New York Minute 20
Jun. 5th, 2005 06:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bedlamsbardI apologize for how short this is. Really, I do. (It's about a thousand words shorter than the average NYM chapter.) However, there wasn't much I could add while still leaving it as a cliffhanger.
Danny leaned against the wall outside the interrogation room, watching Flack and Ashley Harrison – he knew her name now – through the one-way mirror. Flack was questioning her in a sharp voice, the expression on his face saying he blamed her for Stella’s “accident.”
“Why’d ya’ kill Shannon Akers?” he asked, leaning forward on one elbow.
Ashley’s face twisted a little. “Why should I tell you?”
“So you can practice your story for the jury, see if you can get off on an insanity charge or somethin’ instead of murder in the first degree,” Flack replied promptly.
Ashley crossed her arms and leaned back in the chair. “You can’t prove I killed Shannon,” she said.
“Actually? We can. You know the gun, the one we took outta your purse? Well, ya’ see, it’s down in Ballistics right now, and they’re gonna match the bullets from it to the ones recovered from Shannon Akers’ body, as well as the ones taken from the bodies of the two security guards you murdered at the Met. We already took your fingerprints, Ms. Harrison, and trust me, they definitely matched up to ones recovered from the scene. That’s enough to get you on two counts of murder.”
Ashley stared off into the space behind his head and gnawed on her lower lip. “I want my lawyer,” she said, not for the first time that evening.
“You said that already.”
Danny turned away from the window, straight into Aiden.
“Can you believe these people?” she demanded, backing up. “I was just talking to Jocelyn Sloane with Mac – she cracked like an egg, you should’a seen it. Evidently Ashley Harrison over there started carryin’ a gun after an ‘incident’ – that’s what she said – an incident in Tucson, and then she shot someone in Miami. MDPD couldn’t solve the case; Mac called up that freak that came up there from sunny Florida to ask. You remember him, right? Had some weird-ass name – Tiberius, or Homer, or somethin’ like that.”
“Horatio,” Danny said, searching his memory. The Miami police lieutenant, the one who’d never taken off his sunglasses, walked straight into a closed crime scene, and for some freaky reason always seemed to be backlit by a fucking spotlight no matter where he was – yeah, that was him. “Horatio Caine, I think. Lieutenant, not detective.”
Aiden shrugged. “Yeah, him. That was the week Flack was suspended. Christ, that was an awful week. Fucking media vultures,” she added with feeling. “It was a tap! A fucking tap! How was Flack supposed to know that guy was a bleeder? The bastard grabbed my ass, and if I hadn’t had my arms full I woulda –”
“Aiden,” Danny said patiently. “Jocelyn Sloane was confessing?”
“Yeah. Yeah, anyway, after the murder in Miami – supposedly it was an accident, and I guess that makes sense – she got a lot more trigger-happy. Shannon Akers had been pissing her off for some reason, said somethin’ about not liking the job and Sloane snapped. Christ, that’s a cold bitch. She knew Shannon was meeting Polk at Starbucks, and the time and everything, so Sloane went to act coy and steal the plans after Harrison killed Shannon. Then at the museum, the other chick, the redhead – Billie Hartigan – she was supposed to take care of security. She screwed up somehow, though, and the two guards walked in. Harrison shot ‘em cold. ‘s why the place was such a mess by the time Security heard the alarms go off; they didn’t have the time to grab everything.”
“They’ve been doing this for years,” Danny said. “How come they fucked up this time?”
Aiden frowned a little. “Well,” she said. “That’s just it. I don’t think they did. They being Billie Hartigan and Ariadne diCoia. I think they did it on purpose, because they knew Harrison killed Shannon.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Man, I can’t even prove they were anywhere near the Met three nights ago,” Aiden shook her head. “They’re the only ones whose prints didn’t match up. The fifth set? Those belong to the curator. Hartigan and diCoia were wearing gloves that night. The only thing we got to go on is Sloane’s word, and see, that would work, except who’s gonna believe a witness? Nobody believes witnesses. We don’t have any evidence. Unbelievable. But, ya’ know,” she continued on in a softer tone of voice, “I kinda admire those girls. They went all those years without being caught, and the one time they did? We can’t even prove they did a damned thing. Damn, but that’s luck.” She yawned hugely. “I’m goin’ home now, Danny. Flack said he’d go ahead and do up the paperwork for the arrests, and they’re his collars anyway, s’far’s I care.”
