You become the monster you fear the worst, so the monster won't overtake you.
Suzanne Weyn
The din of traffic was barely heard over the wheeze from the cotton filter when he drew in a lungful of nicotine. One week had slid into three as he waited for Bohdan to let him know that his shipment had arrived. In that time, he'd set into motion just enough to get the warrants written up for approval on both the factory and Cadore's home. He could feel the noose tightening around the case, he just hoped it also slipped his neck as well.
The confirmation call had come through with an unknown number and a voice that spoke broken English with a Slavic lilt in a leftenant tone. It gave a time and address but nothing further, whether the language barrier was the reason that communication stopped there or legitimate paranoia, Brandon was uncertain. He'd simply taken down the information with an affirmative tone and let the line go dead.
In the stillness of the shitty apartment he'd been outfitted with, he kept his face toward the winking lights of the skyline that sent out their electrical Morse code to anyone who knew the frequency. It was good to see that echo to know that he wasn't alone even if patience on both ends had grown incredibly thin. He owed no loyalties to Cadore after the way he'd been treated on New Years but he owed no loyalties to Bohdan either.
Something aside from the drugging had rubbed him the wrong way but Brandon had a hard time actually naming what had driven itself under his skin with such conviction that he couldn't put his finger on it. It was the reason for the stillness in front of the window, where time seemed to slow. The sky painted itself into morning before he'd realized the time. He'd arranged to meet Carter at the West Harlem piers and he wouldn't cancel. Not now.
The five mile run that he took no matter the weather was a means to keep track of who he was after all of this was over. Each footfall reminded him of training with the academy. Every breath of air he drew into his lungs felt like swallowing glass but it controlled the hammer of his heart while he navigated the wet pavement toward the rows of benches that lined the shore.
Carter was seated with a newspaper that someone else had left there, pretending to read as Brandon approached. He'd only run half a mile but made it appear that he needed the rest as he hunched over his knees near by and sucked in air.
"You've got a flare for the dramatics," Carter began as he flipped a page of the newsprint. "Tell me what you wanted me this early here for."
"I'm going to meet tonight," Brandon started, feigning a loss of breath as he rose up and put his hands at his hips. "I need forty-eight hours."
"Of what?"
"Radio silence. If I don't check in before then, you know what to do."
"What did I tell you about dramatics?" Carter couldn't help the smirk that settled on his features.
"I'm not being dramatic," Brandon shot back as he stretched out his back. "I'm being prepared."
"Let's not let it come to that, as much as I don't like you. You're cutting it awful close." Carter turned another page. "I don't know if I can get agreement on forty-eight."
"Try."
"What makes you think you're going to need that much?"
"I can't trust him," Brandon said plainly. "He drugged me the last time."
"I read the--"
"Don't," Brandon interjected. "Not in the open."
"And you're paranoid. Who is up this early besides the sun?" Carter asked with a half laugh.
"Everyone as paranoid as I am."
"Regardless, everything else is ready to go. We're just waiting on the ink to dry."
"I want all of them," Brandon said as he dropped a knee and retied each shoe. He focused on the way the cold made his fingers stiff and rattled in his lungs. "Everyone else I've got."
"You know what they say about a big fish," Carter replied. "Sometimes it's better to cut the line and let it go."
Brandon rose and rolled his neck in a circle before he did the same to his shoulders. His body was starting to tighten up with the rest it received. The cold usually undid all of his efforts and he still had awhile to run before his body was allowed to give up on him for a little while. It wasn't anything a hot shower couldn't cure.
"Coming up on three years," Brandon began. "Not so easy to take that advice. Just get me my forty-eight, I'll do the rest."
"I'll see what I can do," Carter said as he stood up from the bench. "And I'll let you know in a little while. It's too fuckin' cold for this bullshit."
Brandon dipped his head in a small nod of acknowledgement and started walking in the opposite direction. The salted pavement still wagged itself before him like a long wet concrete tongue and though the miles meant nothing to anyone else, they were a part of routine. Each time his feet hit the pavement, he could feel his brain becoming less and less clouded. He had a purpose and a point to the last three years with a clear end in sight. The trick for him was to make sure he stayed alive long enough to see that end come to fruition.
He knew that Bohdan had a plan but Brandon wanted to see this separate empire firsthand. Something about speculation made his stomach turn at the prospect, however. He had a hard time getting the events of New Years out of his mind. It hadn't sat well with him for the entirety of the time it took for the phone call that he received but soon enough none of that would matter much.
He drew air into his lungs and ran through the morning at a hard sprint. By the time he'd made it back to his apartment, his hands were white and nearly frozen to their core when he tried to turn the lock over. They were as red as the rest of him when he emerged from a shower that was so hot it nearly bubbled up his skin. Fresh and pink, like his mother used to say, so even the angels knew he was clean.
Night fell quickly like spilled ink over the city and shifted its greys and glass to blacks and whites. He was early judging by the crowd, but Alice was sure that her best dancers were lined up for the evening. He couldn't remember their names, but they lacked the usual haunted and vacant stare adopted by others who weren't in the business of appealing to lonely hearts with pocketfuls of cash.
The whiskey he'd ordered ten minutes prior still sat in his glass untouched. Neat, it didn't matter if he never touched it so long as the dust didn't settle inside of the rim. His nerves jumped in time with the heavy bass that poured from speakers as another feature took the main stage. He kept his back to her in order not to seem over eager, but the tapping of his fingers suggested otherwise.
When Bohdan finally did arrive, it sounded like thunder. Six or seven other men filed in before him; friends from the old country who had almost as poor manners as the man did himself. He saw the dancers to his left who were fishing for extra money inevitably stiffen and ease away as the men filed over for drinks first. Bohdan let them all order first before he caught sight of Brandon and whether or not it was intentional wasn't discussed. Perhaps he was only flexing his muscle for show.
"You're early," he said with a smirk. "Are you that eager or that smart?"
"You're never early if you're on time," Brandon countered. "I wanted to be sure I was on time."
"Then you got my message."
"If this is what you were referring to," Brandon started with a tick of his jaw in the direction of the rowdy Ukrainians. "I'm not impressed."
"Too ugly," Bohdan said as he followed the gesture to look back and where his men gathered as the song switched and the woman on stage became more animated. "I've been told I have impeccable taste, but you know how it is when you've got to entertain. They'll be drunk soon and then we'll leave."
"With them or without?"
"It'd be a little crowded with. My man Milkovich, he spoke with you," Bohdan said as he took up the drink that had been placed in front of him for a slow sip. "He'll take us up."
