It’s the majority of the Pingelly’s last day in Manhattan, and seeing that I want to catch up with Banks and her family, Sam thought it would be a ‘fun’ idea (because we all know how his ideas turn out) for his family to take a tour around Banks’ neighbourhood.
There’s not much to see in the quiet downtown neighbourhood where Banks lives, I mean thanks to my influence on Dad I’ve had him station a number of patrol cars on front strip of Banks’ house―I’m taking Quade’s threats seriously, and thinking on it, I can’t risk their lives for some personal deal.
I knew so much police-presence in one household would cause Beth cardiac arrest, so I suggested that we all go to the park. Beth warmed up to the idea, especially since she made sure that Denice, Georgia and Nadine stayed on the porch―not out of rudeness but Beth only trusts a certain few to actually enter her home.
However, there’s one thing that Banks wants to do as a detour before our park expedition. She wants to see the plaque erected in the courtyard behind Trinity Church (where the good side of the law goes to die), and asked if I could tag along as moral support, I thought it would be a good time to catch up so I’m all for the idea.
Banks and I stand behind the kitchen counter, cutting up slices of meat and so forth to put on the multi-grain bread. We make two sandwiches each for the demanding customers in front of us. Shoshana narrows her eyes at me as I switch between cutting lettuce with my right hand and spreading the mayonnaise with my left, apparently the concept of being ambidextrous hasn’t sunk in yet.
“That’s too much mayo,” Shoshana announces.
“Don’t be picky, little miss,” Banks comments as she spreads peanut butter on Nathalia’s sandwich. “If you are, Top Cop’s gonna get you.”
“Top Cop put her belt with all her cop stuff on the coffee table,” Shoshana flares her nostrils in challenge. “She won’t get me.”
I roll my eyes with a soft smile and scrape some of the mayo off the bread and swipe it back into the jar. I then layer the lettuce and ham onto the bread and cut it into triangles with no crust. I slide the sandwich over to Banks and she wraps it in tinfoil.
“I’m a Detective, I always have backup,” I say knowingly, Shoshana just gives me a vague look in response.
On cue, Sam comes into the kitchen and scoops Shoshana off the chair. He wears an exuberant smile on his face as he twirls with Banks’ middle sister. Within the three days of making a deal with Quade, Banks told Shoshana and Nathalia about me and ‘Mr Top Cop’―Sam knew of course, as soon as he walked through the front door after smiling at Beth, both sisters tackled him into the lounge room voicing their threats that if I get hurt, he’ll need to run for the hills (let’s just hope that the rest of the Pingelly’s didn’t hear their words).
“Stacks on Mr Top Cop!” Nathalia grins and runs at Sam’s legs.
It’s such an out of place picture with Sam’s pale skin against Nathalia and Shoshana’s coffee coloured flesh, and with such an easy expression instead of his profession tight-arse façade―he can actually pass off as human. He drops to the floor when the girls tickle his sides, they genuinely love him, and I hate to admit that Sam’s become part of their lives―the male figure which they were denied through Beth and Derek’s insecurities.
“He’s really changed, hasn’t he?” Banks whispers to me when she’s finished wrapping the lunch. “I mean, I remember when Dad died and Mr Vanilla Latte was so hostile towards everyone―but look at him now, he’s actually comfortable around other people.”
I fold my arms across my chest and can’t help but break out into a childish grin, mirroring Banks’ laughter. She tosses her left arm around my shoulder and hands me the plastic bag full of sandwiches as we make out way from around the counter. Sam’s still floundering on the floor, powerless against Shoshana and Nathalia’s tickling assault.
Beth leans into the corridor to inspect what all the ruckus is about. Instantly, her eyes that’ve been sullen and sunk-in since Derek’s death, gain a spark of life and she giggles to herself, covering her plum coloured lips with her hand. Light-heartedly she says, “Y’all better get off Samuel and get into the car.”
