MICHAEL'S GIFT

by Marilyn Pappano

  Jolie caught her breath, glanced around the room, then settled her gaze on Remy. "Unfortunately for ol' Nate, the agent didn't show up for the meeting. He sent his goons instead. Ironic, isn't it? the family asked. The same pair of thugs working for both Mr. Falcone and the fed trying to put him away. Whatever happened to loyalty?" she asked with a doleful shake of her head. After another brief pause, she finished. "The last thing Nate told his family before leaving to meet the agent was that if anything happened to him, anything at all, he wanted them to know who was responsible. He wanted them to remember the name of the FBI agent who was threatening him. He wanted them to see to it that Remy Sinclair was punished."

  In the silence that followed, Michael muttered a curse. Remy sat absolutely still, his expression one Valery could recognize a mile away. Worry. Dread. Just the slightest bit of fear.

  After a time, Smith turned toward him. "How much of it's true?"

  Valery stiffened. Michael had assured her that none of it was true, that Remy couldn't possibly be guilty of what she—and, apparently, the Simmons family—had suspected. But here was the assistant US. Attorney, one of Remy's best friends, asking as if he knew—as if he knew—that at least part of it was true, that Remy was at least a little guilty.

  "Simmons was a source," Remy replied. "You make deals with sources—work with us, and we won't send you to prison, give up your buddy and save yourself. As far as setting him up… Hell, Smith, you know people like Nate Simmons. You've prosecuted them. There wasn't any need to set him up. He had two or three crooked deals going at any given time. Yes, it's true that we cut a deal with him. I suppose you could even say I threatened him—I did tell him that if he didn't help us, he was going down. But falsify evidence? Murder?"

  "What about the phone call?" Michael asked.

  Remy nodded. "He called me the day before he died—wanted to change a meeting we had arranged earlier. It was supposed to take place Monday afternoon, but he said something had come up, that he needed to reschedule. We agreed to meet Tuesday instead."

  "And, of course, no one can corroborate your version of the conversation." Michael's voice was flat, not questioning, and he sounded grim. "So it's your word against the family's."

  "Did they actually hear the conversation?" Smith asked. "Or is their version what they claim Nate told them was said?"

  "It's secondhand," Jolie replied.

  "So the family believes that Remy killed Nate because he wouldn't cooperate?" Valery asked. "Isn't that a little extreme?"

  Again it was Jolie who answered. "Because he wouldn't cooperate and because he supposedly intended to stop Remy by going public. Instead of helping Remy prove that Falcone was dirty, according to the relatives, he was going to prove that Remy was dirty."

  "So," Remy mused, "according to their theory, I killed the guy to stop him from destroying my case and my career. The family has no proof, but, like Jolie here, they don't need proof. Just the allegation, even unsubstantiated, is enough to get me pulled off my cases and stuck behind a desk, completely out of the game."

  "Which is probably their goal," Michael pointed out. "They don't care if you're fired or if you go to jail. They want you off this case."

  Once more Smith spoke up. "How do you figure that?"

  "Timing. Jolie, when did you say the family contacted you?"

  "Tuesday afternoon."

  "More than a week after Nate's death. Why wait? If you suspected that a cop was responsible for your son's murder, would you wait more than a week to tell someone?" Michael shook his head. "I'd be in Smith's boss's office as soon as I heard the news. I'd be demanding an investigation and an arrest, and if I didn't get it right then, I'd be on the ten o'clock news that same night, making my accusations public. So why did the Simmons family wait a week?"

  "Because it took that long for Falcone to come up with the idea?" Remy suggested.

  "No." Slowly Michael turned his head until his gaze locked with Valery's. Her eyes were shadowed and dark, and worry was etched into her face. There was also, underneath all that, a glimmer of understanding. She knew what he was thinking, knew where he was heading, and she agreed. He knew it, felt it, and she confirmed it when she spoke.