"They're not going to think you're a bad host?"
"I brought them to the pussy they can afford. If anything, they'll say I've been quite generous."
Brandon finally took up his glass for a sip. He knew the importance of this action or else any other denial he gave for the rest of the night would be watched too closely. He presented as someone who rarely said no to his vices but tonight he wanted to make sure that he stayed as sharp as he possibly could.
"I think you'll really enjoy yourself tonight, Reinhart," Bohdan began, drawing Brandon's attention back toward him. "I'm very excited to show you what's come in. You and I are very much alike, you know."
It was then that Brandon realized the man was already keyed up on something. Pupils diffused with his own product, he started wagging his tongue like pulled taffy. This was what Cadore had been talking about and why he'd made his rules so strict. A clear head was worth more than ten swimming though the haze of euphoria. The man that now sat beside him seemed half mad and Brandon couldn't help but wonder how true that statement was.
"We have a lot of shared interests," Brandon replied back, vague and unsure where all of this was leading.
"I knew that the moment we met," Bohdan replied with a grin that sat sloppily on his features. Old and weighted down in the middle, the fine lines of a ragged descent into being elderly hung around his eyes and melted like wax down to his face where jowls were forming. "You're a hunter, same as me."
Brandon took another drink from his glass and waited for the other man to get to the point.
"That's why this doesn't interest you. You see? A beautiful woman," Bohdan gestured toward the woman wrapped around the pole behind them. "And you aren't even bothering to watch."
"I didn't come here to get off," Brandon replied.
"Because a bird in a cage is easy prey. I know. That's why you have to hunt for better game." Bohdan lifted his glass and gestured for Brandon to do the same with his own. "Tonight we'll find better game, you and I."
Brandon raised his glass and took a swallow, careful to keep just enough in the glass. A man came through the door that Brandon didn't recognize. Leaner, younger, he barely took a look Brandon's way as he leaned in to speak with Bohdan. Brandon surmised that the man was the one he'd spoke with on the phone that Bohdan had identified as Milkovich.
The conversation didn't last very long. It was mostly the shift in demeanor that alerted Brandon something was amiss -- Bohdan's face lost the majority of the mirth it had as the whisper past. He leaned back to say something else and then the contact was finished just as abruptly as it had begun. Brandon didn't say anything about it as he tracked the other man's path from the bar to the door. It was evident that he didn't have the night off the rest of the other men did.
"We'll need to go soon," Bohdan announced as the end of his glass was reached. "Always bad news when you want to relax. In my country we have a saying about that."
"Mine too," Brandon shot back and was met with a laugh.
"They are probably very similar, if I recall. Germans aren't one to take pleasure in relaxation."
"Depends on how we're relaxing."
"Can pleasure also be work?" Bohdan tapped the glass as the tender came back through indicating that he'd take another, then turned back toward the woman again. "Do you think she enjoys her work?"
"Sometimes," Brandon said as he swiped at his nose. "It depends on who's at the end of the walk."
"Who, or how much?"
"For the sake of argument, I'll go with both."
"They say doing what you love means you never have to work, but doing what you love for too long can become something you hate. Do you think she dances for the men she decides to pair up with?"
"I try not to think too much about what she or any other performer here does on their own time."
"It is a bit easier to treat them as performers, isn't it?"
"You start worrying about who they are as people, you start falling in love." Brandon tipped the last bit of the liquid from the glass back and nudged it with a knuckle back across the bar to indicate that he was finished for the evening.
"Detachment is important if you're going to work in this kind of industry," Bohdan remarked as he blindly reached for his glass. His eyes were stuck on the next performer who took the stage. Though she looked young, Brandon had seen her license enough to know that appearances were very deceiving. He watched her move, seemingly enchanted by the way that her knees crooked and her spine curved.
"Do you know her name?" Bohdan asked as he took a swallow from the glass. "Is she new?"
"Nah, she was on maternity leave for awhile," Brandon offered. "Can't remember her name. I think Cayenne."
"She looks young."
"Not that young."
"That's a shame." Bohdan tipped the end of his glass up quickly and then slid from the stool. "Well, my friend, it's time to go. I'll come back for Cayenne next time."
Brandon slipped off the stool with a mock salute. Bohdan began his rounds, pausing where his men had taken up residence to announce he was leaving. They, too, barely spared a glance at Brandon as he trailed behind. It would've been more disconcerting had they actually took notice of him but females always swayed attention.
Expelled into the night air, the sting of the cold slapped his heated skin sharply and caused his face to flush. He kept behind Bohdan even as the man moved toward the town car that he'd come in. It was obvious then that there was no way he'd actually arrived with all the men who were in the building that they'd just left from in one car. Milkovich finished a cigarette in the time it had taken them to approach, clouded slightly in smoke as he threw the butt away from them and slid keys from his pocket.
He looked between the two of them before his voice broke through the air quietly but with a sharp enough intonation that Brandon understood even if he didn't comprehend the language. Bohdan shook his head and answered him. For a few minutes, the two of them bantered back and forth without pause. Milkovich occasionally gestured toward Brandon but neither of them looked his way. He took it as an opportunity to have a cigarette of his own and he was slow in bringing the pack out of his jacket pocket in case either one of them got the wrong idea.
The sound of the lighter was the only thing that seemed to break the spell and as he drew in his first breath, Bohdan switched easily to English.
"Milkovich wants you to wear the hood," Bohdan said as he finally regarded Brandon with a small smile.
"So tell him to give it to me then," Brandon said with a shrug, not really understanding why it was such an issue. He had expected that he'd go into whatever it was they were doing blind. The level of secrecy that was employed had more or less cemented that fact for him.
"I told him no," Bohdan replied and looked toward Milkovich. "He doesn't trust you because your English is too good. He has a hard time trusting Americans."
"He's in the wrong country for that."
"I trust some, just not you," Milkovich added. "Too sharp."
"I'm going to take that as a compliment," Brandon replied with a sharp smirk as ash flaked off of his cigarette that he'd made extremely quick work of.
"Do what you want," Milkovich said as he waved a hand and slid into the driver's side to start the vehicle.
"You don't need it," Bohdan said as he set a hand on Brandon's shoulder. "I trust that you'll use your discretion when it comes to where we're going."
"It's too dark to remember street signs, anyway," Brandon replied as he shot half of his cigarette across the lot. "Don't worry about it."
"I'm not the one who is worried," Bohdan reminded. "He doesn't like your face."
"Is that what he meant by too sharp?"