I suddenly understand why Sam described his mother as a kill joy; the woman pokes her brown head around the corner to scowl at her son who’s still laughing and squirming on the floor. However, as soon as she clears her throat and says a sharp ‘Samuel’ under her breath, it’s like a duel personality’s been activated.
Sam’s laughter practically dies instantaneously, causing Nathalia and Shoshana to get off the carpet and avoid Denice’s confused gaze. Did this woman ever let loose? I’m sorry to Greg, but what did he see in her? It’s official, I’ve made up my mind that I honestly dislike Sam’s parent (singular) though I’m yet to say the same about his sisters, it’s like they’re weary of my invasion into their brother’s personal space. Yes, your brother can interact with other human beings, surprise.
Sam rocks to his feet and adjusts his suit jacket, “I guess we better, uh, get going.”
Banks pouts her full lips and scratches her cork-screw curls. She doesn’t like the Pingelly’s one bit, mainly because they seem to constrict Sam’s care-free personality. Banks watches Sam file out, followed by the girls before she turns to me and says, “You coming with me or Mr Vanilla Latte?”
“I’ll see what Sam says,” I shrug and walk down the corridor.
Outside, Georgia and Nadine get into the back of the black SUV while Beth buckles in Nathalia in their station wagon. Banks twirls the keys around her finger and raises an eyebrow at me. Thankfully before I can give my decision, one of the NYPD patrol cruisers pulls up behind Banks’ station wagon, which is my cue to talk to the Officer.
“I’ll be two minutes,” I say and head down the sidewalk.
The cruiser window’s rolled down and Officer Darren Mercer sticks his head out. I trust Mercer to some degree, he was the one that helped corner off the streets when I was in pursuit of Helena―now, he’s making sure that Quade’s unmarked black SUV doesn’t get anywhere near Banks or her family.
Mercer is in his late twenties with a tuft of dark brown curls that jut out from beneath his mandatory cap. He adjusts his shoulder badge and reaches into the back of the cruiser to retrieve the file on Helena Quinn which Joseph delivered to him in the morning (since it’s my day-off, kinda).
It concerns me to see Mercer without a partner in the passenger’s seat but I don’t comment on it when he hands me the file through the window.
“I’ve got Dooley and Kenneth positioned in unmarked cars so I’m the only cruiser about. I drive around every hour and check in at the precinct, is that still good?” Mercer’s hazel eyes narrow when he sees Banks and Sam frowning; they don’t know what I’ve gotten myself into.
“I’ll be sure to shout you, Dooley and Kenneth a burger when this whole thing blows over. You’ve got your walkie-talkie frequency set to mine, right?” I say.
“Cruiser, hip and shoulder,” Mercer nods. “Jesus, why would an FBI guy want to hurt Makita and her sisters? I mean, what kind of sadist would threaten a child’s life?”
“I honestly don’t know,” I clear my throat and raise the file. “Cheers for this, I’ll be sure to put in a good word for you with my Dad.”
“No need for that Detective, I’m fine with earning my stripes. I’ll see you when I see you I suppose,” Mercer gives me a lazy smile before peeling out of the street.
I bite my lip and drag my heels back over to Banks, who’s taking to Beth through the window. She raises an eyebrow at me and I mouth ‘don’t worry’ at her and point to Sam’s SUV.
I know my actions are going to come back to bite me, but honestly, Quade has put me in a hex and he wants to feel in control again within his spiral. I swallow and open the passenger’s side of the SUV, awaiting the awkward emersion of Denice to continue where it left off at Christmas.
I place the bag of sandwiches at my feet with the case file on my lap, drumming my restless fingers against the cardboard. Sam casts me a sideways glance but says nothing, he turns the keys in the ignition―thus allowing his mother and sisters to probe at me for information. If I sink any lower in the seat, I’m going to be stuck in the engine.
