Steal Me (12 page)

S
on of a fucking bitch,” Anthony said, throwing the report back on his desk with so much force his pen cup slid off the back. “Damn it.”

The report was from Greenwich, Connecticut.

There’d been a break-in in some rich, uppity, gated community. As far as crimes went, it was a snoozer. Parents out of town, a teen that forgot to set the house alarm before sneaking out for a midnight rendezvous with her boyfriend. A picked lock, a couple stolen TVs, and a missing necklace.

All boring as shit crimes, with one very crucial detail.

There’d been a note.

With one Goddamn yellow smiley-face sticker on it.

“Yeah,” Anth barked at the knock on the door.

It was his boss.

Mandela’s eyes took in Anthony’s livid expression. “You’ve read it.”

“It’s not him,” Anthony said, standing and locking his hands behind his head as he paced in circles. “It’s not Smiley.”

“You read the file all the way through, right? Because the first responders found a note—”

“
It’s not our guy
.”

Ray Mandela kept his face blank and his voice easy as he dropped into one of Anthony’s guest chairs.

“You’re thinking copycat?”

“Yes.”

Ray lifted his hands. “Why the hell would anyone want to copy Smiley? The guy’s a second-rate criminal at best. Not usually the ones to inspire fans.”

“I disagree. For premeditated crimes, what’s generally the perp’s number one objective?”

Mandela shrugged. “Depends on the crime. To rob the bank, to kill the guy who stole your wife, to hot-wire the car—”

“Wrong,” Anth interrupted. “Your number one objective is
not to get caught
. That’s what the copycat is copying. He doesn’t care about the crime, he cares about the thrill of getting away with it.”

Mandela leaned back in the chair and considered.

Anthony charged on. “Eddie might be in the kiddie pool of criminals, but he’s not in the news because of that stupid yellow sticker. He’s in the news because there’ve been
lots
of those damn stickers. The guy’s dodged us for weeks, and the Cretans of the tri-state area are going to notice. They’re going to want in on the fun.”

Ray scratched his head and looked skeptical. “It’s possible, I suppose, that there could be another player, but without any proof, we’ve got every reason to assume we’re dealing with the same guy. The MO’s the same—”

“It’s not,” Anthony interrupted, knowing he was out of line and not caring. “Eddie Hansen has hit ten homes, all on the Upper West Side. All within five tiny blocks of each other. And now he’s in fucking Connecticut? I don’t buy it. As far as we know, Eddie Hansen doesn’t even have a car. Also, this house has an alarm system. Eddie never touches the ones with alarm systems, regardless of whether the alarm systems are actually
set
.”

“He’s a criminal, Moretti. A thief. He can damn well get a car if he wants one.”

“But why would he?” Anth said more to himself than to his boss. “The guy’s been doing just fine with his current MO. Why would he change it up?”

“Maybe he’s bored. Or hell, maybe he’s smart. Doesn’t want to push his luck, especially now that this sketch is all over the place. Speaking of which, are you telling me we haven’t had one damn person come forward and say that they’ve spotted this guy?”

Anth grunted. “It’s worse than no one coming forward.
Hundreds
have come forward. I’ve got my people looking into it, but you know how it goes. We’re not exactly in Small-town, USA, asking the local baker to keep an eye on Main Street. According to the reports, Eddie Hansen’s managed to be on every possible subway platform from here to Jamaica all within the same hour.”

“So you’re saying we’ve got nothing.”

Anth sank back into his chair. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Wrong,” the deputy chief said, leaning forward to tap his finger against the latest file from Connecticut. “We have a brand-new case. The potential for prints…”

“It’s not him.”

Mandela breathed out long and steady, as though searching for patience. “You want to tell me what the hell is going on here? Why you’re being so bullheaded?”

Anthony lifted a shoulder. “My gut says it’s not him.”

“And I know that in our world, a hunch says a hell of a lot. But Moretti…you’re a captain now. You can’t afford to rule out a related case because of a hunch. In the past you could pass on your report to your superior and they’d make a note of it, but they sure as hell explored every option.”

Anthony opened his mouth, but his boss cut him off. “You see this through. That’s an order.”

Anth clenched his jaw in anger, although it was at himself as much as Ray. His boss was right. Beyond right. Anth would bet his entire pension plan that this wasn’t Smiley, but normally it wouldn’t do any harm to treat this latest Connecticut break-in like it was until proven otherwise.

