Seeing Love: Saints Protection & Investigations Read online

  Pulling her back into his arms, he pressed her face against his chest. Holding her body protectively again, he kissed the top of her head. Then, using two fingers under her chin, he lifted her face up to peer into her eyes. “I don’t regret this. I hope you don’t either.”

  Forcing a smile, she shook her head. “No regrets.”

  “I don’t know when I’ll be able to see you again. I have no idea what Jack is going to want me to do. Whether or not Erik has been returned and I’m off that case and assigned to another one, or still working the case to find him with the FBI.”

  Nodding, she was not sure if he was being truthful or if his words were a not-so-clever attempt to imply he did not want to see her again. She assured, “I know. It’s okay, really it is. Tomorrow’s a school day for me anyway.”

  As she closed the door behind him, throwing the deadbolt, she leaned her back against the wooden door and pressed her fingers to her lips. It had been a while since she had been kissed…and never by anyone as talented as Bart. Giving her head a little shake, she made her way over to the sofa, petting Smee as he jumped into her lap. Looking down at the sleek, orange cat, she said, “I guess that was a taste of what I’ll never have, Smee.” Leaning her head back, she wondered what it would be like to be kissed like that…by him…every day.

  Chapter 12

  Bart drove the twenty minutes to Jack’s place, his mind a whirl of contradictions. Two days ago, he wanted nothing more than to prove Faith false. Tonight, if he had not been pressed for time, he would have pursued her…for more than sex. Pulling through the security gate at the compound, he called upon his SEAL training to force his mind to clear.

  Jogging up the front steps to the large log cabin, he could not help but compare the seasonal decorations to what Faith had in her tiny apartment. He lifted his hand to knock when the door opened. Bethany greeted him with a huge smile. “They’re all downstairs,” she informed him, offering him a welcoming hug.

  Kissing the top of her head, he stalked down the hall to the hidden entrance to the compound’s hub. Rounding the corner at the bottom of the stairs, he walked into the large conference room. A quick glance told him everyone was present. And their grim expressions told him Erik had not been returned.

  He took a seat, nodding at their collective greetings and pulled out his tablet to check the latest information.

  “The drop-off payment was completed exactly as ordered. The FBI is tracing the electronic transfer, but it appears an extensive security program was set up to immediately block tracing the money as it maneuvered quickly between accounts,” Monty reported.

  “So as soon as it landed in one account, it moved to another?” Blaise asked, brushing cat fur off his pants.

  Luke, tapping furiously on his keyboard, added, “Yeah. Shit, it’s genius,” he added.

  Chad, sitting next to Blaise, glanced over at him. “Seriously? Have I ever seen you without fur?”

  Blaise glared back. “So sue me. I’m a vet for Christ’s sakes. Fuck, I’d take my animals over most people any day, even if they do leave a little fur on me.”

  Marc interrupted, “There’s no way we’re dealing with a kidnapper who’s just wanting money. This is about revenge. This is about wanting to force Krustas out of the picture.”

  Monty added, “We’ve dug into Vera Dukakas, longtime housekeeper for the Krustas family. So far, she’s exactly what Ivan said. Her parents came over from Russia and worked for Ivan as a gardener and nanny. Vera has been with the family for almost thirty-five years. Nothing turns up on her emails, phones, accounts, or her comings and goings from the house. She recently had some money deposited into her bank account, but when the FBI questioned her, she said Anton had given her a bonus.” Before the others could ask, he added, “Anton confirmed, saying it was a bonus for her dedication and a tax break for him.”

  “Hmph,” Blaise groused. “Probably an illegal tax break.”

  “What about Roger Montague?” Chad asked.

  Monty replied, “He’s a lawyer in Charlestown and has a firm in Richland as well. He’s divorced, good credentials, no unusual blimps on his records either. On the board of numerous community service organizations and has escorted Constance Krustas several times. There’s been no rumors of a relationship, other than what she presented.” Monty stopped and grinned at this point. “Now, I did a little more digging and found he had lost heavily in the stock market drop last year and is just now starting to make a come-back.”

