Olivia #2
I pull out my personal phone and search for information on Victor Blackwood. The first results have to do with his career. Nothing shady or questionable is mentioned.
“Hey Ricci.” Agent Thompson sits on the edge of my desk.
I quickly turn my phone over. “Hey.”
He arches a brow. “Sexting?”
I arch a brow back. “I believe that’s grounds for an HR report.”
He laughs. “Do you remember that raid we did last year on the Monti warehouse.”
“Yes.” We actually confiscated large sums of cash and cases of counterfeit olive oil, but nothing has ever come of the case.
There were questions about whether or not the Monti’s actually owned the warehouse or the items we took.
At least, that’s what the D.A. said.
He hands me a paper. “Does this look right?”
I glance at the inventory we took of the inventory items. “It looks right to me.”
“Half the money is gone.”
I look up at him. “What?”
“Half is gone. And I’ve talked to Watson and Hamamoto and they say some of their evidence is gone too.” He glances around the area and leans in close conspiratorially. “Someone in the bureau is helping themselves to evidence.”
“That’s crazy.” I can’t help it, I glance at Blackwood’s office.
He shrugs. “Can’t hardly blame whoever it is. The good guys get paid shit while the criminals roll in the dough. But it sure fucks up the case.”
I nod. “This case wasn’t going anywhere anyway.”
“Right. I’m not looking forward to telling the boss.”
“Let me go with you.” I want to see Blackwood’s face. Will he be angry that someone is stealing? Will he look guilty? Good God, I can’t believe I’m suspecting my boss.
I walk with Agent Thompson to Blackwood’s office. Thompson explains the situation and shows the inventory sheet.
Blackwood’s jaw twitches. “This isn’t good for the case.”
“It’s not the only one,” Thompson says.
Blackwood looks up at us. “Any thoughts on who?”
“Investigating our own isn’t my job,” Thompson says.
“Someone is taking a lot of liberties with department resources,” I say.
“Oh?”
“Some transport reports have been changed. A car was checked out using the name of an agent on leave.”
Blackwood frowns. “You think these two are related?”
Thompson looks at me with the same question in his expression. I’m sure he didn’t expect me to lump onto his report.
“I don’t know, sir, but it does show a pattern of misconduct. I’ve requested files that are missing as well. Someone is covering their tracks.” The fact that my boss is on my list of suspects makes this line of questioning dangerous, but I’m an FBI agent. This is my job.
“I don’t know about any of that,” Thompson says.
“It’s all concerning.” Blackwood takes a deep breath. “Any links between all these situations?”
“La Corona.” I watch him carefully.
He arches a brow.
“The inventory is from a Monti raid. The car is linked to Rocco Vitale Monti’s kidnapping. The missing report has to do with a Calabresi informant.”
“Interesting. It suggests someone from our unit specifically, unless you’ve asked anyone in other units.”
“I haven’t asked,” Thompson says.
“Me neither,” I add.
Blackwood’s dark gaze narrows on me. “How are you aware of all this, Ricci? I thought I told you to focus on Dominic Vitale?”
“He doesn’t live in a vacuum, sir. He’s connected to La Corona. As you know, cases overlap. You’ve even asked me to help in your case on occasion because of this, like when you asked me to reach out to Isabella Ferraza.”
He nods. “Right. I just don’t want you to get distracted from your assignment. Bringing Don Vitale down.”
“To justice, you mean.”
“Of course.” Blackwood studies me, and I do my best not to shift. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention. Let me take a look and we’ll see if we need to bring in OPR,” he says of the Office of Professional Responsibility, the FBI’s version of internal affairs.
The rest of my day is normal from the outside looking in. I investigate my cases.
Make my reports.
But on the inside, I’m on edge.
Someone in the FBI is dirty and while it could be Blackwood, it could be anybody else. Thompson even.
Perhaps he brought me that inventory as a test to see how I’d respond or to find out what I might know.
As I drive home, I’m eager for a hot bath and a glass of wine to unwind.
I park in my space and make my way to the front of the building. I reach out to use my keyfob to enter the building when I’m slammed into the door from behind. My head whaps on the glass door, pain bursting out.
Training kicks in.
I twist, bringing my knee up hard while jabbing at vulnerable throat tissue.
A grunt tells me I've made contact, but the figure doesn't retreat.
Instead, a gloved hand clamps over my mouth while another pins my arm.
The lighting at the front of the building is too dim to reveal anything but a dark silhouette with his face obscured.
"Stop digging," a harsh whisper against my ear. I sort through everyone I know to figure out who the voice belongs to, but I don’t recognize it.
I bite down on the gloved hand, using the momentary surprise to break free. My elbow connects with a solid torso.
I pivot, reaching again for my weapon, but a crushing grip on my wrist stops me.
My attacker slams my hand against the door once, twice. Pain explodes through my fingers, and my gun clatters to the ground.
I launch myself forward, ramming my head into what I hope is their face.
The satisfying crunch of cartilage tells me I've broken a nose, but victory is fleeting.
Something hard, maybe a gun barrel, strikes the back of my skull. My knees buckle.
"Last warning," the voice hisses.
The pathway to the front door of the building tilts sideways. I'm on the ground now, though I don't remember falling.
My vision narrows to a pinpoint.
My mind is thick with fog, but I’m aware enough to know that this isn’t a random mugging. Someone thinks I'm worth killing over what I've discovered.
I try to focus, to memorize anything about my attacker, but consciousness is slipping away.
As darkness claims me, one crystal-clear thought remains: Dom was right all along.