Chapter Thirty-Two
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Lincoln / Present
M y father passes me the wrench and adjusts the light so I get a better view of the pipe I’m working on under the sink. “I’d do this if it weren’t for my damn back,” he grumbles for the third time.
I tighten the loose connection and hope I don’t get sprayed again when I test it. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not like my schedule is jam-packed these days anyway.”
I work in silence for a few minutes before carefully sitting up. “Okay, try it out.” He turns the faucet on, letting the water run as I examine the pipes to make sure there’s no more leaking from any of the old hardware. “Looks like we’re good.”
We clean up in comfortable silence, putting the tools I brought back into my bag and setting them on the counter before he passes me a cup of fresh coffee.
“Thanks.” I take a seat at the table and watch as he slowly sinks into the one across from me.
The sixty-five-year-old man used to be spry once upon a time, but I’ve seen him slow down over the past couple of years. I know it irritates him, so I don’t bring it up. When he needs help, I let him ask for it. Offering only sets him off.
“How’s the arm?” he asks, stretching his legs out and tipping his head toward my left side.
I move it. “Functional.”
“When do you have your physical?”
My lips twitch. “They rescheduled me. The doc had some sort of family emergency when I was supposed to have it in January. Now they can’t see me until the end of next month.”
Three months after the fact. I’m still angry about it, but there’s nothing I can do. They put me on a cancellation list, but God only knows how many people are ahead of me on it.
My father watches as I sip my black coffee. He’s never been a prying person without the influence of my mother, who thankfully took Hannah out for a girl’s day. But he has moments when curiosity sparks an interest in him that he entertains when it’s just the two of us. “You ready for it?”
Staring at the steaming dark liquid in the mug, I shrug my good shoulder. “As ready as I can be. If he signs off on my physical, all I need is my therapist to sign off on my sessions.”
Glancing up at him, I arch a brow when I see the way he offshoots his focus. It’s the same reason why Hannah can’t look me in the eye whenever she’s holding something back. She gets it from him.
“What?” I question, gripping my mug.
“Nothing.”
I sigh at his bullshit. “Dad, come on.”
He sets his coffee on the table. “I think it’s good you’re going to therapy. Seeing somebody has made you…lighter.”
Lighter ? “How?”
There’s a beat where he contemplates being honest but must decide it’s worth it. “When things started going downhill with Georgia, I could tell you were fighting an uphill battle. You started spending a lot more time here than you did at home. Your mother would comment on it every time you left, but I told her she needed to butt out and let you two figure things out for yourselves. I hoped you two could work past it, but in the end, I wanted you to be happy. It was starting to seem like you had a better opportunity to get that if you started fresh.”
It’s the most he’s ever said about my relationship with Georgia. Mom and Hannah have actively spoken their opinions, especially when I least wanted them. But Dad has kept it to himself, not adding to the chaos.
“I’m not going to lie, son. Watching you hold on to something that hasn’t been good for you for a long time has been hard, but I’ve bitten my tongue. You joke around with everybody, but it never seemed like your smile reached your eyes.” I frown at the words he speaks so casually. “Since you started going to therapy, I can see the faintest version of the old you coming back. It’s in the way you smile. How often you’re coming around. Not just to help your useless old man or be distracted from your issues, but because you want to be here. So whatever you’re unloading during those sessions must be working.”
My eyes go back down to my drink. I always thought I hid my emotions well. It’s how you’re trained in the military. If people know your weaknesses, they can go after them. So you bury whatever you’re feeling to stay safe.
You can’t save everybody.
Those parting words that the good doctor gave me still echo in my mind.
“She’s…helped,” I admit, not willing to offer the details of how much I’ve actually talked. I never thought I’d tell anybody the story of Georgia and me. I figured I’d keep it locked away in the vaults of my mind and take it with me to the grave.
But that became heavier and heavier to hold as our relationship started falling apart. I don’t know if it’s Theresa Castro that’s lifted some of that weight or my conscience finally willing to let some of it go.
“Good,” my father says. “I’m glad.”
That’s all he says.
He doesn’t press for more or ask what we’ve spoken about. He won’t. And I won’t offer him the tale of my life’s woes and the first girl I truly loved.
Taking a sip of his coffee, he hides a wavering smile before saying, “Your mother told me to mention that Opal is single.”
I groan. “Don’t get her started.”
He chuckles. “I’m just the messenger.”
We don’t bring up Georgia, work, or his neighbor’s daughter the rest of the time we sit together.
I should tell him that I’m going to see Jakob Volley in a few days—that I may be ending a huge chapter in my life. Maybe then he’ll see that I’m trying to move on. Or maybe he’ll worry like Marissa is, and I don’t want to do that to him.