  "It took Falcone that long to give up on me," she said softly. When everyone's attention was on her, she continued. "I was supposed to tell the police everything—how those men murdered Simmons in cold blood, how they let me live even though I could identify them, how they just happened to identify the man who had hired them. It wasn't coincidence. It wasn't bad luck or timing. I was supposed to be there. I was supposed to hear what they said, and I was supposed to be hostile enough toward Remy to tell the detectives."

  He nodded. "A person could watch you for a few days and have your schedule down pat. It never varied. You went to work at nine o'clock. You left at three. You walked the same route to your car at the same time every day."

  "Routine," she murmured, then repeated something he'd told her earlier. "If I weren't so predictable, chances are five out of six that I wouldn't have been on that street at that time. And if it wasn't coincidence that I was there, it wasn't coincidence that Simmons was."

  "No coincidence at all," Michael agreed. "Simmons canceled his meeting with Remy because something had come up. Because someone—likely Falcone—had told him to be on that block of Chartres shortly after three that day. He had probably been shown a picture of you, had probably been instructed to strike up a conversation with you. I would imagine that was all he was told."

  "No," she said quickly. "He knew to expect those men. Remember—I told you that he wasn't surprised to see them. I didn't think much about it then. I just assumed that it was an area where they all lived or worked or hung out—you know, a place where one would expect to see the others. He expected to see them there … but he was surprised when they shot him. He didn't expect that."

  It was Jolie who broke the silence that followed Valery's words. "So you're saying that Jimmy Falcone had Nate Simmons killed so he could set Remy up for it and thereby get him pulled from the investigation into his own activities. And he arranged it in that way and on that street at that time so Remy's own cousin could be the prime witness against him." She shook her head, setting her blond hair swinging. "That's cold."

  "Falcone is cold," Remy pointed out. "You know that better than most, Wade, you've been writing about his organization for years." He left his chair, paced to the opposite end of the room, then back again, stopping in front of the door. "One problem—getting me pulled off the case wouldn't stop the investigation. The bureau would simply assign another agent and continue. Some of the evidence that I've gathered might be tainted, but if it could be corroborated in other ways, that might not be much of a problem. So where's the benefit—other, possibly, than time—to Falcone?"

  "Who would be most likely to replace you?" Michael asked, expecting his answer, finding it fit perfectly.

  "Travis Wilson's been working with me. He's most familiar with the case, so I imagine it would go to him." Anticipating their reactions, Remy raised one hand to stall them. "I know you guys don't think much of him, but he's a good guy."

  "He's careless," Smith said. "His cases have holes big enough for the Mississippi to flow through. No one in the office likes to prosecute his work."

  "He's shifty," Jolie added. "He won't look you in the eye. And he's evasive."

  Remy responded with sarcasm. "That's because he's not supposed to even be talking to you, Wade. Look, I know Travis isn't the best agent in the office—"

  "Not even close," Smith interrupted.

  "But he tries. He wants to do better. He's learning. He—"

  This time it was Michael who interrupted, his voice quiet, his tone cold. "He was with you when I told you that Valery was in my apartment. He was the only one besides you who knew I would be gone last night, who knew where I was going and what time I was leaving."

  That silenced Remy. He opened his mouth to protest, closed it again, then let his hea
d fall back until it banged against the door. When he finally did speak, it was in a flat, dull voice that offered a futile protest. "He wasn't close enough to hear what we were saying."

  "No. But he must have known why we were meeting. He probably saw that we were arguing. That you wanted to leave and I stopped you." Michael didn't go on. He didn't remind Remy how he had looked up at the apartment, how he had headed in that direction before Michael had stopped him. Wilson was a bright man. He knew about Remy and Michael's friendship. He could easily find out where Michael lived. He'd probably heard rumors about Michael's visions, probably knew that he and his visions had helped Remy out on more than a few cases. Add in the emotion Remy had displayed that morning, and Valery's location would be a simple conclusion to reach.

  Simpler than the conclusion that they were reaching here.

  "He's a cop," Remy said bleakly.