“I should start headin’ back too,” Danny said. He cast a last glance at the window, where Flack was finally shaking his head in disbelief and getting up.
Aiden rolled her eyes. “Man, you are smit-ten. Like, head over heels.”
“Aid?”
“Yeah?”
“Go home.”
*
Danny went home that night – early the morning of the day after, actually – to find Reggie Dukes and Johnnie Boy Marcatti out in front of his apartment, sitting on the hood of a seal grey Ferrari and flipping cigarette butts out into the street. He was alone; Flack was still back at the precinct bitching out the reports he had to write for his collars. Danny froze halfway down his block, fingers slipping over the butt of his gun, then advanced warily, eyes on the car that was definitely out of place in his neighborhood.
Reggie Dukes – they called him “the Lark” on the street and in Mob circles – glanced up as Danny approached, hopping off the hood of his car. “Danny Messer,” he crowed. Johnnie Boy took another hit off his cigarette, then tossed it away.
Danny tilted his head back, slow and steady, and tried to ignore the way he was shaking inside. The Lark and Johnnie Boy were Patriso hitmen, fierce and professional killers credited for at least a dozen bodies on the street. One of them was Casey Tesorieri, the son of a Lancione underboss and a Tanglewood Boy Danny used to run with. “What they hell you doin’ here?”
“That any way to greet a man, Messer?” Reggie asked casually. He moved to one side of Danny, Johnnie Boy to the other.
Danny swallowed, the quick motion painful to his suddenly dry throat, and said with difficulty, “You ain’t a man, Dukes.”
Johnnie Boy barked short harsh laughter. “He’s got you there, Lark.”
Danny took a step back, thinking, I should have stayed at the lab with Flack.
Reggie smiled at him. “Danny, Danny, Danny,” he said. “You’ve pissed off a lot of high-ranking people lately. Patriso’s not happy with you at all.”
“Oh, and I’m supposed to care what Fat Freddy or Blue Eyes thinks? I don’t fucking think so.”
Johnnie Boy rolled his eyes at his partner. “You know, I think I remember him being this obnoxious back when he was still with the Boys. Doesn’t look he’s learned anything.”
“Fuck off, Marcatti,” Danny snapped. He unsnapped the strap off his holster and drew his gun. “Get the hell away from me.”
“Language, Danny,” Johnnie Boy said lightly. “Is that anyway to talk to your elders?”
“Like a gun’s gonna scare us,” Reggie added. He nodded at Johnnie Boy. “Someone wants to have a few words with you, Messer.”
“And your uncle’s not going to get you out of this one.”
*
“Fucking traffic,” Joey spat out. He frowned in sudden concentration. “That car look like it belongs here to you, Carmine?”
Carmine reached for his gun, racking the slide once. “That’s Reggie Dukes’ car,” he said. “And there’s only one reason he should be in this part of town.”
Danny leaned against the wall outside the interrogation room, watching Flack and Ashley Harrison – he knew her name now – through the one-way mirror. Flack was questioning her in a sharp voice, the expression on his face saying he blamed her for Stella’s “accident.”
“Why’d ya’ kill Shannon Akers?” he asked, leaning forward on one elbow.
Ashley’s face twisted a little. “Why should I tell you?”
“So you can practice your story for the jury, see if you can get off on an insanity charge or somethin’ instead of murder in the first degree,” Flack replied promptly.
Ashley crossed her arms and leaned back in the chair. “You can’t prove I killed Shannon,” she said.
“Actually? We can. You know the gun, the one we took outta your purse? Well, ya’ see, it’s down in Ballistics right now, and they’re gonna match the bullets from it to the ones recovered from Shannon Akers’ body, as well as the ones taken from the bodies of the two security guards you murdered at the Met. We already took your fingerprints, Ms. Harrison, and trust me, they definitely matched up to ones recovered from the scene. That’s enough to get you on two counts of murder.”
Ashley stared off into the space behind his head and gnawed on her lower lip. “I want my lawyer,” she said, not for the first time that evening.
“You said that already.”
Danny turned away from the window, straight into Aiden.
