Free Vendetta by Nancy Holder Page B

didn’t like Robertson and Gonzales either.
    Cat indicated to McEvers that she’d been heard and she and Tess walked into DeMarco’s study. He was sitting alone with an open bottle of a scotch and a half-full glass.
    “I haven’t had the pleasure of working with you before,” he said. “I want you to know what a lot of cops who’ve made my acquaintance already know: if you find Angelo, you will share in my joy. Generously.”
    Bribes
, Cat translated.
    “That’s not necessary, Mr. DeMarco,” she said.
    He tsked. “You don’t need to worry. Downtown has given their stamp of approval. I pay my taxes, sure, but a man in my position creates a lot of work for you hardworking city employees.”
    He waited. Cat said nothing more. There really wasn’t anything to say.
    “However.” He held up a finger. “If you do anything to screw up this investigation, you will share in my dismay. Also generously.”
    “No worries,” Tess said.
    “Robertson and Gonzales are good guys,” he went on. “They know what they’re doing. I hope the same can be said of you.”
    “It can,” Cat assured him.
    But as they walked out of the office, Tess gave her a look that told her she understood what the redheaded security guard had warned them about: if the FBI agents did make any mistakes, they’d try their hardest to lay them at the door of someone else.
    Guess who.

CHAPTER EIGHT
3.51 A.M.
    T ess and Cat called ahead to the club and verified that it was closed. No one answered repeated calls and given the gridlock, they decided to table a visit for now. The traffic had gotten worse, and it would take them forever to return to the precinct, so with Captain Ward’s blessing they assisted in minimizing the looting in the vicinity of the DeMarco Building. Interestingly enough, the looting already
was
minimal—further evidence of the powerful reach of the DeMarco crime family.
    They decided to patrol a few blocks northeast of the DeMarco Plaza, away from the glitz and glam and into an older neighborhood. There were fewer businesses and more residential blocks. Their flashlights traveled over shabby buildings fronted with tidy squares of snow-covered ground. Lights flickered in windows—candles, lanterns. A sign over a padlocked gate announced that this was the DeMarco Community Garden, for local residents only.
    Snowflakes drifted down. Cat hoped no one was burning charcoal indoors to stay warm. That would lead to death by carbon monoxide poisoning, and she and Tess had observed more than one of those sad scenes.
    They continued northeast. The buildings became progressively shabbier and many of them looked completely abandoned. They had reached the outskirts of civilization and by tacit agreement were about to turn back when Cat heard the trill of some kind of flute. Disconnected notes hopped up and down the scale. The tuneless playing made a counterpoint to the slightly fainter but still incessant honking of car horns a few blocks away.
    Beyond the garden, several rusted-out cars created something of a wall; the flicker of orange flames was visible in the spaces between the metal hulks. It was a campfire, Cat guessed. The flute “song” was coming from there.
    They moved around to the right, to see an old man seated in a rotting beach chair with a blanket draped over his shoulders. He had long, scraggly gray hair that had been combed away from his face, and he was playing what appeared to be a pennywhistle. In his large ham hock hands, the metallic cylinder looked as tiny as a pencil.
    When Cat and Tess stepped into the firelight, he stopped playing. Then he laughed and said, “Well, hello, angels.”
    “Hey,” Cat said affably. “How are you doing?”
    “Fine, fine.” He scratched his cheek with the plastic mouthpiece of the pennywhistle. “You’re
here
, right? I haven’t had my medication in a while. I want to be sure I’m not dreaming.”
    “We’re here,” Cat said. “You’re not dreaming.”
    “Did the boy