“The Banks family are wonderful people, so warm and welcoming. Those two little girls are just the sweetest. Tell me, is there any discrimination within the force seeing that Makita is well…” Denice trails off.
I can hear the low growl in my throat sound like that of an animal. Keep calm, now is not the time for a Mr Hyde episode. I take three deep breaths and try to smother the hate-fire burning in the pit of my stomach. First Denice had to make things shit awkward at Christmas by bringing up Amanda Jane and now she’s all about racial differences? She sounds like a KKK member to me, next thing I’ll know she’ll send me photos of burning crucifixes.
“No, Banks is a decorated Officer and has the respect of her fellow colleagues,” I say.
“What’s the worst case you’ve worked on?” Georgia leans forward from the back seat.
“The one I’m posted on now,” I swallow.
“Why?” it’s Nadine this time that chimes in.
Sam gives me a look of warning, “Ste―”
“Imagine that feeling you get in your stomach, that constant drop that you can’t escape from when in such a harrowing situation. The blood draining from your face until you look like the mutilated corpse at your feet. The burden you feel when you’re the one that has to tell your best friend that his father’s body has finally showed up in an alley,” vehemence commands my tone, and my intentions work, I shock the back-seat into silence.
My phone vibrates with a text and I fish it out of the back pocket of my jeans. It’s Nikita.
Phallus-Forehead:
It’s done, all he knows is that he’s on long service leave from the NYPD. No creatures. No dead father. You’re welcome.
Stay in one piece Detective.
I’m sorry Blake.
I’m sorry that you’ll no longer remember.
• • •
There’s a picnic table set up in the back of the courtyard where the memorial’s been set up. Beth sits with the Pingelly’s and are heavily engrossed in conversation, Beth seems a little less pent up in their company and she actually laughs on two occasions at one of Georgia’s jokes.
The plastic bag of sandwiches is between the ‘adults’ and I make the walk of remembrance with the Banks girls. Shoshana grabs Banks’ hand as tears cloud her dark brown eyes. Nathalia nudges my holster with her foot since I’m giving her a piggy-back to the plaque.
It’s a simple bronze and black slab on a pedestal. It has Derek’s name and former position in large bronze capitals with a small statement of who he was and his achievements. Personally I think the final line on the plaque in small capitals ruins it, IN GOD WE TRUST. Derek didn’t leave his job to faith and he didn’t want a precinct certified plaque for someone to remember him by.
Banks and Shoshana take a long moment to reminisce memories of their father. I watch silently as Banks puts her palm to her mouth to muffle the choked sobs she gives out. Shoshana squeezes her hand and says she misses her Daddy. I then think to myself, if I hadn’t hesitated, I wouldn’t have thrown the Banks family into this situation. Fatherless. Fearful.
“Top Cop,” Nathalia whispers in my ear, her arms tightening around my neck as she fights back tears. “Is Daddy in Heaven?”
“Of course he is,” I shakily nod.
“Does he miss me?” she mumbles.
“Every single moment,” I agree.
“What were his last words?” Nathalia slides from my back to the ground, this time nudging my holster with her elbow.
I blow out a long breath, Nathalia’s too young to know about last words let alone understand them. In my peripheral vision, Banks gives me a single nod and claps my shoulder before tugging Shoshana back to the bench to grab some lunch while they still had an appetite. I gnaw on my lip and sit down on the paving in front of the plaque and flick the dead leaves away.
Nathalia follows suit and plops down next to me so our thighs are touching. She even mimics my terribly hunched over posture and my clenched hands between my steepled legs. Her pineapple hairdo flutters in the cold breeze of mid-day and I can’t help but admire the serenity on her face, the way the light reflects on the tip of her nose and how she doesn’t break her gaze from the plaque.
“He, uh, wanted Super Cop to look after you and Shoshana…and that he’ll always love Beth,” I mutter. “He wanted you to know that he loves you too.”