"Partially. He also meant in the head." A hand rose and Bohdan tapped his skull twice. "I would agree, but so far your sharpness hasn't bothered me. Let's just make sure it remains that way. I need your face."
"My face?"
"You'll see." Bohdan rounded the car and got into the passenger seat.
Brandon slid into the seat behind the driver and said very little. There was one more string of Ukrainian that was cut off abruptly by a growled word from Bohdan. Brandon said nothing but instead prepared to read every sign and remember every marker as they took their journey underneath the veil of darkness. He had meant what he'd said earlier about it being too dark to really get a read.
His memory was one that worked best when it was bright out. Colors and shapes were the easiest thing for him to memorize, but as they headed out of the parking lot, he tried to orient himself as the direction they were heading. North. It was easy enough to remember and he tried not to get distracted by the swell of a choir when the radio was turned on to drown out the uncomfortable silence that had spread itself in a thicket between them.
Brandon could do nothing to assuage Milkovich's sense of unease. It rolled off of him in waves to the point where it was almost tangible. He'd only been able to pick up on one or two words and most of them were the quarter insults thrown back and forth with one another when too many spirits had been swallowed down. To explain himself in German seemed like a waste as his nationalism more than likely prevented him from learning anything but a few catch phrases in a variety of languages.
Bohdan seemed unfettered entirely. Whether or not that was a direct result of the drugs he'd taken still remained to be seen. He'd always been at ease with Brandon -- something he'd pointed out on numerous occasions although Brandon felt his stomach tense in knots whenever they had to interact. He was good at manipulating the situation to the point where most didn't notice his particular anxiety.
He turned his face toward the window and noted that while they'd managed to head north, the terrain had changed itself from a familiar neighborhood to the outlying suburban wastelands. It made sense to him suddenly, as if everything had fallen into place during the car ride. Brandon understood why Bohdan's knowledge of Queens was limited toward the more communal aspects. He was staying in rows of houses nestled in a community named after citrus. Much like Cadore, it looked as though he kept his hands clean on paper.
The car rolled down a series of streets that made the journey seem more labyrinthine than it needed to be. If that were true and the drive was a disorientation tactic, Bohdan said nothing of the time it took to do so. Brandon had drawn in a breath when the car finally rolled to a stop in front of a moderately large house. Bohdan turned a look over the side of the seat and smiled like a child about to show off his latest creation.
"I can't wait to show you my films," he announced as he depressed the handle and slid out of the passenger side. Fishing out keys almost seemed leisurely as though the sparkle of snow and bite of frost did very little to him.
Milkovich looked at Brandon in the rearview but didn't say anything. Brandon pushed on the handle and found that it was locked because the engine was running.
"Child," Milkovich finally said as he cut the engine.
The door locks unlocked audibly and Brandon was able to push the door open into the street. He didn't thank the other man or look back as he followed Bohdan into the house after the locks had been turned. Pulling the coat from his frame, he turned to reach and hand out for Brandon's as well.
"I have a lot of company," Bohdan announced with a faint grin. "And, I've got a lot of rooms, but we'll get to that. For now, whiskey yes? Then you'll come watch a film."
Brandon nodded and followed Bohdan out of the foyer into another room where two men scrambled out of their chairs when they saw their boss approach. They spoke lowly in their mother tongue and Brandon took a minute to look around. There was nothing remarkable there; a fireplace and a Persian rug that must've been expensive judging by how terrible its pattern was. He'd come to learn that was the general rule for anything that materialistically represented wealth and status in this particular circle; it all reflected a kind of ugliness unique to the owner.
Bohdan gestured for Brandon to follow him and opened another room that seemed to connect in a way toward a kitchen. He could hear the clatter of dishes and female voices, but he didn't attempt to look further than the room they were currently in. Staunch and full of leather, the scent nearly overwhelmed him. On one wall above a fireplace that wasn't full flame, a television hung. Bohdan poured two glasses of whiskey from a decanter that had rested on a movable bar cart on the far side of the room. The crackle and pop of the screen as it came to life seemed to startle Brandon more than the quality of the whiskey he was offered.
"Before we begin," Bohdan started. "I need you to remember to keep an open mind."
The confirmation call had come through with an unknown number and a voice that spoke broken English with a Slavic lilt in a leftenant tone. It gave a time and address but nothing further, whether the language barrier was the reason that communication stopped there or legitimate paranoia, Brandon was uncertain. He'd simply taken down the information with an affirmative tone and let the line go dead.
In the stillness of the shitty apartment he'd been outfitted with, he kept his face toward the winking lights of the skyline that sent out their electrical Morse code to anyone who knew the frequency. It was good to see that echo to know that he wasn't alone even if patience on both ends had grown incredibly thin. He owed no loyalties to Cadore after the way he'd been treated on New Years but he owed no loyalties to Bohdan either.
Something aside from the drugging had rubbed him the wrong way but Brandon had a hard time actually naming what had driven itself under his skin with such conviction that he couldn't put his finger on it. It was the reason for the stillness in front of the window, where time seemed to slow. The sky painted itself into morning before he'd realized the time. He'd arranged to meet Carter at the West Harlem piers and he wouldn't cancel. Not now.
The five mile run that he took no matter the weather was a means to keep track of who he was after all of this was over. Each footfall reminded him of training with the academy. Every breath of air he drew into his lungs felt like swallowing glass but it controlled the hammer of his heart while he navigated the wet pavement toward the rows of benches that lined the shore.
Carter was seated with a newspaper that someone else had left there, pretending to read as Brandon approached. He'd only run half a mile but made it appear that he needed the rest as he hunched over his knees near by and sucked in air.
"You've got a flare for the dramatics," Carter began as he flipped a page of the newsprint. "Tell me what you wanted me this early here for."
"I'm going to meet tonight," Brandon started, feigning a loss of breath as he rose up and put his hands at his hips. "I need forty-eight hours."
"Of what?"
"Radio silence. If I don't check in before then, you know what to do."
"What did I tell you about dramatics?" Carter couldn't help the smirk that settled on his features.
"I'm not being dramatic," Brandon shot back as he stretched out his back. "I'm being prepared."
"Let's not let it come to that, as much as I don't like you. You're cutting it awful close." Carter turned another page. "I don't know if I can get agreement on forty-eight."
"Try."
"What makes you think you're going to need that much?"
"I can't trust him," Brandon said plainly. "He drugged me the last time."
"I read the--"
"Don't," Brandon interjected. "Not in the open."
"And you're paranoid. Who is up this early besides the sun?" Carter asked with a half laugh.
"Everyone as paranoid as I am."