So, I don’t tell him about Volley.
The less he knows, the better.
*
Dickers stares at the twenty-dollar bill I’m extending to him as we wait for the bus that takes people to and from Rikers Island. “You should go get yourself some breakfast.”
He nervously scratches the column of his throat, looking between me and the money. “I’m supposed to come with you,” he reminds me, looking around at the others waiting to go see loved ones.
I pull out another twenty dollars from my wallet, take his hand, and set the two bills down in his palm. Wrapping his fingers around them, I say, “You don’t want to be here. I can see it in your eyes. And I don’t blame you. The people at Rikers are no joke. Don’t subject yourself to it. Take the money, go to that diner we saw on the way here, and I’ll call you when I’m done. Nobody has to know.”
It’s obvious he’s contemplating the offer, telling himself all the reasons why he should come. He’s a rule follower, and I respect that. Because he’s new, he doesn’t want to go behind anybody’s back. But he also doesn’t want to be here with me. It makes him uncomfortable. Ever since I picked him up at his place, he’s fidgeted with his hands and struggled to make small talk.
“Why me?” he finally asks.
“Because you could have told somebody about what Welsh said, but you didn’t,” I answer.
He reminds me of Conklin. Matt would have liked him. Maybe even made a dumb joke about him being his long-lost brother or something because of how much they act alike.
I’ve learned to be skeptical of whom to trust in life, but I never second-guessed the trust I had in Conklin, and my gut is telling me I can trust Dickers too.
“I told you I wouldn’t,” is all he says.
“I know.” I pull back my hand and tuck my wallet back into my pocket. “Look, I won’t stop you if you want to come with me. If that’s what you think is right, get on the bus. But I can handle Volley. I’d rather not involve you any more than I already have anyway.”
He’s on overtime right now since he took time off to be here. When I asked him to tag along, he didn’t question it. He might have wanted to, but he agreed, nonetheless. I appreciate his willingness, but I don’t want him in that room with me hearing more than he needs to.
This is my battle to face.
Dickers’s gaze drops down to the money I put in his hand before he sighs. “You sure you’re going to be all right?”
“I’ll be fine. There will be guards with us.”
He nods, tucking the money into his pocket.
“If anybody asks, you came with me,” I say, turning when I hear the bus driving toward us. Pulling out my truck keys, I toss them to him. “I don’t know how long I’ll be, so take the truck and get some food. I’ll call you when I’m on my way back.”
It looks like he wants to say something, but the bus pulls up and opens its doors before he can. “I’ll see you in a little bit,” I say, waving him off and climbing the stairs that separate me and the wary trooper.
Forty minutes later, I’m seated in an uncomfortable chair with a slew of other waiting family members eager to see the inmates. From what Estep said, it’ll take some time to get a private room cleared for me to have personal time with Volley rather than speaking to him in the community room where everybody else is. He told me only media and legal teams are allowed access to the rooms in the back, and it takes a lot of strings in order to secure one.
Which means I owe him.
He knows it.
I know it.
I just hope he doesn’t expect to cash in something big when the time comes.
It’s another twenty minutes by the time the guard by the door calls my name. “Danforth,” the middle-aged woman says from a separate door from where I’ve seen other people filter in and out of. “This way please.”
I walk over to her.
“You’re here to see Volley,” she says, looking at her chart. “Can I see your identification?”
Pulling out my wallet, I flash her my badge and ID card that shows a slightly younger version of me—the version that had thicker hair from the lack of stress and broader shoulders from all the workouts I did before I was shot.
“This way,” she says, scanning a card at the door and pulling it open. “I assume they told you the rules. The biggest one is no touching. The private rooms can be recorded, but you can tell the guard stationed at the door that you’d like a private conversation with the inmate. There will be a guard outside the door at all times. If you need something, there’s a button you can press. The inmate will be shackled to the table with limited mobility. You have thirty minutes, not a minute more. When the time is up, the guard will come in and take the inmate away, and another will escort you out. Do you understand?”
I can tell by her robotic tone that she’s done this quite a few times. “Understood.”
We stop at the door.
She dips her head at the man standing beside it who unlocks it for us. “Good luck, Mr. Danforth.”
The name has me thinking of the good doctor as I enter the empty room. It’s exactly as I expect it to be—a metal table with a bar that they’ll handcuff him to with two chairs. There’s a camera in the corner with a red light flashing on it. I’m sure Estep would prefer this meeting be recorded, and it’d probably be better if it were so I can back up anything he says.
But I know this conversation is more than likely going to turn. He’ll try saying anything he can to make this about me and Conklin. I’m not taking any risks.
“I’ll need this conversation to be private,” I tell the guard before he shuts the door. “No cameras or recordings.”