“Breathe Stevens,” Sam whispers in my ear. His hand travels across my shoulder blades as he moves to sit next to Nathalia. Suddenly, my jeans and NYPD shirt combo isn’t a stupid combo anymore―his simply touch fends the cold away.
I release the breath I hadn’t realised I was holding. To my surprise, Nathalia flings herself at Sam’s side and starts balling her eyes out. She clutches onto the lapels of his black suit jacket and sniffs, mumbling incoherent things as she shivers. I can feel the eyes of our company against my back as I shuffle closer to them and pat Nathalia’s back while Sam strokes her pineapple hair.
Ever so slowly I can see the all American Dream to formulate in my mind. Sam leans against the letter box free from a suit jacket with a dog by his feet. I stand opposite with him with my arms folded, I’m dressed informally but we both have guns strapped to our chunky belts. Behind us, children play, faceless, but something in the distant part of my mind assures me that Sam would be a perfect father because he knows what it’s like to lose his.
I then frown to myself, how can I picture a life with him if I can’t even say ‘I love you’? Perhaps it’s a trait I picked up from my mother; Janine Stevens only said those three little words on their wedding day but showed her affection better than what I ever could. Dad was a hard-arse at times but when it came to love, he knew how to say and express it. It’s not fair on Sam, he’s probably waiting for me to say it and one day he could stop waiting―he’d give up on trying to coax it out of me.
But I love him, I do.
I’ve realised how much he means to me and the more I think about it, the harder it is for me to accept the fact that I’m hurting him through this deal with Quade. Sam and I share the same interests, spending most of our time either reading or researching notorious serial killers, we compile notes and chew the lid of the pen when we write, we both can’t stand American coffee (his lattes must be sent from God then) and when we have the spare time we relax over music from decades ago. If not a Special Agent Sam wanted to become a profiler for the Bureau, and if I wasn’t a Detective I’d be in Toxicology.
But I’m not the type of person Denice wants for her son. She wants a woman who’s a year older than Sam (like AJ), a woman who has a passion for journalism and pursuing media, a woman who has a bust in all the right places but thighs as skinny as twigs―I certainly know I can’t accommodate that wish, a woman with blonde hair and blemish-free skin, a woman that had known Sam from school and not one he had to survey on the job. Most of all, Denice wants someone who shares her ideals and is impassive.
I am none of that.
She wants me to know it.
And I do.
I’m three and a half years younger than her son and she thinks that bridges the gap of my ‘immaturity’. I couldn’t care less about what happens in the media, just as long as it doesn’t impact my life or those of whom I love. I certainly am not your model/actress/superstar version of a woman because I have imperfections and scars and actual definition instead of skin and bone. So what if I don’t have a gap between my legs? I might’ve dropped out of school but I had a strong reason to, it just wasn’t my hankering and I’ve done better without a hundred degrees because I’m happy.
But Quade is slowly encroaching on my safety net of indifference.
He knows that being reserved is my defence mechanism; I don’t let people know how I feel to stop all collateral damage or getting caught in the crossfire. My mechanism that’s supposed to protect me is slowly eating me away from the inside.
“Stevens.”
I blink.
“Huh?”
Sam’s green eyes are shadowed by his frown, I must’ve been daydreaming for a while because Nathalia is skulking towards Beth, adjusting Sam’s suit jacket that he must’ve allowed her to wear for the day. He reaches out to caress my cheek but I grip his wrist before he can make contact.
“They’re already in the car,” he must mean his family.
I make a small hum like an ‘oh’. I lean into his hand and stand up with him. Soon, our lips are moulded against each other and I’m the one clinging to his shoulders like an anchor. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and hook behind the small of my back and my own cup his stubble-free jaw.
Say it.
I pull back just a fraction, “I―”
Sam looks at me, a crease appearing between his brows.
“―think we should head off. You said their flight was at three?” my voice sounded rather pitchy.
Fantastic attempt Akira.