"Regardless, everything else is ready to go. We're just waiting on the ink to dry."
"I want all of them," Brandon said as he dropped a knee and retied each shoe. He focused on the way the cold made his fingers stiff and rattled in his lungs. "Everyone else I've got."
"You know what they say about a big fish," Carter replied. "Sometimes it's better to cut the line and let it go."
Brandon rose and rolled his neck in a circle before he did the same to his shoulders. His body was starting to tighten up with the rest it received. The cold usually undid all of his efforts and he still had awhile to run before his body was allowed to give up on him for a little while. It wasn't anything a hot shower couldn't cure.
"Coming up on three years," Brandon began. "Not so easy to take that advice. Just get me my forty-eight, I'll do the rest."
"I'll see what I can do," Carter said as he stood up from the bench. "And I'll let you know in a little while. It's too fuckin' cold for this bullshit."
Brandon dipped his head in a small nod of acknowledgement and started walking in the opposite direction. The salted pavement still wagged itself before him like a long wet concrete tongue and though the miles meant nothing to anyone else, they were a part of routine. Each time his feet hit the pavement, he could feel his brain becoming less and less clouded. He had a purpose and a point to the last three years with a clear end in sight. The trick for him was to make sure he stayed alive long enough to see that end come to fruition.
He knew that Bohdan had a plan but Brandon wanted to see this separate empire firsthand. Something about speculation made his stomach turn at the prospect, however. He had a hard time getting the events of New Years out of his mind. It hadn't sat well with him for the entirety of the time it took for the phone call that he received but soon enough none of that would matter much.
He drew air into his lungs and ran through the morning at a hard sprint. By the time he'd made it back to his apartment, his hands were white and nearly frozen to their core when he tried to turn the lock over. They were as red as the rest of him when he emerged from a shower that was so hot it nearly bubbled up his skin. Fresh and pink, like his mother used to say, so even the angels knew he was clean.
Night fell quickly like spilled ink over the city and shifted its greys and glass to blacks and whites. He was early judging by the crowd, but Alice was sure that her best dancers were lined up for the evening. He couldn't remember their names, but they lacked the usual haunted and vacant stare adopted by others who weren't in the business of appealing to lonely hearts with pocketfuls of cash.
The whiskey he'd ordered ten minutes prior still sat in his glass untouched. Neat, it didn't matter if he never touched it so long as the dust didn't settle inside of the rim. His nerves jumped in time with the heavy bass that poured from speakers as another feature took the main stage. He kept his back to her in order not to seem over eager, but the tapping of his fingers suggested otherwise.
When Bohdan finally did arrive, it sounded like thunder. Six or seven other men filed in before him; friends from the old country who had almost as poor manners as the man did himself. He saw the dancers to his left who were fishing for extra money inevitably stiffen and ease away as the men filed over for drinks first. Bohdan let them all order first before he caught sight of Brandon and whether or not it was intentional wasn't discussed. Perhaps he was only flexing his muscle for show.
"You're early," he said with a smirk. "Are you that eager or that smart?"
"You're never early if you're on time," Brandon countered. "I wanted to be sure I was on time."
"Then you got my message."
"If this is what you were referring to," Brandon started with a tick of his jaw in the direction of the rowdy Ukrainians. "I'm not impressed."
"Too ugly," Bohdan said as he followed the gesture to look back and where his men gathered as the song switched and the woman on stage became more animated. "I've been told I have impeccable taste, but you know how it is when you've got to entertain. They'll be drunk soon and then we'll leave."
"With them or without?"
"It'd be a little crowded with. My man Milkovich, he spoke with you," Bohdan said as he took up the drink that had been placed in front of him for a slow sip. "He'll take us up."
"They're not going to think you're a bad host?"
"I brought them to the pussy they can afford. If anything, they'll say I've been quite generous."
Brandon finally took up his glass for a sip. He knew the importance of this action or else any other denial he gave for the rest of the night would be watched too closely. He presented as someone who rarely said no to his vices but tonight he wanted to make sure that he stayed as sharp as he possibly could.
"I think you'll really enjoy yourself tonight, Reinhart," Bohdan began, drawing Brandon's attention back toward him. "I'm very excited to show you what's come in. You and I are very much alike, you know."
It was then that Brandon realized the man was already keyed up on something. Pupils diffused with his own product, he started wagging his tongue like pulled taffy. This was what Cadore had been talking about and why he'd made his rules so strict. A clear head was worth more than ten swimming though the haze of euphoria. The man that now sat beside him seemed half mad and Brandon couldn't help but wonder how true that statement was.
"We have a lot of shared interests," Brandon replied back, vague and unsure where all of this was leading.
"I knew that the moment we met," Bohdan replied with a grin that sat sloppily on his features. Old and weighted down in the middle, the fine lines of a ragged descent into being elderly hung around his eyes and melted like wax down to his face where jowls were forming. "You're a hunter, same as me."
Brandon took another drink from his glass and waited for the other man to get to the point.
"That's why this doesn't interest you. You see? A beautiful woman," Bohdan gestured toward the woman wrapped around the pole behind them. "And you aren't even bothering to watch."
"I didn't come here to get off," Brandon replied.
"Because a bird in a cage is easy prey. I know. That's why you have to hunt for better game." Bohdan lifted his glass and gestured for Brandon to do the same with his own. "Tonight we'll find better game, you and I."
Brandon raised his glass and took a swallow, careful to keep just enough in the glass. A man came through the door that Brandon didn't recognize. Leaner, younger, he barely took a look Brandon's way as he leaned in to speak with Bohdan. Brandon surmised that the man was the one he'd spoke with on the phone that Bohdan had identified as Milkovich.
The conversation didn't last very long. It was mostly the shift in demeanor that alerted Brandon something was amiss -- Bohdan's face lost the majority of the mirth it had as the whisper past. He leaned back to say something else and then the contact was finished just as abruptly as it had begun. Brandon didn't say anything about it as he tracked the other man's path from the bar to the door. It was evident that he didn't have the night off the rest of the other men did.
"We'll need to go soon," Bohdan announced as the end of his glass was reached. "Always bad news when you want to relax. In my country we have a saying about that."
"Mine too," Brandon shot back and was met with a laugh.
"They are probably very similar, if I recall. Germans aren't one to take pleasure in relaxation."
"Depends on how we're relaxing."
"Can pleasure also be work?" Bohdan tapped the glass as the tender came back through indicating that he'd take another, then turned back toward the woman again. "Do you think she enjoys her work?"