But this wasn’t a normal case. This was a high-profile, unsolved string of crimes…

That had now just gone and crossed state lines.

This was bad. Really bad.

Because it meant…

Mandela leaned back in his chair and gave Anthony a steady gaze. “The FBI wants in.”

“Fuck,” Anthony said, shoving the case file across the table. “I knew it.
Fuck
.”

It was exactly what he’d been afraid of, although no less than he’d expected. Any case that happened in Anthony’s precinct was
his
. Even if Smiley had hit another part of the city, it would still be his, if perhaps in partnership with another captain.

But when a string of crimes crossed state lines, you could kiss your case good-bye.

Because that gave the FBI jurisdiction. And when it was a case as high profile as Smiley’s had been in the local news lately, you could bet your ass they’d be all over it first chance that they got.

“Ray, you’ve got to tell them—”

His boss held up his hand. “I told them you had it handled, but Moretti…do you?”

Anth spun around to glare. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that we have a name and a picture of the guy, plus the name and location of his ex-wife, and we still can’t catch the fucker. And then I’m hearing reports of you seeing Ms. Walker in your spare time…”

Anthony groaned. The NYPD was worse than a high school hallway after lunch period when it came to gossip. Of course his and Maggie’s…
relationship
would get back to his boss.

Because he was a fucking idiot.

Anth pinched his nose, remembering the way he’d stupidly insisted on staying at her house last night.

Remembered the way he promised himself reading just one more page of her story, just one more minute in her presence. Just one more minute of listening to her quiet breathing while she slept cuddled against him as though he were her everything.

He hadn’t left until two a.m.

He hadn’t glanced at the officers parked outside when he left. He’d merely sent up a silent prayer that whoever was on duty would keep his or her fucking mouth shut.

God, apparently, had been focusing on things other than Anthony Moretti’s irrational obsession with Maggie Walker.

“What’s going on, Moretti?”

What
was
going on?

Anthony wasn’t entirely sure that he knew. For years now—his entire life—he’d had an unshakable focus. It was this clarity of mind that had gotten him to where he was today.

The same ambition that had him wanting to eventually follow in the footsteps of the man in front of him, and beyond.

An ambition he hadn’t thought about in days.

Not since he kissed her.

Anthony took a deep breath to steady himself, extending his hands in front of him and resting them lightly on the desk. Focused himself to refocus on the goal, and work was the goal.

Smiley was running circles around the NYPD. No, running circles around Anthony. And so far, he’d let him.

No more.

This
was what his father had been trying to tell him. That this case, while seemingly harmless, was a crossroads of his career. If he handled the case flawlessly, it would likely soon be forgotten; it wasn’t big enough to register in anyone’s memory.

But if he failed; if he fucked it up, they would remember that. A captain who couldn’t handle even the simplest of cases was exactly that. A captain. Always. There would be no promotion if he lost this case to the Goddamn FBI. He’d be starting from scratch.

Anth met his boss’s eyes. “Ray. I need time.”

Mandela shook his head. “You’ve had time. We need fresh eyes. It happens, Moretti. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“So you’ve had the FBI take over your cases?”

“No,” Mandela said, causing a sinking feeling in Anthony’s stomach. “No, but I’ve had them
try
to take them away from me once or twice.”

“How’d you keep the case?”

His boss shrugged and stood. “I offered to partner with them. Let them consult, even though I ran the ship.”

Anth nodded even though the thought of partnering with anyone chafed mightily.

“This Connecticut case,” Anthony said before his boss could leave. “If it’s
not
Smiley, they’ll have no jurisdiction, right?”

“Sure,” his boss said slowly. “But, Moretti…treat it like it is Smiley. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but get your head out of your ass.”

Anthony drummed his fingers against the desk.

“And in the meantime,” Mandela said, leaning back and motioning someone out in the hallway. “This is Agent Garny.”

A short blond man in glasses appeared in Anthony’s doorway, and Anth would have known who he was dealing with even without his boss’s use of the word “agent.”

The FBI wasn’t just closing in on him. They were
here
.

“Captain,” the man said, stepping forward and extending a hand.

Anth stood, shaking the man’s hand even though he wanted to order him out of the office. Agent Garny’s handshake was firm and efficient, his gaze shrewd and alert.

His expression was friendly without being condescending.

Damn it. Nothing to dislike about the man. So far.

“Captain Moretti, I appreciate you working with us on this one. I hope we can proceed without the stereotypical animosity between the FBI and the local law enforcement.”