“Hey,” Sam says softly as he rubs my tense shoulders. “If you’re worried about my mum, you shouldn’t be. My sisters like you, that’s all the matters.”
I smirk, “You basically have my Dad wrapped around your finger. He thinks you’re great.”
“Good to know he won’t extradite me from Manhattan anytime soon because I like his daughter,” Sam’s lip turn up, perhaps he’s just as weary of his own feelings.
Baby steps.
“I can’t say the say for your mother, she detests the fact that I like you,” I kiss him quickly again. “On your way to the airport can you drop me off at MCC? I’ve got a few questions to ask Helena before she goes on trial.”
“Of course,” the frown may disappear from Sam’s expression but not from his eyes.
• • •
Protective custody mustn’t be enough for Helena Quinn. The female guard that escorted me through Metropolitan Correctional Centre before, says that Helena’s paranoia has worsened the closer it gets to her trial day―she knows she’ll be prosecuted, I know she’s going to be prosecuted, everyone knows that she can’t escape the inevitable.
Relieved that I’m now free from Denice Pingelly and the suspicious sisters, I match the guard’s strides as she takes me back down the concrete walk of curiosity. Since it’s a facility built for both genders I’m cautious when I pass a few cells occupied by males, they have their faces pressed up against the bars and hiss at me. There’s not as much drama as the last visit, mainly because the inmates find the FBI an intrusion to their criminal abode.
I can relate to that.
Once again I’m lead to the interrogation rooms, a welcoming sight of iron doors, reflective glass and the ever-present steel slabs with allotted handcuff slots. This time, the first room is where Helena Quinn awaits me, looking pent up as usual.
I nod my thanks to the female guard as she stations herself at her post in front of the reflective glass. I open the door to smell bleach and antiseptic, medical smell. A shudder runs through me as I take the plunge towards the iron chair across from Helena, I toss her file down and sit.
“Akira, come to damn me to hell before that bastard Oliver does it in front of a grand jury?” Helena croaks.
To be fair, she looks like a drug addict that’s had a rough time in rehab. Her once red painted nails are chipped down to the quick and are bloody. Her face is free from all makeup and I can see the beating she must’ve sustained in a prison brawl or riot of some sort, a black eye is the only form of ‘smoky eye’ she’s going to be sporting for a long while. The flesh around her left socket is yellowing around the edges, so I’d put the hit at around 5 – 6 days old. Helena’s brown hair has been cut up to her shoulders and she runs a hand through it, waiting for my answer.
Instead, I pull out the tin foiled lunch I hadn’t eaten at Trinity Church. I set it in front of me and undo the wrapping, a sweet smile on my face as Helena cocks her head at me. I take a bite out of the ham, mayo and lettuce sandwich, holding the half out to her.
“Sandwich?” I say with a full mouth.
“What are you playing at?” Helena asks, chapped lips parting.
“Are you sure you don’t want some?” I take another bite from the sandwich. “It’s really tasty.”
“Akira,” Helena’s swamp-eyes narrow at me. “What are you doing here?”
I lick the mayo from my fingers and roll up the other half of my sandwich, moving it to the side so I can steeple my fingers, my grey eyes honing into Helena’s. As if she’s intimidated by my stare, she flinches back. I smirk in triumph and prop the souls of my NYPD combats up on the steel table.
“I want to know why you’re such a liability to Oliver,” I say.
To avoid my question, she fiddles with the orange V of her prison smock. Beneath it is a white cotton shirt, it’s slightly stained with her tears―probably before I came into the room she grasped an understanding of how truly fucked over she was. There’s no Bureau to pull her out of Hell, no money can save her apart from the set bail amount (which, I might add, will be extremely expensive when I calculate her appropriate sentence).