  The group mulled over the information on the two persons involved the night of the kidnapping.

  “Bart, you’ve been with Ivan’s three largest competitors…and the most ruthless ones. We’ve all read your reports, but what are your insights?” Jack asked.

  Bart, slowly rubbed a hand over his face, a gesture that bespoke of his fatigue and frustration. “I don’t like making assumptions, but Escobar’s operation just doesn’t seem like it has the money or, quite frankly, the brains to run this.”

  Chad looked up from his notes. “What about the MS13 he’s trying to get in bed with?”

  “It’s not their MO. None of this is their MO. I got the feeling Escobar is more reactionary, although, I confess he’s doing a lot of planning in moving his gang up in the organization.”

  “What about the Maldonis?”

  Bart leaned back in his seat, answering, “It fits their MO, but old Luciano is a family man at heart.” He saw the questioning expressions from around the table and explained, “Yeah, I know he’s a ruthless bastard with his organization but, honest to God, I don’t see him ordering a child to be kidnapped.” He looked thoughtful for a second and then added, “But I’d like to have his youngest son checked out.”

  Luke nodded and immediately added him to their list.

  “What makes you say that?” Chad inquired, curious about the inner workings of a crime family.

  “He seemed evasive, disinterested…even when his father was speaking. It was actually Faith who mentioned that for a patriarchal family, for the youngest son to act aloof in the presence of his father was unusual.”

  Jack nodded. “Good info. What about the Volkovs?” Jack asked.

  “They’d be the most obvious ones. Ruthless. Vicious. Jesus, he’s a cold motherfucker.”

  Cam studied his best friend and prodded, “But…”

  Bart shook his head in derision. “It’s almost too obvious. Like someone wanted the finger to be pointed right at him.”

  “Sooo,” Marc began. “What did the psychic have to say about all of this? Who does she see as the guilty party?”

  “She’s not a psychic,” Bart growled, his eyes snapping in anger.

  Marc threw up his hands in defense. “Hey bro, we all know that.”

  “No, what I mean is that she never claimed to be psychic,” Bart added, running his hand through his already tousled hair, closing his eyes for a moment gathering his thoughts. Realizing the room was silent, he opened his eyes and saw everyone looking at him.

  Heaving a deep sigh, he knew an explanation was necessary. “I…I misjudged her.”

  “Seriously?” Jude asked, incredulously. “Don’t tell me she snowed you?” Thoughts of helping Bart last summer against the con-artist, ran through his mind.

  “No, no, it’s not like that,” Bart answered, uncharacteristically floundering for the right explanation. He scanned the men sitting at the table, seeing expressions ranging from confusion, surprise, uncertainty, to knowing smiles coming from Cam and Jack. Fuck! How the hell do I explain what I don’t even understand?

  Leaning forward, he placed his forearms on the table and said, “Faith Romani never claimed to be a medium, psychic, or any kind of seer. The fact is she is trained in both psychology and art—two things that she really loves. I watched her closely and she’s very in tune with people. She got into their feelings while I was looking for facts. She’s a gifted police artist and, as she explained to me, she doesn’t just draw what they say, but listens to the victim or
witness carefully, gets an image in her head from what they tell her and then draws that. So far, she’s been successful at it. She doesn’t sell herself out and she’s definitely not a scammer.”

  “So why did Ivan want her on the case so badly?” Marc prodded.

  “Besides working with victims, she also…gets images in her head. Fuck, this sounds psycho, I know, but it has to do with the women in her family having a gift of…of…”

  “Of sight?” Cam asked.

  Bart jerked his eyes around to his friend, seeing confirmation not condemnation in his eyes.

  Cam continued, “My folks believe strongly in things that are out of our ability to see or feel or touch. I was brought up to believe there are things that cannot be explained by logic or facts. It’s part of my heritage. So, maybe Faith has this ability.”