“‘Local law enforcement’ makes it sound like I’m a sheriff in a one-horse town in the Wild West,” Anth muttered, gesturing for Garny to take a seat. “We’re the NYPD.”

Translation: We have nearly as many resources as you do. And probably more television shows based on us too.

“All the same, now that Eddie Hansen has moved beyond the city—”

“Allegedly.”

Agent Garny’s gaze sharpened. “You don’t think it’s him?”

Anthony glanced at the doorway where Ray Mandela mouthed
partner!
before disappearing.

“No, sir, I don’t,” Anthony said, shifting his attention back to the agent.

Garny leaned back in his chair. “You’re new, right?”

Shit. Not this.

“New to the title of captain, yes. New to the NYPD, no.”

“Related to retired Police Commissioner Moretti?”

“His son,” Anth said.

Garny nodded. “Never met the man myself, but he’s a legend. Didn’t like us coming in on his cases any more than you do.”

“No, Agent.”

“Drop the Agent. Garny’s fine. Or Craig.”

Anthony sat forward, folding his hands. “Well, Garny, respectfully, let me lay this out. I’m well aware of the fact that from the media’s standpoint—and probably the FBI’s—Eddie Hansen is running circles around us. But we’re close. I swear to you, we’re close.”

To Anth’s surprise, Garny didn’t argue or even look surprised. He merely nodded. “The wife, right?”

“Ex-wife.” Honestly, why did nobody remember to add that crucial first bit?

“Margaret Walker. Waitress, Brooklyn resident. And still very much the obsession of Smiley.”

“Ms. Walker is our only link to Eddie,” Anthony agreed. “And we’re fairly sure he knows where she works. Probably knows where she lives.”

“Good.”

Again, Garny surprised him.

“Sorry?” Anth said.

“I’ve read the reports that you’ve got her under surveillance. That’s good. But I think we bump it up a notch.”

“Increase her protection?” Anthony asked, surprised at the suggestion. Not that he would argue with it, but resources in cases like this were iffy considering it was a nonviolent criminal they were dealing with.

“We won’t let anything happen to Ms. Walker.”

Anthony’s eyes narrowed, sensing that he was missing something.

Garny cracked his knuckles. “It’s time to tighten our noose, Captain.”

“Spell it out for me,” Anth said warily.

The agent leaned forward, his eyes gleaming behind the thick glasses. “It’s time we put Smiley’s affection for Ms. Walker to use. We’ll use her to set a trap.”

Anthony’s stomach twisted at the thought. “You want to use her as bait.”

Agent Garny’s brow wrinkled. “That’s a rather emotional way of putting it, Captain. You’ve never used an asset to catch a perp before?”

He had. Dozens of times. And he hadn’t thought twice about it. If done right—and he always did it right—there was virtually no risk to the person used to entice the bad guys.

But this wasn’t just
any
person.

This was Maggie, who snored when she slept, who wrote amusing love stories about teenagers and was damn
good
at it.

Maggie, who’d already been used mightily by every man in her life.

Anthony saw the resolve on Garny’s face.

Even worse, he knew Garny was right. This
was
the best shot at getting Smiley. A long shot, but it was something. More than he had now.

He closed his eyes briefly.

God help him. Once again, he was going to choose the job over the woman.

Y
ou look like shit.”

“I’m going to let that slide, only because you brought whiskey,” Anth said, accepting the glass Vincent dangled in front of his face.

His brother sat in a chair across from where Anthony sat slouching on their parents’ couch. Sunday dinners had become a “come if you can” affair over the past few years (unlike brunch, which was mandatory), and since Luc had picked up an extra shift and Elena was on a date, it was just him and Vin tonight.

“Where is everyone?” Anthony asked.

“Dad’s on the phone with Uncle Mike, and Nonna and Mom are arguing about the brand of pasta Mom switched to.”

“So everything’s normal then,” Anth muttered distractedly.

He felt his brother studying him and narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Anth snorted. “Since when have you picked up passive-aggressive skills? I know that look. It’s not
nothing
. Say it.”

Vincent swirled his glass, watching the ice clink against the sides of their mother’s crystal tumblers.

Whiskey might not be an Italian thing, but it was definitely a cop thing, at least in this house. There was always a decent supply of bourbon, Scotch, and Johnnie Walker on hand for the shitty weeks.