“Well let’s start with the basics. Your first two charges will be felony murder and perverting the course of justice, which is about a two-year sentence with a parole period of twelve months. On top of that the jury would add accessory to kidnapping occasioning death which is twenty-five to life since you must’ve been at the warehouse to kick Derek’s corpse and then you’d be an accessory to murder if Amanda Jane’s thrown into the mix, which is an added five to ten years. In total, the starting bail price would be at least one hundred thousand dollars,” I muse.
Helena whimpers and recoils in her seat, tugging feebly at the shackles that chain her to the table.
“Now, why does Oliver want to grill you on the bumper of his SUV?” I inquire.
“Back in Washington AJ and I would listen into people’s conversations, innocent things,” she sniffs. “We just wanted to know some secrets and move up in the Bureau, but about three years ago after the death of Samuel’s father, I heard Oliver talk to someone about the death, saying it was murder.”
“Did you catch a look at his face, was there an accent?” I lean forward.
Helena shakes her head, “I was delivering my field report to my supervisor so I couldn’t really turn around to look. I know it was a man’s voice, deep and rather course. I can remember Oliver saying something like, ‘that bastard is finally dead we don’t have to hide anymore’. And then the man replied with, ‘very good, but burn all of the files so nobody goes looking’.”
It must be the creature testing Oliver had confessed to knowing about. That being said, Oliver wasn’t that old and if he’d gone through the system the right way (which I assume he had), then he wouldn’t have gotten involved with the research project until recently. That means that he must’ve talked to somebody on the committee that felt Greg’s requests of withdrawal threatening.
“I’d approached Samuel a few times consoling him and I tried to get information out of him regarding the situation but he closed up on me. I then went straight to the Director and put Oliver’s name forward as conspiracy within the Bureau but with insufficient evidence, he was acquitted. When he confronted me about it, I said it was a mistake and I thought he got over it,” she says.
“But there was a second time, I was at Quantico accompanying my supervisor, she left earlier in the night to review something with the local PD so I stuck around cleaning up the office. I was walking out towards the carpark in the dark when I saw these Special Agents stand in a line on the green. In front of them were cuffed people with bags on their heads and were on their knees. I recognised Oliver at the end of the line, all of the Special Agents had guns drawn and shot these innocent people. I could tell from the height and build that these cloaked individuals were only teenagers,” she lowers her head. “I screamed and dropped all of the files I was carrying, I didn’t look back at them, I just ran to my car and got the hell out. But I remember making eye contact with Oliver; he raised his gun and winked at me. That was only last year before I fled to Manhattan.”
I’m completely still.
Research and testing on creatures is one thing, coaxing out the Jekyll and Hyde Complex from Diablos is another. But military-style executions? These creatures have done nothing to the Bureau but are slaughtered like livestock.
“I need your help,” Helena says quickly when I reach for the other half of my sandwich. “Yes I’ll go on trial in Manhattan, but Oliver will appeal for me to go through a retrial in Washington D.C.”
“He wants to put you on death row via lethal injection, so your knowledge dies with you,” I say what I’m thinking to myself. “You know you’re a guilty women and Oliver’s built an iron defence.”
“Please,” Helena begs, tears lacing her voice. “He’s threatened to harm my niece back in Washington, she lives with a dear friend of mine and she’s the only true family I have left since my brother died. I wanted her to move with me to Manhattan but then I got into a relationship with Robert…please Akira, Chloe’s only fourteen.”
I’m silent as I flick through Helena’s file, munching on the last half of my sandwich. Near the back is a custody report and three copies of adoption papers regarding a young girl, Chloe Quinn―daughter of Jonathan Quinn, who died three years ago in a car accident. The driver of the other vehicle had been at fault, Jonathan was a single father, unmarried, and received no benefits from the government regarding his single-parent status. His partner was a known heroin addict and was deemed unfit to look after Chloe so soul custody was given to Jonathan.
How did I not know that the raving bitch Helena Quinn came from a broken family? I sink deep into my seat and munch on the sandwich slowly, skimming through the long process Helena had to go through to adopt Chloe into her care.