"Sometimes," Brandon said as he swiped at his nose. "It depends on who's at the end of the walk."
"Who, or how much?"
"For the sake of argument, I'll go with both."
"They say doing what you love means you never have to work, but doing what you love for too long can become something you hate. Do you think she dances for the men she decides to pair up with?"
"I try not to think too much about what she or any other performer here does on their own time."
"It is a bit easier to treat them as performers, isn't it?"
"You start worrying about who they are as people, you start falling in love." Brandon tipped the last bit of the liquid from the glass back and nudged it with a knuckle back across the bar to indicate that he was finished for the evening.
"Detachment is important if you're going to work in this kind of industry," Bohdan remarked as he blindly reached for his glass. His eyes were stuck on the next performer who took the stage. Though she looked young, Brandon had seen her license enough to know that appearances were very deceiving. He watched her move, seemingly enchanted by the way that her knees crooked and her spine curved.
"Do you know her name?" Bohdan asked as he took a swallow from the glass. "Is she new?"
"Nah, she was on maternity leave for awhile," Brandon offered. "Can't remember her name. I think Cayenne."
"She looks young."
"Not that young."
"That's a shame." Bohdan tipped the end of his glass up quickly and then slid from the stool. "Well, my friend, it's time to go. I'll come back for Cayenne next time."
Brandon slipped off the stool with a mock salute. Bohdan began his rounds, pausing where his men had taken up residence to announce he was leaving. They, too, barely spared a glance at Brandon as he trailed behind. It would've been more disconcerting had they actually took notice of him but females always swayed attention.
Expelled into the night air, the sting of the cold slapped his heated skin sharply and caused his face to flush. He kept behind Bohdan even as the man moved toward the town car that he'd come in. It was obvious then that there was no way he'd actually arrived with all the men who were in the building that they'd just left from in one car. Milkovich finished a cigarette in the time it had taken them to approach, clouded slightly in smoke as he threw the butt away from them and slid keys from his pocket.
He looked between the two of them before his voice broke through the air quietly but with a sharp enough intonation that Brandon understood even if he didn't comprehend the language. Bohdan shook his head and answered him. For a few minutes, the two of them bantered back and forth without pause. Milkovich occasionally gestured toward Brandon but neither of them looked his way. He took it as an opportunity to have a cigarette of his own and he was slow in bringing the pack out of his jacket pocket in case either one of them got the wrong idea.
The sound of the lighter was the only thing that seemed to break the spell and as he drew in his first breath, Bohdan switched easily to English.
"Milkovich wants you to wear the hood," Bohdan said as he finally regarded Brandon with a small smile.
"So tell him to give it to me then," Brandon said with a shrug, not really understanding why it was such an issue. He had expected that he'd go into whatever it was they were doing blind. The level of secrecy that was employed had more or less cemented that fact for him.
"I told him no," Bohdan replied and looked toward Milkovich. "He doesn't trust you because your English is too good. He has a hard time trusting Americans."
"He's in the wrong country for that."
"I trust some, just not you," Milkovich added. "Too sharp."
"I'm going to take that as a compliment," Brandon replied with a sharp smirk as ash flaked off of his cigarette that he'd made extremely quick work of.
"Do what you want," Milkovich said as he waved a hand and slid into the driver's side to start the vehicle.
"You don't need it," Bohdan said as he set a hand on Brandon's shoulder. "I trust that you'll use your discretion when it comes to where we're going."
"It's too dark to remember street signs, anyway," Brandon replied as he shot half of his cigarette across the lot. "Don't worry about it."
"I'm not the one who is worried," Bohdan reminded. "He doesn't like your face."
"Is that what he meant by too sharp?"
"Partially. He also meant in the head." A hand rose and Bohdan tapped his skull twice. "I would agree, but so far your sharpness hasn't bothered me. Let's just make sure it remains that way. I need your face."
"My face?"
"You'll see." Bohdan rounded the car and got into the passenger seat.
Brandon slid into the seat behind the driver and said very little. There was one more string of Ukrainian that was cut off abruptly by a growled word from Bohdan. Brandon said nothing but instead prepared to read every sign and remember every marker as they took their journey underneath the veil of darkness. He had meant what he'd said earlier about it being too dark to really get a read.
His memory was one that worked best when it was bright out. Colors and shapes were the easiest thing for him to memorize, but as they headed out of the parking lot, he tried to orient himself as the direction they were heading. North. It was easy enough to remember and he tried not to get distracted by the swell of a choir when the radio was turned on to drown out the uncomfortable silence that had spread itself in a thicket between them.
Brandon could do nothing to assuage Milkovich's sense of unease. It rolled off of him in waves to the point where it was almost tangible. He'd only been able to pick up on one or two words and most of them were the quarter insults thrown back and forth with one another when too many spirits had been swallowed down. To explain himself in German seemed like a waste as his nationalism more than likely prevented him from learning anything but a few catch phrases in a variety of languages.
Bohdan seemed unfettered entirely. Whether or not that was a direct result of the drugs he'd taken still remained to be seen. He'd always been at ease with Brandon -- something he'd pointed out on numerous occasions although Brandon felt his stomach tense in knots whenever they had to interact. He was good at manipulating the situation to the point where most didn't notice his particular anxiety.
He turned his face toward the window and noted that while they'd managed to head north, the terrain had changed itself from a familiar neighborhood to the outlying suburban wastelands. It made sense to him suddenly, as if everything had fallen into place during the car ride. Brandon understood why Bohdan's knowledge of Queens was limited toward the more communal aspects. He was staying in rows of houses nestled in a community named after citrus. Much like Cadore, it looked as though he kept his hands clean on paper.
The car rolled down a series of streets that made the journey seem more labyrinthine than it needed to be. If that were true and the drive was a disorientation tactic, Bohdan said nothing of the time it took to do so. Brandon had drawn in a breath when the car finally rolled to a stop in front of a moderately large house. Bohdan turned a look over the side of the seat and smiled like a child about to show off his latest creation.
"I can't wait to show you my films," he announced as he depressed the handle and slid out of the passenger side. Fishing out keys almost seemed leisurely as though the sparkle of snow and bite of frost did very little to him.
Milkovich looked at Brandon in the rearview but didn't say anything. Brandon pushed on the handle and found that it was locked because the engine was running.
"Child," Milkovich finally said as he cut the engine.
The door locks unlocked audibly and Brandon was able to push the door open into the street. He didn't thank the other man or look back as he followed Bohdan into the house after the locks had been turned. Pulling the coat from his frame, he turned to reach and hand out for Brandon's as well.