  And that always made it harder, Michael acknowledged silently. Cops expected bad guys to be bad. They expected generally decent people to sometimes do wrong. But they expected their fellow officers to be good and noble and above temptation. A cop's crimes, in and of themselves, might be no worse than the same crimes committed by people like Falcone, but the fact that the laws were being broken by people who were sworn to uphold them made them worse. A dirty cop was a slap in the face—or a stab in the back—of every good cop out there.

  After a moment's grim silence, Jolie asked, "Why would he do it?"

  "Money. Power. Blackmail." Smith shrugged. "'Why' isn't important. 'How' is."

  Michael stared off into the distance. Smith was right. The reasons behind Wilson's betrayal—greed, weakness, whatever—didn't matter. What did matter was how—not the logistics of it, not the details of how the first contact was made, how the offer was approached, how the information was passed, but the moral issues. How could Wilson try to destroy the man he worked with, the man he probably considered one of his better friends? How could he put an innocent woman in danger? How could he turn his back on everything that being an FBI agent meant? How could he do the job without being dedicated to it, and if he was dedicated to it, how could he ever sell out? How could he show so little regard for the laws he'd sworn to uphold?

  And most of all, the biggest question of all: How could he live with what he'd done?

  "I don't understand," Valery said slowly. "If this plan had worked, if Remy had been suspended and Wilson put in charge of the investigation, how does that help Falcone? Wilson can't decide on his own to drop the investigation, can he?"

  Smith answered with a shrug. "No, but the case agent can have a tremendous influence on how the investigation is handled, on what direction it takes, how extensive it is and so on. A really aggressive agent is generally going to put together a much stronger case than someone like Wilson. If a case agent wants to screw up without being too obvious about it, it's simple enough. He misplaces a little evidence, overlooks a witness or two, or makes a few mistakes in his reports. He neglects to read a suspect his rights because he's sure someone else has already done it, or he doesn't get a search warrant, or he fouls up the chain of custody for crucial evidence. The case is shot, and he's sorry, but, hey, he says, everyone makes mistakes. And he's right—everyone does make mistakes. Even if you suspect that his mistakes were deliberate, you're going to have a hell of a time proving that what he did was criminal and not careless, overeager or just plain stupid."

  "If Travis Wilson already has a reputation for carelessness," she said, "then messing up this case would be blamed on his incompetence and not—"

  "Collusion," Smith supplied. "Conspiracy. Criminal wrongdoing."

  "So what's to stop the FBI from replacing him with another agent? What's to stop them from firing him?"

  Jolie laughed. "Valery, we're talking the federal government here. Getting rid of incompetents has never been a high priority with them."

  "So…" Michael looked around the group, starting with Valery and ending with Remy. "What do we do now?"

  * * *

  Jolie would write her story and get it in the evening paper. Smith would talk to the Special-Agent in Charge of the FBI field office and, for show, have Remy officially suspended from his investigative duties pending an inquiry into the Simmons family's claims. At the same time, the three of them would pool their resources and dig up whatever information they could on Wilson and Nate Simmons's family, searching for something, anything, to link them to Falcone. Michael would continue to watch over Valery, and she…

  Valery sighed. She had nothing to do. Nothing but sit and wait and go quietly crazy.

  It had been two hours since the others had left. Two hours of near-silence with Michael. She hated the uneasiness, hated the discomfort, hated the silence, but she didn't know how to break it. She didn't know how to approach him. She didn't know what she wanted to say to him.

  Mostly, she thought gloomily, she wanted him to just hold her, but she didn't know how to ask for that, either.

  "Valery, come over here."

  She pulled her gaze from the TV and looked at him on the bed. For the past fifteen or twenty minutes he'd been over there fiddling with his gun. Now it was lying on the spread in front of him.

  Leaving the chair, she settled at the foot of the bed, facing him, the gun between them.

  "Pick it up."

  She glanced at it, then back at him. "I've never touched a gun before."

  His smile was faintly sardonic. "I figured. Pick it up."

  Hesitantly she did so. It was black, cool and surprisingly comfortable in her hand.

