“What exactly are the limits of doctor-patient confidentiality?” Beckett asked with a frown.
“Generally speaking, anything that was done, is protected. I can only break the confidentiality agreement if they intend to do harm to others or themselves in the future.”
“Alright, so this guy would pay you to sit there and listen to the horrible things he—” Beckett quickly corrected himself, “his family—had done. Why?”
Franklin sighed and picked at the veneer flaking off the cheap tabletop.
“He was born into it. It isn’t a life he’d have chosen for himself—he was trapped, and it began to be overwhelming. He came to see me because he genuinely needed someone to talk to.” Frankin stared fixedly at the tabletop, refusing to look up.
Hayes had a niggling feeling of suspicion about the true nature of Franklin’s role in Matthew’s life.
“But something changed.”
Franklin nodded and looked up at them guiltily.
“He invited me to dinner one night.”
“Dinner?” Beckett asked, baffled by the sudden switch from counselling sessions at the center to a going on a dinner date.
“It was late in the day, and he called to ask if I could see him for an unscheduled session. I told him I couldn’t because I’d already left the office and was heading to dinner. He—he offered to go with me, and I guess the relationship changed from there,” Franklin admitted sheepishly.
“Changed how?” Beckett asked, although his cool tone indicated that he suspected exactly where this was going. And he didn’t like it one fucking bit.
Hayes didn’t want to assume they’d become fuck buddies. He chose to reserve judgment for the moment.
“We started meeting up more regularly. Coffee, then lunch, then—a hockey game—just, hanging out, you know. He’s a cool guy. Simple, kind. Not at all what you’d expect from someone leading a life of crime.” Franklin chuckled and then bit his bottom lip nervously.