"I have a lot of company," Bohdan announced with a faint grin. "And, I've got a lot of rooms, but we'll get to that. For now, whiskey yes? Then you'll come watch a film."
Brandon nodded and followed Bohdan out of the foyer into another room where two men scrambled out of their chairs when they saw their boss approach. They spoke lowly in their mother tongue and Brandon took a minute to look around. There was nothing remarkable there; a fireplace and a Persian rug that must've been expensive judging by how terrible its pattern was. He'd come to learn that was the general rule for anything that materialistically represented wealth and status in this particular circle; it all reflected a kind of ugliness unique to the owner.
Bohdan gestured for Brandon to follow him and opened another room that seemed to connect in a way toward a kitchen. He could hear the clatter of dishes and female voices, but he didn't attempt to look further than the room they were currently in. Staunch and full of leather, the scent nearly overwhelmed him. On one wall above a fireplace that wasn't full flame, a television hung. Bohdan poured two glasses of whiskey from a decanter that had rested on a movable bar cart on the far side of the room. The crackle and pop of the screen as it came to life seemed to startle Brandon more than the quality of the whiskey he was offered.
"Before we begin," Bohdan started. "I need you to remember to keep an open mind."
Brandon found his grip on the glass of whiskey almost too tight. It was a conscious action to loosen his knuckles so they stopped bleaching white while the imagery on the television floated past. In the beginning, the camera was enough out of focus to suggest some kind of art school cinematography but as it sharpened, the very distinct image of a young girl stared back at him with open blue eyes and a smattering of freckles on her face.
"Beautiful yes?" Bohdan said as he stood behind the couch where Brandon was sitting. "Anja."
Brandon didn't reply, his throat suddenly incredibly dry as the girl smiled into the camera and began to unbutton her blouse. The repulsion he felt was immediate; his eyes shied away from the screen toward the roaring fire beneath the screen as the girl spoke about her dreams and ambitions. He forced himself to watch the rest. As she undressed, he tried to keep his temper in check.
Bohdan stood behind him and admired his work. It was his favorite despite being relatively new in the collection. He'd gotten better with each reel of film; each girl reacted differently and needed different direction, but the end result was the same. The end result was a small pressing of collector's items. Underage girls willingly supplicant to older males. It made a fortune in the right circles. He didn't need to explain that.
It started with a solid "no." Clothes that hadn't been willingly discarded were shredded. The escalation of moaning on the screen made Brandon shift to drink his whiskey. He didn't care to have the liquor but it was something else to focus on besides the television. Bohdan took this as a good sign, which was how Brandon had hoped it presented. Less agitated and more aroused, Bohdan smiled into his glass and congratulated himself on not being wrong in the way that he'd read the other man.
It ended with an unhappy girl smearing palms over her wet face. The unfinished portion that was hidden on a cutting room floor probably answered all of the questions that Brandon had. Black screen and a simple scroll of contributors were what he paid the most attention to. He remembered names better than anything and in this moment, he'd made a mental list of who else went on the warrants.
"What did you think?" Bohdan asked as he rounded the couch.
"Are there more?" Brandon heard himself ask as he attempted to disconnect himself from the present. Asking if there were more meant he might've been subjected to one more but the way that Bohdan had offered it early put Brandon off to the idea of sitting through another.
"Hundreds," Bohdan said with a broad grin, unable to contain his genuine pleasure. "We'll go through them later though. It will take too long."
The lengthy pause and way the words began to taper meant that Brandon was expected to give a critique. He didn't know what he could say about the way the girl was fucked into a mattress like a piece of paper and then discarded without sounding disgusted. He felt his skin beginning to flush while he searched for the right phrase, so he turned toward the glass again just to take the edge off from answering.
"I think," he started. "It wasn't long enough."
"Young pussy, my friend. It's never long enough," Bohdan said as he raised his glass in cheers. "There is nothing better on this earth, don't you think? The taste, the feel. It's never the same with a woman after she's been spoiled too much. That's why I ship them in."
Brandon felt as though he'd been punched in the gut. The shipment and the side business that Cadore had mentioned had clicked into place for him. Suddenly, it all made sense. Cadore couldn't associate himself with child pornography and Bohdan couldn't help himself. There was a look in his eye when he spoke about it that made him a slave to the work.
"That what you were waiting on before you called?"
Bohdan nodded and finished off his glass. He rounded the end of the couch and sat at its end. He looked as though some great weight had been lifted off of him, but Brandon wondered if it wasn't just that his mask had been able to dissolve. He thought he was sitting across from a like minded individual who shared his perversion for young girls and the art of finessing a no into a yes. Brandon had never felt more pride and genuine disgust as he did in that moment and he was unsure which manifested itself on his face when he made himself look at the other man.
"Of course," Bohdan started. "Milkovich has associates who pay good money for a young girl unspoiled. He knows people who take good care of them, but there are others. Those are the ones I need you to help me with."
"When do I start?" Brandon heard his voice even if he didn't feel completely connected to it when he spoke the words. His eagerness seemed to light up Bohdan's face as it stretched and bowed into a grin.
"You start tonight," he said as he rose up from his seat on the couch. "I told you before that I like your face and I wasn't being flattering. It's gentle, younger. Handsome. The girls will like you."
Brandon realized what that meant without it being said. Young and endearing, he would disarm them. Young girls were skittish of men in Bohdan and Milkovich's age bracket, aside from their obvious lack of health regime. They were too desperate in the eyes. Too hungry for young flesh.
"I'll take you to her and explain what I need," Bohdan began as he gestured for Brandon to follow. When he did, it was hard to shake himself free from the rage he still felt burning underneath his skin. "The girls we take in from the road are the ones that need the most...Discipline. They aren't grateful for their place here."
"So you want me to discipline them?" Brandon couldn't help the growl on the edge of his voice as he asked. Send in someone with a kind face to disarm, then punish with the brutality of betrayal. He understood the construct even if he didn't agree with it.
"I prefer the term domesticate," Bohdan said with a small grin.
Pressed against the back wall like a caged animal, she looked between both of them with dark eyes and tears already welling. In a few years, she'd be someone Brandon would look twice at on the street but in the moment, he couldn't discern the bruises on her body from the dirt. Keeping her in a room like this was part of the domestication that Bohdan had detailed out for him. All he had to do was make her submit and his work would be over.
"This isn't what I said I'd do," she started, voice shaky and uncertain while she clutched a hand over her ribs. The blue lace of her bra and panties had once been complimentary to miles of pale skin but now they looked almost garish. She turned her body slightly to the side as if she expected to be hit.