He dips his head once before closing the door.
I look at the camera as the red light turns off before I take my spot and wait to face the person who put a bullet through my chest.
It’ll be the first time I’ve seen him in person. I didn’t even get the chance to see his ass carted away by the SWAT team because me and Conklin had been hauled off in two separate ambulances.
I remember every detail about him though.
Every distinct facial feature.
Every tattoo.
Every scar.
I memorized the little things from his file and newspaper articles when the news started broadcasting his mugshot and trial updates.
But none of that compares to this moment.
And when the door opens, and I see Jakob Volley step inside in his prison-issued jumpsuit, it takes everything in me not to smile.
To seem unfazed.
Like my arm doesn’t kill me every day.
Like, I’m not a miserable bastard whose life was altered drastically because of the asshole being cuffed to the table.
Jakob Volley takes one look at me with two bruised eyes and a split lip and shakes his head like he’s disappointed in what he sees. “Thought you’d be…bigger. Doc didn’t clear you for exercise yet?”
My fist tightens under the table. “We’re not here to talk about me, Volley.”
His head cocks. “No? Because I have a feeling this little visit has everything to do with you.”
The smile I offer him is casual. “Last I checked, it was you who told your attorney you wanted to speak with me.”
His eyes drop to the table. “Maybe I changed my mind.”
“Do those black eyes have something to do with your sudden change of heart?” I ask, leaning back in my chair. I rest my crossed arms on my chest to show him I’m relaxed. My shoulders aren’t tense. My palms aren’t clenched.
He needs to see that he didn’t break me.
Not completely.
“It’s a rough place,” he dismisses. “Not exactly a place you make many friends.”
I’d imagine not. “If you didn’t want to talk to me, you would have told the guards to send me away,” I point out. “So, why don’t we get right to business then and cut the shit.”
He lifts his gaze.
His right eye looks fresh. The swelling has the lid half-closed, and the coloring doesn’t match the darkened purple and yellow of his left cheek.
I ask him the main question that brought me three hours to the city. “How badly do you want to live?”
He sits straighter. “That a threat?”
Scoffing, I roll my eyes. “I don’t need to threaten you. It’s clear you’ve got plenty of people here who are willing to put you in your place. I’m asking if you want a chance to live out the rest of your sentence without the beatings and blackmail. Somewhere safe.”
Interest sparks in his eyes.
“Thing is,” I continue. “I can’t do that without answers. And it seems like you’re the person who has what I’m looking for.”
“According to who?”
“Michael Welsh.”
His nostrils flare open at the name.
“You’re familiar,” I state. “I already knew that though, Little J.”
His eyes narrow, nearly closing the right one completely. It tells me that Conklin was right. Jakob Volley is Little J.
“Why don’t we start with how you know Welsh?”
“You think I’m just going to talk?”
I shrug. “That’s up to you and how badly you want to get out of here. You told Estep you wanted to speak with me, which means there’s a reason. I’m sure somebody found out, somebody you’re afraid of, and tried to scare you into skipping the meeting. Unless you get into brawls every day here.”
His jaw grinds.
“That’s what I thought.”
We sit in silence.
His eyes go to the camera, then to me.
“So,” I press. “Michael Welsh.”
Volley’s eyes close for a second. “I’ve sold him shit before,” he murmurs. “Heroin mostly. Coke sometimes. He was a repeat customer.”
None of that is surprising information. “And where do you get your supply?”
“Here and there.”
Vague. “That’s not getting you out of Rikers.”
He snorts, meeting my eyes. “We both know I’m not getting out of here.”
One of my eyebrows arches. “Why are you so sure? Your attorney has gotten a lot of people out of shit that, frankly, they don’t deserve to get out of. Used to piss me off. But that’s what makes him damn good at his job.”
Volley stares at the wall. “I have a feeling he’s not going to be successful this time around.”
“He got you out of the death sentence.”
“And he put me here .”
That wasn’t up to Estep, but his tone backs up what I already suspected. “And if you help me connect some dots, there’s a solid chance I can work with him to get you put somewhere else.”
Anger flashes on his face. “You don’t get it.” He leans forward, a vein popping in his forehead as he grinds his teeth. “The people that put me here don’t want me out. And what they want, they get.”
I have a feeling he’s not talking about the judge and jury. “You said you were told to open fire that day.” It’s hard to keep a straight face, but I do. “Who told you we were coming?”
He’s quiet.
“You said it was the devil, but we both know you didn’t mean that literally. Now is your chance to tell the truth. You wanted to talk, so talk. I’m listening.”
His arms move, causing the short chain links of his cuffs to jerk him back. “You have no clue what you’re getting yourself into. You know that?”
I’ve been told that a time or two before. “I think I have a pretty good idea. Does this have to do with Del Rossi?”