And this was definitely a shitty week. A shitty
month
.

“Pops told me about the sting opp,” Vincent said. “To catch Smiley.”

“It’s not an opp yet,” Anthony muttered. “Just an idea.”

A crappy idea, he’d decided. The very thought of putting Maggie in the middle of Bryant Park with an open invitation to Eddie Hansen to come to her made him want to hurl the crystal tumbler against his mother’s wallpaper.

“What’s the holdup?” Vincent asked.

Anthony took a long swallow of his drink. “Maggie’s not on board.”

Vin frowned. “You mean she doesn’t want to participate?”

“Meaning…I haven’t asked her yet.”

Vincent stared at him. “Dude.”

“Don’t
dude
me. You’ve been talking to Marco too much. Picking up California surfer talk.”

“You sound like a grumpy old man,” Vincent grumbled.

“This from Mr. Sunshine?” Anth shot back. “Last time I checked you weren’t exactly riding a white unicorn around the city, passing out candy to children.”

“Yeah, because I’m not a child molester, you sick fu—”

“Problem?”

Both brothers turned to see their father standing in the doorway.

“Yes, there’s a problem,” Vincent said, standing and going to the sideboard where he refilled his glass. “Your eldest son has his head up his ass. Drink?”

“Yeah,” Tony said gruffly, ambling over to the second chair where he sat across from Anthony. Vincent handed his father a glass, then took the chair next to Tony’s.

Anth rolled his eyes. “Great. Facing the firing squad.”

“I only
wish
I had my gun,” Vin said.

Tony took a sip of his drink before setting it on the table. Started to lean back, then shifted again, reaching for a coaster and replacing his beverage.

Anth nearly smiled at the gesture. His father may be the patriarch of the house, but his mom definitely was in charge.

“This about the girl?” Tony asked Vincent, never taking his eyes off Anthony.

“Obviously,” Vin said.

“He likes her,” Tony said.

“Definitely,” Vincent confirmed.

Their father nodded thoughtfully. “You haven’t told her about the sting opp?”

Anth pointed a finger at his own chest. “Oh, I’m sorry. Are you talking to me directly now? I thought the two of you would just proceed like I wasn’t here.”

“Wouldn’t
that
be nice?” Vincent said into his glass.

Tony leaned forward, linked his fingers together, and studied his oldest son. Anth resisted the urge to squirm. He was thirty-six. Well past the age where he should have to explain his career or his love life to his father.

But of course, they were Morettis, and the distinction between career and family was nonexistent.

“You know, Anth, the sooner you catch Smiley, the sooner you can date Maggie, clear and free.”

Anthony blinked in surprise. Not what he’d expected his father to say, and since he didn’t do well with the unexpected, he blurted out something he wasn’t at all sure was true. “I have no intention of dating Maggie.”

“Bullshit,” Vincent said around an ice cube. “Your head’s so far—”

“Oh, fuck off.” Anthony’s temper ignited as it often did when confronted with the most irritable of his three brothers. Vincent pushed his buttons on the best of days, but then there were times when his younger brother just plain went too far.

Vin held up his hands. “Hey, don’t take it out on me just because you—”

“Oh, enough,” Tony said, directing the order at Vincent for once. “You, of all people, don’t get to badger your brother about being an idiot when it comes to women.”

Vincent had had one foot crossed over his knee, but he dropped both feet to the ground and sat up at his father’s statement.

“What do you mean, ‘me of all people’?”

“You know exactly what I mean.” Tony took a sip of his drink.

“Obviously not,” Vincent snapped.

Anth watched the entire interaction with interest. He knew, of course, what his father was talking about.
Who
his father was talking about.

Jill Henley was Vincent’s other half. His cuter, nicer, more smiley half, obviously. But if there was ever a male/female duo destined for romance, it was those two.

Only his brother was too damn blind to see what was right in front of him.

Anthony studied Vincent, saw the torment there, and silently amended his previous thought. Or maybe Vincent knew exactly what was right in front of him. Maybe there were reasons he held himself back from Jill.

Reasons Anth had never bothered to ask.

“This isn’t about me,” Vincent finally grumbled. “I’m not the one who’s got a boner for an informant.”

Anth mentally crossed his fingers that his father would linger on Vincent’s love life a bit longer, but no such luck. Tony’s attention swung back to him.

“Son, do you know how many sting operations I did in my day?”

“A billion?” Anth said, knowing his father was going to name some astronomical number to prove his point, and wanting to get it all over with.