"You must be nice to our friend," Bohdan began as he scuffed the soles of his shoes against cement. "That's not any way to behave, is it?"
"I can handle it," Brandon said as he stilled Bohdan from moving forward. Shirt peeled, he kept it wound around a fist while he approached the girl who turned toward him last minute to claw him in the face.
Fight or flight. He understood the instinct almost immediately. The maneuvers that he could've used to subdue her would've belied his true nature so he fought nearly as unskilled. She drew blood from his collar when nails dug in as his arms wrapped around her waist. Legs kicked until they didn't. Bodies stayed upright until they weren't. Backs to Bohdan, he couldn't be sure how well Brandon had her pinned until he heard the familiar rip of cotton.
"Don't. You don't have to do this," she pleaded softly as her fingers tried to find purchase against the floor.
"Stop," Brandon replied as he eased his hands away from her. One wound in her hair but didn't pull despite the affect that he had her in a grip much tighter than it was. "I need you to trust me."
"Go on," Bohdan said as he looked over, curious and interested as to the scene of sprawled limbs before him.
Brandon's hand was gentle in the way it wiped hair from her face before unbuttoning denim. His mouth angled down and spread quiet words to her. He'd done this with horses before; calm them with soft words before something happened to their bodies as if concentrating on his voice would make it more tolerable to bear.
"Pretend. Like it hurts."
Confusion lasted only in the time it took to knit her brows before his hips moved against her. There was no contact other than the roughness of denim and the curl of torn cotton. She heard him grunt and found her voice in a faked rhythm. Like it hurt, like he'd broken her. He counted seconds off in his head, waiting for an appropriate time to stop the ruse.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to her before the finale. Body pulled off of her but pushed her shoulders down. It wasn't nearly as rough as the tumble downward had been, but with his back like that, he could spit and pretend to adjust.
"Did you enjoy it?" Bohdan asked as he saw Brandon's body peeled upward.
"I think I need more time," he said as he stood up slowly. "Can you give me more time?"
"She's got nowhere else to be until morning," Bohdan conceded as he set a palm on Brandon's shoulder. "Take all the time you need."
The girl curled herself into a ball away from them, sobbing as she tried to gain her bearings. The confusion of what happened only gave way to fear that it was all just another game they were playing with her. Milkovich had pretended to be sincere when he'd come to her at first. He wanted to help, wanted to get her to Florida where she was trying to run to. All of that stopped as soon as he leaned in to kiss her. After that, he'd beaten her for every time she tried to get away from him.
With Bohdan gone, Brandon closed the door and locked the latch before he picked up his shirt and knelt close by her. She edged away from him as best she could and he laid the shirt over her like a blanket.
"What's your name?" He asked gently, using the same tone that he'd had before when he was between grunts in her ear.
"Marisa," she replied softly, almost swallowed up by tears.
"Marisa," he echoed. "I'm not going to hurt you. Take the shirt."
"Why?" Her laugh was dry as she turned a look over her shoulder. "Why do you think I'd trust anything you say?"
"Because I'm a cop." He let the silence blanket both of them. He could've said anything but led with that. "And I'm not going to let anything else happen."
"How?"
The small question poked holes in his conviction. While he'd meant what he said, there really was no way for him to make that claim and truly mean it. He didn't have control over anything in this situation and they both knew it, but he could give her his shirt and he could put in the code for extraction. That much he could do.
He eased up from the floor and pulled the package of cigarettes from his pocket. One was stuck in the corner of his mouth as he flicked the gas station issue flame a few times in order to get it to ignite. In his shirt, she swam in the white fabric but was covered enough that he didn't feel like a pedophile just for being in the same room with her.
"Can I have one?" She asked weekly as she tucked brown hair behind her ear.
"When did you start smoking?" He asked as he held out the lit cigarette for her to take.
"Fourteen," she said as she accepted the cigarette and watched him light another. "I'm sixteen now."
"Do yourself a favor and quit." Smoke plumed from both mouths as he shoved the package back into his pocket. "Where are you from?"
"Pennsylvania."
"Kind of far for sight seeing."
"I was on my way to Disney World," she replied and tapped ash on the floor. "Kind of a stupid idea after this, huh?"
"You're a kid," he started. "It's not stupid. You're a long way from Pennsylvania though."
"Are you really a cop?" She whispered the last word as though Bohdan was smart enough to have camera hidden somewhere. "Why do you trust me?"
"You trusted me," Brandon said with a shrug. "What happened before, that was real. I'm not asking you to tell me how many times this has happened before because I can see from the bruises on your skin it's been more than once. I don't want that to happen again."
"I don't want to die down here. This isn't what I thought it was."
"What did you think it was?"
"He said it was just going to be a couple of nights and then I'd have enough cash to do whatever I wanted."
"The guy I came in with?"
"No, the other one. The younger one." She finished her cigarette and crushed out the end of the filter against the concrete wall that had been painted gray over top. It seemed like such a stupid thing to do, but Brandon understood. They wiped down easier and the lingering smell of paint let him know this room was more done more than once.
"Do you know how long you've been here?"
"Too long," she said with a bitter laugh.
"A month, a year?"
"A couple of weeks, I think."
"Have you been down here that whole time?"
"No, we moved around a lot. It got too cold where we were before so now we're here."
"How many more are there?"
"A dozen maybe? They don't speak English. Only one girl did pretty well."
"What happened to her?"
"I don't know. She's gone now," Marisa said with a shrug. "That's what happens if you don't follow the rules."
"What are the rules?"
"Do what they tell you to do and don't say anything else. I tried for awhile but I don't want to fuck them."
He watched her face shift from a detached kind of calm to something more contorted with grief. The line of questioning had dug too deep at fresh wounds and he knew better. He also knew that he couldn't comfort her. There was nothing he could say, nothing he could do that would erase both the trauma and the lingering waves that it caused in disturbing her reality. He forced himself instead to be present in the moment, to remember what it felt like to watch her start to crack at the seams and that spurned him forward.
"Don't think about that," Brandon began. "Not right now. You're safe right now."
"Until you leave. Then they'll probably kill me."
"What makes you think that?"
"He did it before when another girl wouldn't do what he wanted," Marisa said. "In front of us and said that's what happened to girls who won't play by the rules."
Brandon slid his phone from his pocket while she spoke and watched the face searching for signal. It didn't surprise him that the reception was shit behind thick concrete walls. The house was designed as a prison and he understood that the minute he saw her in the corner of the room like a wounded animal. He slipped his phone back in his pocket and began to pace slowly.