“Can you believe these people?” she demanded, backing up. “I was just talking to Jocelyn Sloane with Mac – she cracked like an egg, you should’a seen it. Evidently Ashley Harrison over there started carryin’ a gun after an ‘incident’ – that’s what she said – an incident in Tucson, and then she shot someone in Miami. MDPD couldn’t solve the case; Mac called up that freak that came up there from sunny Florida to ask. You remember him, right? Had some weird-ass name – Tiberius, or Homer, or somethin’ like that.”
“Horatio,” Danny said, searching his memory. The Miami police lieutenant, the one who’d never taken off his sunglasses, walked straight into a closed crime scene, and for some freaky reason always seemed to be backlit by a fucking spotlight no matter where he was – yeah, that was him. “Horatio Caine, I think. Lieutenant, not detective.”
Aiden shrugged. “Yeah, him. That was the week Flack was suspended. Christ, that was an awful week. Fucking media vultures,” she added with feeling. “It was a tap! A fucking tap! How was Flack supposed to know that guy was a bleeder? The bastard grabbed my ass, and if I hadn’t had my arms full I woulda –”
“Aiden,” Danny said patiently. “Jocelyn Sloane was confessing?”
“Yeah. Yeah, anyway, after the murder in Miami – supposedly it was an accident, and I guess that makes sense – she got a lot more trigger-happy. Shannon Akers had been pissing her off for some reason, said somethin’ about not liking the job and Sloane snapped. Christ, that’s a cold bitch. She knew Shannon was meeting Polk at Starbucks, and the time and everything, so Sloane went to act coy and steal the plans after Harrison killed Shannon. Then at the museum, the other chick, the redhead – Billie Hartigan – she was supposed to take care of security. She screwed up somehow, though, and the two guards walked in. Harrison shot ‘em cold. ‘s why the place was such a mess by the time Security heard the alarms go off; they didn’t have the time to grab everything.”
“They’ve been doing this for years,” Danny said. “How come they fucked up this time?”
Aiden frowned a little. “Well,” she said. “That’s just it. I don’t think they did. They being Billie Hartigan and Ariadne diCoia. I think they did it on purpose, because they knew Harrison killed Shannon.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Man, I can’t even prove they were anywhere near the Met three nights ago,” Aiden shook her head. “They’re the only ones whose prints didn’t match up. The fifth set? Those belong to the curator. Hartigan and diCoia were wearing gloves that night. The only thing we got to go on is Sloane’s word, and see, that would work, except who’s gonna believe a witness? Nobody believes witnesses. We don’t have any evidence. Unbelievable. But, ya’ know,” she continued on in a softer tone of voice, “I kinda admire those girls. They went all those years without being caught, and the one time they did? We can’t even prove they did a damned thing. Damn, but that’s luck.” She yawned hugely. “I’m goin’ home now, Danny. Flack said he’d go ahead and do up the paperwork for the arrests, and they’re his collars anyway, s’far’s I care.”
“I should start headin’ back too,” Danny said. He cast a last glance at the window, where Flack was finally shaking his head in disbelief and getting up.
Aiden rolled her eyes. “Man, you are smit-ten. Like, head over heels.”
“Aid?”
“Yeah?”
“Go home.”
*
Danny went home that night – early the morning of the day after, actually – to find Reggie Dukes and Johnnie Boy Marcatti out in front of his apartment, sitting on the hood of a seal grey Ferrari and flipping cigarette butts out into the street. He was alone; Flack was still back at the precinct bitching out the reports he had to write for his collars. Danny froze halfway down his block, fingers slipping over the butt of his gun, then advanced warily, eyes on the car that was definitely out of place in his neighborhood.
Reggie Dukes – they called him “the Lark” on the street and in Mob circles – glanced up as Danny approached, hopping off the hood of his car. “Danny Messer,” he crowed. Johnnie Boy took another hit off his cigarette, then tossed it away.
Danny tilted his head back, slow and steady, and tried to ignore the way he was shaking inside. The Lark and Johnnie Boy were Patriso hitmen, fierce and professional killers credited for at least a dozen bodies on the street. One of them was Casey Tesorieri, the son of a Lancione underboss and a Tanglewood Boy Danny used to run with. “What they hell you doin’ here?”
