Page 95 of Taking Care of the Target

“Wow, I’m afraid to ask for the bad news.”

Sweat beaded on Uffizi’s forehead, and he rubbed his palms on his cheap slacks. What was the point in making all that money if he was going to buy a poorly made suit?

“The photographic evidence of the body they dug up is quite…graphic.” Uffizi slid over a file.

Carlo sorted through the pictures. A bullet through the head at that close of range didn’t result in a whole lot of pretty.

“Alvarez’s wife is on the witness list, too. Of course she mainly dealt with Sal, so we can paint it like Sal might be the one who carried out the hit. It’s just that the statement from their key witness…Well, in other good news, the prosecution has offered a deal. Thirty-year sentence, with the chance of parole in twenty. But it’s off the table once the trial starts.”

“You really need to reassess the word ‘good,’ because I don’t think you know what it means.

“It is something to think about.”

Carlo’s temper was quickly reaching the breaking point. “Get to the key witness. Now.”

Uffizi scooted out his chair and glanced at the guard behind the glass window.

Carlo curled his hands around the arms of the uncomfortable metal chair.I can’t wait to find out who’s going to die in the worst possible way.His vision took on a red hue and white-hot fury pumped through his body at a rate he’d never experienced before.He’d done things he didn’t exactly want to do before, but this? Well, his only regret was he couldn’t be the one to personally torture out every last glimmer of life before extinguishing it completely. “The name. Don’t make me ask again.”

Uffizi swallowed, hard. “It was Vince. Your nephew’s the one who gave them all the information they needed and he…” He slid over a signed statement and then yanked his hand away like a snake might strike. “He’s going to testify that you killed Eduardo Alvarez in the alley behind Rossi’s.”

Chapter Forty-Three

Was it weird that between testifying against a mobster who tried to kill her multiple times and seeing Vince, she was more nervous about Vince?

Cassie let out a long breath, chased her contact out of the little pool of solution, and forced herself not to blink as she put the plastic disc in place. She’d nearly gotten used to it. In the way that she hated it every time and often psyched herself out, but managed to get the damn things in place at least by the second or third try.

Today she got it on the first try, and she took that as a good omen; she could use all the good she could get. For a few seconds, she had one pale green eye and one murky brown. The lady who helped her with the contacts asked if Cassie was sure she wanted to cover such a pretty color of green with brown. Since she couldn’t exactly admit she needed them for a disguise, she simply smiled and nodded.

The other one took two tries—still not bad—and then she added dramatic eyeliner and a Marilyn Monroe mole for good measure. She wanted to look completely different from her old self, yet blend in enough that she could go unnoticed as long as possible. Not exactly an easy combo. She slipped into a nice fitted but boring black pantsuit. As she’d learned more often than she liked at McCarthy’s, exposed legs got attention, so they were covered up.

Too bad, because when Vince noticed the legs, it suddenly seemed like a bonus.Her heart gave a couple of erratic thumps, her mood alternating between excited and oh-holy-shit-this-is-really-happening.

“Well, I look like a reporter and completely different from the old Cassie,” she told her reflection. “So just what I was going for.” A few weeks of crappy motels and little conversation, and she’d started talking out loud once in a while simply to hear a voice. She’d underestimated how badly she would miss Maude, Harold, Deanne—man, she missed her—and even Owen.

But missing Vince eclipsed all of that.

I know it’s been months, but he better not have a new girlfriend. Otherwise, he’s going to find out he’s not the only one with a wicked jealous streak.

After her many gym sessions, she might even be able to drag a girl out of a car window, the way Vince had done with that P.I. Cassie grunted as she picked up her suitcase. Then again, maybe not. Good thing it had a handle and wheels.

One more exhale and she left the last crappy motel she planned on staying at alone and climbed into the 80s era Toyota. After running poor Agent McVee in circles, a portion of her nerves were reserved for meeting him and his partner. First she’d called Tom Duffy, asked him not to tell anyone they’d made contact, and pumped him for every ounce of information she could get, including if Agent McVee was one of the good guys.

Tom broke down and told her Agent McVee had contacted him about her missing memories shortly after her accident, so he already had experience with the guy. After giving Tom a day to do more digging, she gave him another call from a different location. Jim McVee had a long, solid record with the FBI, so Cassie called the agent from a payphone at a trucker gas stop just outside of Lexington and laid out her terms.

She wanted to ensure she was on the possible witness list so she didn’t risk going back to Jersey only to be unable to testify—luckily McVee had already insisted upon that, long before she called. She also wanted to arrive in town last minute, right before the trial started. Agent McVee got all riled up over that and told her he could get a subpoena sent. She’d replied that if he found an address, he could go right ahead and pop it in the mail.

In all of her life, she’d never been so demanding or immovable, and admittedly, it felt rather awesome. It also gave her the sense of control she needed.

After he grumbled about how difficult she was being, Cassie told him her last request, and while he hadn’t exactly liked it, either, he’d finally agreed.

From Kentuckyshe headed back up to northern Ohio. That way, if Agent McVee went looking despite his promises, he’d be on the wrong route and could still honestly say he hadn’t found her yet. It was a pain, but she’d had time to kill anyway.

Once she arrived in Columbus, she turned in her rental car so no one could trace Kate Jones from Tulsa, and then she hitched a ride to Cleveland—never again, even though the trucker was perfectly nice and she had her gun. From there she bought a used car with cash and zigzagged her way to New Jersey.

And now here she was, pulling up to theClarkson S. Fisher Federal Building and U.S. Courthouse. Hopefully Agent McVee would honor her last requirement. Otherwise she’d simply sit and stare when they asked her questions until they gave her what she wanted—no,needed.

She didn’t care about rules or gray area anymore. If anyone told her she’d feel this way a year ago—or that she’d be making demands of FBI agents instead of nervously spilling her guts—she would’ve laughed.

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