“Close,” his father said with a decisive nod. “And you know how many went south?”

Anthony didn’t bother to respond, just continued to sip the now watered-down whiskey until his father got down to it.

“One. One case.”

“Oh, BS,” Vincent said. “You’re telling me all but one were successful? No way.”

“Well, no, I didn’t say they were all successful. But collateral damage? Only one case. One case out of hundreds.”

“I thought you said it was a billion?” Anth asked.

His father jabbed a finger in his direction. “You’re deflecting. Deflecting because you’re scared something will happen to the girl and it’ll be on you. But, son, this isn’t that girl. Maggie isn’t that Vannah character. And her life isn’t on you.”

“It sure as fuck is if I put her in the middle of a criminal investigation!” he lashed out, angry that his father would dare to mention Vannah.

“We’re not talking about luring a serial killer to a lone woman in a deserted warehouse. We’re talking about a B-player criminal coming to a public park in the middle of Manhattan.”

Anthony stared stubbornly into his drink.

“Pops is right,” Vincent said, surprising Anth with his gentler than usual tone. “Maggie won’t be in any danger. You’ll be there. The FBI will be there. Luc and I will be there, plus Jill—”

“And I’ll
for sure
be there.”

All three men turned to see Anthony’s grandmother standing in the doorway.

“Mother, no way in hell will you be anywhere near this,” Tony said wearily.

Nonna folded her arms across her flat chest, her eyes getting that narrowed, stubborn look that Anthony knew all too well. It was a trademark Moretti move.

“I’ll bring my sharpshooter.”

“Question.” Anthony lifted a finger. “Do you know what a sharpshooter is?”

“Absolutely. And I’ll bring one.”

“Wrong,” Anth said, making a buzzing noise. “A sharpshooter is a person.”

Nonna scowled. “Well, fine. If you’re going to be particular about it, then I won’t
bring
a sharpshooter, I’ll
be
a sharpshooter.”

“Oh my God,” Vincent muttered.

“Maggie would want me there,” she persisted.

“Not with a firearm, she wouldn’t,” Anth’s mother said, coming into the doorway.

Nonna bristled. “I know how to shoot.”

“When was the last time you actually held a gun?” Maria said, folding her own arms to match her mother-in-law’s posture.

“1964,” Nonna said proudly. “Back when people weren’t so—”

“Okay,” Tony said, standing. “Enough. Mother, no guns. No anything. Just…stay out of police business.”

“Well, who will take care of my Maggie?” Nonna said.

“Anthony will,” Maria said. Her tone was matter-of-fact.

Anth rolled to his feet, starting to put his glass on the table and then tugging a coaster toward him when he caught his mom’s look. “Ma, it’s not that simple. Even if I did feel good about putting her into the middle of a trap for Smiley, there’s the not-so-minor problem that she hasn’t agreed to do it yet.”

“She refused to help?” Maria asked.

Anth tugged his earlobe. “Not exactly. More like—”

“He hasn’t asked her yet,” Vincent said for him.

“Right. More like that,” Anthony said sheepishly.

“Well, don’t worry,” Tony said with a wave of his hand, heading out of the room toward the kitchen as though it was all decided. “That woman is strong. If she can handle the Darby Diner on a Sunday morning shift, she can handle sitting pretty in a park with a dozen policemen swarming around her.”

“We’re asking a bit more than that,” Anth said quietly. “The woman crossed state borders and changed her phone number to get away from Eddie Hansen. We’re asking her to face him again.”

“True,” Maria said thoughtfully. “But she has something now that she didn’t before.”

“A gun?” Nonna asked. “I could teach her to shoot.”

His mother’s eyes never left Anthony. “No. She has
you
.”

His mom gave him a meaningful look before regally leaving the room. His father and grandmother followed, leaving him and Vincent alone.

Anthony gave his brother a bemused look. “You know what I can’t wait for? When it’s your turn to be under their microscope.”

“Not gonna happen,” Vin said, clamping him on the shoulder as he walked past.

“Why, because your cop record is so flawless?” Anthony asked irritably.

“Nah,” Vin said into his whiskey glass. “Because I’ve never been stupid enough to fall in love.”

His brother turned away and missed Anthony shooting him the bird.

Anth wasn’t
in love.

He didn’t know what
in love
felt like.

But he did know that whatever the hell he and Maggie were mixed up in was complicated as hell.