  Jack sat back, rubbing his thick beard thoughtfully. “Bart, it sounds like you had a chance to get to know her. How does this sight work and was she able to use it in this case?”

  Sighing, he replied, “Honestly? I was a prick to her for the first thirty-six hours we were together. And not much better after that. I didn’t trust her. Didn’t want her on the case. And generally made her life difficult.” He snorted, “But damn if she didn’t stick right there doing her job. We finally talked on the way home when I finally realized she wasn’t trying to scam anyone. Unfortunately, we ran out of time and I had to leave her to get here. So she had a chance to explain her methods in police artistry, but as to her…um…other abilities…I don’t know how they work. Well, other than she has no control. She can’t just summon up the ability to find someone or any shit like that.”

  “I still don’t make the connection to Ivan,” Marc continued.

  “It seems Ivan knew her grandmother from when they were much younger. Her grandmother has this gift and Ivan wanted Faith to try to see if there was anything she could do.”

  “But since she wasn’t able to gain any insight into Erik’s disappearance, it was all a waste, wasn’t it?” Blaise pointed out.

  “No,” Bart replied, realizing his voice betrayed his emotions. Trying to play it off with a shrug, he said, “I mean, she had some good observations from our interviews.”

  Looking around, this time, he saw a few of his friends trying to hide smiles and a couple of them outright grinning. “Fuck, guys. It’s not like I’m involved with her or anything. I probably won’t even see her again.” That’s a lie. Shrugging, he continued, “I’m just admitting that I had preconceived prejudices and now I know she’s not like that.”

  “Well, she’s an awfully pretty police artist,” Monty noted, his wry grin crossing his face.

  Several chuckles broke out, and Bart was unable to hide his grin as well until Monty added, “I’ll let my friend, Mitch, know she’s available.”

  “Fuck that!” Bart growled, opening the door for the laughs to come his way.

  Jack allowed the joking to continue for a moment, knowing they all needed an escape when doing the intense work they did, before pulling them back to the task at hand.

  “At this point, we’ve fulfilled Ivan’s contractual request. The FBI is in charge of this investigation, but I appreciate you all are invested as well. Luke will still be working on the money tracking angle. Bart, you and Monty will stay in contact with the FBI through Mitch to see if there is anything we can do to assist. Check your tablets and you’ll find other assignments for the rest of you.”

  “Jack, this doesn’t feel right,” Bart complained. “Erik’s not back yet and—”

  Throwing up his hand to halt Bart’s tirade, Jack said, “Not every mission is successful. Doesn’t feel good, but it’s a fact. Ivan wanted his interests protected, afraid the FBI would spend more time snooping around than investigating. We’ve done our job. The intel you provided to the FBI with your interview is giving them more to work with. But, you’re not off this. You and Monty, along with Luke, want to keep digging? Go for it.”

  “And if you and the pretty artist need to work together some more, then…” Cam added, a smirk on his face as the others chuckled again.

  Jesus, Bart thought. I’m so fucked.

  *

  Faith walked around the classroom, looking at the children as they worked with pastels. Their giggles kept her smiling as she bent over to observe their work. She glanced up when the classroom teacher stood from her desk and pointed to the door. Faith nodded, knowing the teacher was leaving for a break. She preferred it when she had an actual art classroom and the children would come to her. The room was filled with the supplies needed for whatever creation or plan she had for the day. Now, with budget cuts, that room was turned into a fifth-grade classroom and she was relegated to hauling her supplies with her on a large rolling cart to each room on her schedule. Today, the fourth-grade class was exuberantly working on their drawings using their individual art pads and pastels.

  She had been on her feet for most of the day and decided to sit on the stool near the front of the room, still eyeing the children, but giving her tired feet a rest. One of the boys sat near the window, his head bent over as he diligently worked. The sunlight coming in cast a glow and a shadow on him creating an ethereal look as she watched the play of light. He looked up as he finished his drawing, catching her eye, and smiled. A wide smile, filled with the oversized teeth that ten-year-olds seem to have before their bodies catch up to their faces.