Color drains from his face.
Bull’s-eye.
I sit up, leaning my arms on the edge of the table and softening my voice. “I’m not going to lie to you, Volley. I don’t like you, and it’s safe to say you don’t like me. But that doesn’t mean I’m not willing to help. There are bigger fish to fry, am I right? They are the people we should be locking in here. You know it. I know it. Trouble is, I don’t have anybody willing to give me a name.”
“That’s because we’re dead if we do.”
I’m getting closer. “Is Michael Welsh working for Del Rossi? Or someone else?”
The question gives him the chance to pass the blame fully onto somebody else. If he throws Welsh under the bus, he stays safe. There’s no indication that he’s on Del Rossi’s payroll.
“No,” he says, his throat bobbing as he swallows. “Welsh just knows the wrong people who like to talk. But that isn’t the question you really want to ask me, is it?”
I don’t answer.
“Michael Welsh is a druggie with a big mouth,” he adds. “If we’re talking hypotheticals, a guy like Del Rossi and the person he works for would never trust him with any kind of intel. Not firsthand. He’d go through the channels. Make Welsh report to somebody else. Have a fall guy if something happens that he doesn’t plan for.”
Something like an officer surviving a shooting that was supposed to kill him. “And who exactly would he make the fall guy?”
Volley’s eyes stay on the table. “Everybody.”
“Including you?”
A noise rises from him. “Especially me.”
Yet, he’s still willing to talk. “Who gave you the orders that day, Volley? Welsh is pointing fingers at you, but I don’t buy it. I saw the video of you in court. There is somebody pulling the strings. Somebody who made it worth your while to pull that trigger. I want to know who. And I want to know why .”
“You already know the why,” he replies dryly. “Why do any of us make the choices we do? People like me have very little to live for. All we want is the next fix. If we can’t pay for it, we can’t get it. Me and Welsh are disposable because of our addiction. The people who send us the cash know that. They offer us drugs, knowing we’re too weak to decline. So we make them deals. We do their dirty work for a few ounces of the good stuff. We’re a dime a dozen to them. Nobodies. If one of us drops dead, nobody would feel bad about it. Nobody would mourn us. Tell me I’m wrong.”
I can’t, so I don’t bother speaking up.
“Nah,” he murmurs, shaking his head again and laughing. It’s distant. Short. Dry. “Welsh and I signed our death warrants the second we said yes to the devil. They get us when we’re weak. When we’d do anything for a quick hit. That’s what happened to me. That’s what Welsh didn’t tell you. Because if he did, you wouldn’t be here asking for answers.”
Whoever gave him the orders kept close enough tabs on him to know when he was desperate for his drug of choice. I’ve dealt with a lot of users in withdrawal who admitted they would have killed for a drag of anything.
“Who’s the devil, Volley?”
Before he can answer, the guard opens the door and says, “Time is up.”
“Wait,” I say, knowing I’m about to get the answer I’ve been searching for years. “I just need two more minutes.”
“Those aren’t the rules,” the guard tells me unapologetically.
Volley looks at me, smiles, and stands up as the guard undoes his cuffs from the table. Before his hands get restrained, he grabs ahold of my hand and squeezes it. “Glad you were able to pull through, Detective.”
“No touching,” the guard orders, grabbing his hands and forcing them behind his back.
When I realize there’s a piece of paper in my hand, I quickly tuck it into my front pocket. “Estep can give us more time. Tell him you need more time with me. Get me on the list to come back.”
As Volley gets escorted out of the room, he calls out, “My time is up, Detective. I don’t have anything left to give.”
When another guard walks in after Volley disappears down the corridor, I follow him out until we’re at the exit. All he says is, “Next bus will be here in ten minutes to take you back to your vehicle.”
As I wait outside at the stop, I pull the piece of paper out and read what it says.
The devil works at 99th Street in Kirklin where he buries his secrets eight feetunder
I stare at the words and flip the paper over to see more ink written on the scrap paper torn from a notepad corner.
Once they know I’ve met you, I won’t be able to offer you moreinformation.
-Jakob Volley
My eyes go back to the front, where they rake over the address that I know by heart. Almost as well as where Conklin’s last breath was taken.
I pull out my phone to triple-check what I already know, making sure I’m right.
The business that pops up when I type in the address makes my heart tighten.
99th Street in Kirklin.
The Del Rossi Group.
He buries his secrets eight feet under.
I think back to Conklin’s working theory about who Nikolas Del Rossi really is. More importantly, who he’s working with.
Going through my contacts, I hover over one as I look out the window at the fading prison as we drive down the road.
She picks up on the second ring.
I lean my head against the cool glass window and ask, “Can we talk?”