  "This is a Beretta nine millimeter. It's a good gun. These particular bullets make it even better." Leaning across, he inserted the clip into the gun, and the weight increased significantly. "There's a round in the chamber, so all you'd have to do to fire is slide the safety off—" he did so "—and pull the trigger. It might be kind of hard for you, so to make it easier, you can pull the hammer back, then pull the trigger. Understand?"

  She did. She understood entirely too well. Very carefully, very gently, she laid the gun on the mattress, then got up and went to the window, staring out through the small crack between the drapes and the wall.

  "Val?"

  "Nothing's going to happen," she said belligerently.

  "I know. But just in case…"

  "No! There is no 'just in case.' There's no reason for me to learn how to shoot your gun. You're not going anywhere. You promised that you would be here, and you have to keep your word, because you've already broken one promise, and although I've never bothered to figure it out, I think two is probably my limit."

  "Valery." He was closer now, behind her, sliding his arms around her waist. She stood straight and unbending for a moment, but only a moment. Only until he brushed a kiss across her ear. "You're right, sweetheart. Nothing is going to happen. You're safe, and I'm safe. But—"

  Twisting in his arms, she pressed her face to his shoulder. "Stop it, Michael," she demanded, her voice breaking.

  "Honey, I just want you to be prepared for whatever might happen," he murmured, stroking her hair.

  "Nothing's going to happen. Remy and Smith and Jolie will take care of it. They'll get it all straightened out."

  He pushed her back so he could see her face. "You're probably right. They probably will take care of everything. But probably isn't good enough, Val. From the beginning, we all assumed that Falcone wanted you dead because you could identify his men, but we were wrong. He wanted you to come forward with your story, with the evidence that would incriminate Remy. Now he's gotten the family to come forward. Now you know that Remy wasn't involved, that it was a setup from the start. Now you're a liability to Falcone."

  Stubbornly she lowered her gaze, refusing to meet his, refusing to accept what he was saying. Instead she insistently repeated, in clear, concise tones, "Nothing is going to happen, Michael."

  "If they come looking for you, if they find you, they're going to try to kill you. Right now I'm the only protection you've got
, and if they kill me—"

  She tried to twist away, but he held her tighter.

  "If they kill me, Valery, you won't stand a chance unless you have some means of protecting yourself. Understanding the mechanics of firing that gun just might save your life, sweetheart."

  At last she managed to wrench free of him, and she crossed the room, putting the bed between them. "Damn you, stop it!" she demanded, then wiped a tear from her eye. "If they kill you, do you think I'll care about saving myself?"

  He stood motionless for a long time; then he came a few steps closer before answering. "So, out of some misplaced sense of guilt, you would let him kill you, too."

  She gave him a long, hard look. "You should recognize misplaced guilt, Michael," she said quietly. "You've been mourning Evan all these months, blaming God, blaming yourself, and his death wasn't even your fault. It wasn't your fault. But if Jimmy Falcone kills you for the simple reason that you're standing between him and me … that is my fault."

  "So you would let my death be for nothing," he said flatly. "At least Evan knew that, in dying, he gave that little girl and me a chance. You won't even give me that much."

  He sounded disappointed. Tired. Bleak.

  He sounded hopeless.

  Valery closed her eyes, sighed and swallowed hard past the lump in her throat. He was getting so much more out of this conversation than she was putting in. He was receiving messages that she wasn't sending, somehow translating her concern for him into selfish concern for her own guilt. Why couldn't she just be honest? Why couldn't she simply say, Michael, I'm afraid for you?

  Because she was equally afraid for herself.

  Only he was at risk of losing his life, and she was afraid of losing her heart.

  God help her, she was such a coward.

  Hearing him move, she opened her eyes again and saw that he had the pistol in hand now, that he was working it into the holster clipped to his waistband in back. "Wait," she whispered. When he stopped, she moistened her lips. "Show me again what you want me to know."

  After a moment's hesitation, he gave her another explanation, this one terse and clipped, of the workings of the gun. When he was finished, when she was sure that she could fire the pistol with no problem—although what she might hit, Michael admitted, was anybody's guess—he returned the Beretta to the holster, then started to turn away. She stopped him, clasping both his hands in hers. "I want one more promise, Michael."