  She gasped as a vision filled her mind. Closing her eyes, she saw another dark-haired boy, the one she had seen in her other visions, sitting on a bed again but, this time, there was a light coming from a lamp illuminating him as his head was bent over reading a book.

  “Miss Romani?” a voice broke through, snapping her back to reality as her eyes blinked open.

  Looking around, she saw the children staring at her. “Are you all right?” one girl asked. “You look like my sister right before she’s gonna puke.”

  The giggles from the students forced her to smile as she smoothed her hair from her face. “Yes, yes, I’m fine,” she assured, glancing at the classroom clock, grateful it was time for the art class to end. Hustling them through the cleanup process, she smiled as the classroom teacher came back in and then Faith rolled her cart down the hall. She and the music teacher had a large closet as their office. The space barely held their carts full of art and music supplies and had room for a small desk and chair.

  Sitting down gratefully, she pulled her pad from her large bag, opening it immediately and grabbing a charcoal pencil. Closing her eyes, she pulled the image of the boy back to the forefront of her mind, and upon opening them again, began to draw.

  When she finished, she stared at the picture for a long time. The dark haired boy was sitting cross-legged on a bed, covered with a dark bedspread. A book was open on his lap and one hand was resting on the page. There was no window on the wall behind him, but a light shone down from somewhere off the page, illuminating the book on the bed as well as the side of his face. His focus was on what he was reading and a slight curve of his lip could be seen.

  She lay the pad down on the desk, leaning her head on her hands. What does this mean? Is this real or a figment of my tired, overactive imagination? When Ivan first called her, he begged her to come and see if she could get any images of where Erik was. She wanted to say no, but he sounded so heartbroken and afraid. She agreed to go, but only to see if there was anything to be gained from being around others who might know something.

  I was so unprepared. Too much violence clogging every thought. She had hoped that she would use her gift by being suddenly overwhelmed with an image of someone taking Erik, but had been unprepared for the emotions that flooded her when in the presence of those they talked to.

  Self-doubt filled her being as she stared at the drawing. It could be any child. It could be the boy from the class. Maybe I’m drawing what I think might be happening, but isn’t really happening. Aughh! She slapped her hand down on the art pad, her fingers poised to scrunch the pape
r into a wad. Her breath came in short spurts and once more she felt the loss of her grandmother acutely.

  Babushka. I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t possibly pin Ivan’s hopes that Erik is still alive by these drawings. That would be so cruel.

  Her heartbeat slowed down as she allowed the calm of memories of her grandmother to wash over her. She could hear her say, “Accept the gift and believe in yourself.” Warmth washed over her as she opened her eyes and peered down at the image.

  She wondered if she should give them to Bart. Would he want them or believe them? They had made such progress in burying his misconceptions…if he saw these drawings, would it send him right back to ranting about her pretending to be a psychic?

  Sitting in the tiny room, she realized she was too much of a coward. The memory of the kiss they shared filled her mind, pushing aside all possibilities of ruining it.

  Standing, she shoved the art pad into her large bag and, tossing it over her shoulder, headed down the hall to the teacher’s lounge. No longer willing to give up her originals, she made copies before driving home.

  I’ll give the drawings to Mitch. He can do with them whatever he wants. For a moment, she felt guilty that she was not going to give them to Bart, but they parted on such a peaceful note, she hated the idea of tearing down what they had built.

  *

  Faith sat across from Mitch in the coffee shop, watching his face as he scanned the copies of the drawings. She already explained where they came from and her reticence to share them with Ivan.

  “Have you shown these to anyone else?” he asked, flipping through the pages.

  “No, no one.”

  He looked up at her, flashing a smile, “Not even Bart?”

  “No.” She saw the doubt in his face and she felt the need to explain, although, she did not want to. It felt too personal. Too raw. Sucking in a deep breath, she said, “At first, Bart didn’t seem to want my assistance and, to be truthful, since I’m no longer working with him, it made more sense to call you.”