“That any way to greet a man, Messer?” Reggie asked casually. He moved to one side of Danny, Johnnie Boy to the other.
Danny swallowed, the quick motion painful to his suddenly dry throat, and said with difficulty, “You ain’t a man, Dukes.”
Johnnie Boy barked short harsh laughter. “He’s got you there, Lark.”
Danny took a step back, thinking, I should have stayed at the lab with Flack.
Reggie smiled at him. “Danny, Danny, Danny,” he said. “You’ve pissed off a lot of high-ranking people lately. Patriso’s not happy with you at all.”
“Oh, and I’m supposed to care what Fat Freddy or Blue Eyes thinks? I don’t fucking think so.”
Johnnie Boy rolled his eyes at his partner. “You know, I think I remember him being this obnoxious back when he was still with the Boys. Doesn’t look he’s learned anything.”
“Fuck off, Marcatti,” Danny snapped. He unsnapped the strap off his holster and drew his gun. “Get the hell away from me.”
“Language, Danny,” Johnnie Boy said lightly. “Is that anyway to talk to your elders?”
“Like a gun’s gonna scare us,” Reggie added. He nodded at Johnnie Boy. “Someone wants to have a few words with you, Messer.”
“And your uncle’s not going to get you out of this one.”
*
“Fucking traffic,” Joey spat out. He frowned in sudden concentration. “That car look like it belongs here to you, Carmine?”
Carmine reached for his gun, racking the slide once. “That’s Reggie Dukes’ car,” he said. “And there’s only one reason he should be in this part of town.”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-06 01:23 am (UTC)Danny's totally fucked, isn't he? *delighted* Ahh, cliffhangers, how you keep me awake nights
thinking of creative ways to torment fictional entitiesin anticipation of the next part.(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-06 01:39 am (UTC)Stupid media people. See, they were going to sue, but Aiden went straight to her own doctor and got her to take a picture of the bruise on her ass, then threatened to sue them right back with sexual harassment. And the department figured, aw, what the hell, someone's gotta get in trouble, let's make it the guy we can spare.
Danny's totally fucked, isn't he?
Unfortunately? Yes. *dances*
(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-06 01:45 am (UTC)Having seen the ep? Yeah, they were more than a little freaked. Like when Danny shows up to the deadcop scene, and he's all like: "Mac! Hi, I came to impress you with my l33t skillz." And Mac's all like *cough*intruder*cough* and Horatio's all "Hellooooo prettyboy."
Er. Yeah. And Mac isn't even wearing his *tie*, and he has what looks like Flack's jacket on (but isn't Flack's).
See, they were going to sue, but Aiden went straight to her own doctor and got her to take a picture of the bruise on her ass
I love Aiden.
This may actually help explain Flack's swift and brutal actions upon the hovering media at the Dove Commission crime scene, too. I mean, it's one thing to bully, it's quite another to physically *grab* the camera. By the lens, no less.
what the hell, someone's gotta get in trouble, let's make it the guy we can spare.
That shouldn't make me laugh, but it does. :)
Poor Flack.
Unfortunately? Yes. *dances*
Well, rock my trousers. :D
(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-06 05:05 am (UTC)*ded* "Tiberius"...oh, god. That's funny. The spotlight! And the waltz right on into a closed crime scene bit! (And yes, that *was* a weird episode. Mac wasn't wearing a tie, Danny was [and wasn't wearing his glasses], and they were apparently *both* on some sort of pain meds that whacked them out completely.)
Otherwise: great scene with Flack questioning Ashley Harrison, and between Danny and Reggie & Johnnie Boy. And, yikes, great cliffhanger.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-07 12:22 am (UTC)Reggie and Johnnie Boy are scary. We'll see more of the Lark in Omerta.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-06 02:12 pm (UTC)Oh, heck yes. Horatio is.... different. Anytime CSI Miami is on, my whole family starts talking like Horatio and my sister actually goes to find sunglasses in order to properly make fun of him. It's crazy. He's crazy.
Yay for more NYM! Also, I love Aiden:
Aiden rolled her eyes. “Man, you are smit-ten. Like, head over heels.” Hee.
Ah.. poor Danny. Darn you and your cliffhangers... I am so hooked on this.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-07 12:23 am (UTC)Aiden is awesome.