I then see a photo of Chloe and she looks like your typical teenager. Her brown hair is the shade of dark chocolate and is razor-cut in a short bob across her face, the front of it is dyed bright pink. She has an eyebrow bar stuck in her left brow and I assume that her best friend is a tube of eyeliner.
It’s typical for teenager’s to go through the grunge/emo phase, but I must excuse the ‘typical’ aspects and think of the psychosomatics. Chloe comes from a broken home where there’s no stability, so she lashes out at society by becoming a bold statement through her hair and accessories, she wants to be noticed and for people to double-take when around her. It’s a dependence on attention that, if pushed in the wrong direction, can become dangerous.
I remember in my high school days, which weren’t so far out of my past, I felt exactly the same as Chloe―I mightn’t have dyed my hair blue at that point in my schooling career, but I went every other colour under the sun. One day my hair would be its usual shade of black before I’d rock up on the Tuesday with orange streaks. Not my finest hour, but it was a leap for attention that I wasn’t getting at home because my parents were always working.
I feel a connection to Chloe’s case.
And I hate to admit it but, Helena’s redeemed herself.
If only it is on pity points.
“When did he threaten her life?” I say, not looking away from the photo.
“When he interrogated me, he said he’d, ‘slit her pretty little throat’,” Helena says through a wave of tears.
“That’s intimidation, you need to speak up and break his case,” I lower the file and scrunch up the tin foil in my hand, swallowing the last bits of my lunch. “You’re in luck, his main witness against your scandal with Lewis Colville, can’t testify in a court of law. There goes half of his entire defence.”
For the first time ever, Helena Quinn smiles at me. There’s no snarky words accompanying it, no sarcastic comments, no sneer, it’s a warm gesture of thanks. It’s a good thing that I’m the bigger person and haven’t walked out of the room and told her to fuck off after the year of hell living with her.
“However,” the nonchalant edge to my tone makes Helena flinch. “I’m not sure if I can be of assistance.”
“I thought you could help me!” she yells.
“You’re not the only one that’s been threatened,” I slam my fist against the closed file. Helena shuts up. “The best I can do is reach out and post some local PD around Chloe’s residence until your verdict’s been past and hope Oliver doesn’t notice. If he does, then every single person I love, will be found dead. I’m taking Quade’s word for it, if I don’t watch you burn in Hell, then I might as well give a lap dance to the Devil.”
The blood drains from Helena’s face and she lowers her head again, bringing the cuffs up so she can cover her mouth with one hand. She doesn’t laugh, doesn’t yell, she gives me a sob, a sound of her new-found sympathy for me. Helena cries silent tears and shakes her head slowly.
“You eliminated his witness, your friend Blake Donovan. When he finds out, he’s going to kill someone―isn’t he?” Helena’s murky eyes widen. “Oh God Akira, you never deserved any of this.”
I must agree.
“Dad, Banks and her family, Snag, Joseph, Blake, Sam,” I recite. “Even my own mother, could be in the firing line. Oliver seems to have unlimited resources, and from what I’ve gathered, he keeps his promises. But you know what? I’ve had enough of being manipulated and underestimated,” I’ve made my decision. “What’s Chloe’s land line, I’m going to give her a call.”
I can feel the flames of Satan devour me, and Sam’s damned leather shoes. If Quade ever finds out that I’m helping Helena, her niece and guarding the Banks house like a hound, I’m going to be dead. Or I’m going to find everyone I care about six feet underground. However, I’m going to be as resourceful as I can and make sure that it doesn’t become a repeat of Snag’s past life when he had a run-in with the Bureau.
My phone rings in the centre of the metal slab and a girl, who I assume is Chloe picks up with a bored ‘hello what do you want?’. Typical teenager, I clear my throat and try to approach conversation teenager-to-teenager.
“This is Detective Akira Stevens from the New York Police Department. You can Google me if you want, I don’t care,” I need to brush up on my people skills. “I just want to have a chat with you.”
“Um, hi. I’m Chloe Quinn, pleased to meet you I guess,” I can hear tapping on a keyboard. “Holy shit you have blue hair, is that even legal in the force? I mean wow; you’re not a wrinkly bitch either. Oh my God, that guy you’re standing with on the cover of the Guardian is so hot.”
Success.
“‘That guy’,” I mimic in her awed tone, “is my boyfriend, Special Agent Samuel Pingelly. So please, don’t stalk him on Facebook, we like our privacy. But yes, I’m nineteen and don’t worry I won’t talk to you in an intimidating way.”
“Are you going to arrest me for calling him hot?” she asks.
“Of course not, I find him very hot too,” I say. I need to get personal with Chloe before breaking news of Helena (who I might add, is still sobbing on her side of the desk). “We’ve known each other over a year and I reckon we’ve liked each other since then, so our relationship is pretty solid.”
“You’re so lucky,” Chloe whines on the other end. “Um, Akira–that is such a cool name–uh, am I in trouble? Cause I’m like in Washington and you’re in New York.”
“Not at all Chloe, in fact, I’m with someone who misses you very much,” I say. “I’m going to put her on now if that’s okay.”
“O–okay,” Chloe agrees. “It’s been nice talking to you. Can I call you by your first name or do I have to say Detective or something?”
“Akira is just fine,” I chuckle. “Okay Helena it’s your go.”
Helena waits for me to push my phone, which is on speaker, close to her. She paws at it with her wrecked fingers and tries to command her voice through the curtain of tears. I’ve never seen Helena so vulnerable, but she takes a few moments to compose herself.
“Hey Chlo-Bo,” Helena sniffs.
“Aunty ‘Lena?” Chloe shrieks with delight. “I’ve missed you so much, when are you coming back to D.C? Cindy’s at work but I’ll totally tell her you called―wait, are you crying? Why are you crying?”
“Listen Chlo-Bo, I’m in a bit of trouble with the police,” she pauses when Chloe gasps. “Don’t worry, Akira is helping me out―she’s the daughter of that man I was seeing, I think I told you that in the last e-mail I sent you. Chlo-Bo, I want you to be strong okay because I probably won’t see you for a while.”
“…Did you kill someone?” Chloe’s voice wavers.
“No, but I’m in a bit of a pickle with some arseholes that have killed people. Chlo-Bo, Akira is going to make sure you’re taken care of. I just want you to know that I’m sorry for being a shitty Aunt and I love you,” Helena, not being able to continue, slides the phone back to me.
Chloe’s silent on the other end but I hear her muffled cries.
“Chloe, it’s Akira again. I know this is hard for you but I’m going to try my best to at least drop some charges against Helena,” I propose. “But do you want to do me a favour?”
“A–alright,” she says.
“How about I call your legal guardian, Cindy you said, and tell her the situation with your Aunt. When we have that sorted out, how about we come to a compromise―I can have you guys flown over from Washington at the end of the week to Manhattan to see the trial. I’ll even let you sit next to Sam in the court room,” I say.
Chloe lets out a shrill squeal, “Are you serious?”
“I always am, most of the time,” I clarify. “But I’ll be sure to call you back, I’ve got to go now and do some Detective-ing.”
“Thank you so much Akira,” Chloe sniffs. “I love you ‘Lena, bye!”
I end the call and turn to Helena.
“Why would you do that for me? We hate each other,” she says.
I stand and collect the file and wrapper from my lunch, “I know what it’s like to be in Chloe’s position, if my only family was going to be in a prison for God knows how long, I would appreciate a stranger reaching out to give the accused a final curtain fall, kapeesh?”
Helena smirks, “If I wasn’t cuffed to the table, I would give you a hug.”
“Don’t push your luck,” I laugh