"What?" She asked as she watched his pacing, suddenly stiffening.
"I can't leave you here."
"It's not up to you."
"What I mean is, I'm not going to leave you here." He stopped in his pacing. "If I leave tonight, I'm coming back."
"The only way any of us get to leave is if you put a bullet in his head," she said. "And we both know you won't do that."
"Look at me," he said to her in a tone he regretted if only because she flinched when he said it. She did what he asked; her gaze met his almost hesitantly but it stayed where it could've fallen away. "I will do whatever it takes to get you out of here. Do you understand me?"
"Yes," she said quietly as though she were being reprimanded.
"You trusted me before, I need you to do it again."
"I'm not going to tell him anything."
"I'm not worried about what you are going to tell him, I just need you to promise that no matter what you see, no matter what you hear, you trust me."
"He'll kill us all if you bring someone here," she warned. "If that's what you're thinking."
"I understand that," he said. "This is where you're going to have to trust me."
"Okay."
"Give me your underwear and curl up in the corner. When I bring him back here, you need to look like I've worn you down."
She looked at him with brows knit but handed him the torn garment after her coltish legs awkwardly stepped out of them. Retreating to the corner, she kept her back facing him and wrapped her arms around her knees. It was as tight and as compact as she could be as she heard the lock on the door slide open. She knew better than to move without being told she could. No one ran when a door was opened.
Brandon took to the stairs and found Bohdan in the front room with a young girl pushed face down into the couch. The final rut had him staggering back with a grin while he looked over at Brandon who tossed the underwear at his feet.
"Am I staying tonight?" Brandon asked.
"If you had enough fun, Milkovich can take you," Bohdan said as he tucked himself in. The girl didn't move from where she was. "Or you can stay and try one who does everything you ask."
"I should go. I need to meet with Cadore tomorrow."
"That job is not as fun as this, yes?" Bohdan's hand clapped down hard on the young girl's ass. Her muffled voice remained in pillows. "Too bad."
"Not as much fun, but I still have work ethic." Brandon shifted in the doorway. "Need to give my two weeks."
"Then you enjoyed yourself." Bohdan's smile settled as pleased as it could be with this knowledge. "It's good to find someone who understands. You'll enjoy yourself here. You can be yourself."
"Tell Milkovich to leave the one downstairs alone," Brandon said with purpose. "I like her."
"For tonight," Bohdan replied with a dismissive wave. "She's his favorite."
Tonight was enough. He only needed to get halfway away from the house to set things into motion. He just hoped he could last that long in the car with Milkovich.
"Beautiful yes?" Bohdan said as he stood behind the couch where Brandon was sitting. "Anja."
Brandon didn't reply, his throat suddenly incredibly dry as the girl smiled into the camera and began to unbutton her blouse. The repulsion he felt was immediate; his eyes shied away from the screen toward the roaring fire beneath the screen as the girl spoke about her dreams and ambitions. He forced himself to watch the rest. As she undressed, he tried to keep his temper in check.
Bohdan stood behind him and admired his work. It was his favorite despite being relatively new in the collection. He'd gotten better with each reel of film; each girl reacted differently and needed different direction, but the end result was the same. The end result was a small pressing of collector's items. Underage girls willingly supplicant to older males. It made a fortune in the right circles. He didn't need to explain that.
It started with a solid "no." Clothes that hadn't been willingly discarded were shredded. The escalation of moaning on the screen made Brandon shift to drink his whiskey. He didn't care to have the liquor but it was something else to focus on besides the television. Bohdan took this as a good sign, which was how Brandon had hoped it presented. Less agitated and more aroused, Bohdan smiled into his glass and congratulated himself on not being wrong in the way that he'd read the other man.
It ended with an unhappy girl smearing palms over her wet face. The unfinished portion that was hidden on a cutting room floor probably answered all of the questions that Brandon had. Black screen and a simple scroll of contributors were what he paid the most attention to. He remembered names better than anything and in this moment, he'd made a mental list of who else went on the warrants.
"What did you think?" Bohdan asked as he rounded the couch.
"Are there more?" Brandon heard himself ask as he attempted to disconnect himself from the present. Asking if there were more meant he might've been subjected to one more but the way that Bohdan had offered it early put Brandon off to the idea of sitting through another.
"Hundreds," Bohdan said with a broad grin, unable to contain his genuine pleasure. "We'll go through them later though. It will take too long."
The lengthy pause and way the words began to taper meant that Brandon was expected to give a critique. He didn't know what he could say about the way the girl was fucked into a mattress like a piece of paper and then discarded without sounding disgusted. He felt his skin beginning to flush while he searched for the right phrase, so he turned toward the glass again just to take the edge off from answering.
"I think," he started. "It wasn't long enough."
"Young pussy, my friend. It's never long enough," Bohdan said as he raised his glass in cheers. "There is nothing better on this earth, don't you think? The taste, the feel. It's never the same with a woman after she's been spoiled too much. That's why I ship them in."
Brandon felt as though he'd been punched in the gut. The shipment and the side business that Cadore had mentioned had clicked into place for him. Suddenly, it all made sense. Cadore couldn't associate himself with child pornography and Bohdan couldn't help himself. There was a look in his eye when he spoke about it that made him a slave to the work.
"That what you were waiting on before you called?"
Bohdan nodded and finished off his glass. He rounded the end of the couch and sat at its end. He looked as though some great weight had been lifted off of him, but Brandon wondered if it wasn't just that his mask had been able to dissolve. He thought he was sitting across from a like minded individual who shared his perversion for young girls and the art of finessing a no into a yes. Brandon had never felt more pride and genuine disgust as he did in that moment and he was unsure which manifested itself on his face when he made himself look at the other man.
"Of course," Bohdan started. "Milkovich has associates who pay good money for a young girl unspoiled. He knows people who take good care of them, but there are others. Those are the ones I need you to help me with."
"When do I start?" Brandon heard his voice even if he didn't feel completely connected to it when he spoke the words. His eagerness seemed to light up Bohdan's face as it stretched and bowed into a grin.
"You start tonight," he said as he rose up from his seat on the couch. "I told you before that I like your face and I wasn't being flattering. It's gentle, younger. Handsome. The girls will like you."
Brandon realized what that meant without it being said. Young and endearing, he would disarm them. Young girls were skittish of men in Bohdan and Milkovich's age bracket, aside from their obvious lack of health regime. They were too desperate in the eyes. Too hungry for young flesh.
"I'll take you to her and explain what I need," Bohdan began as he gestured for Brandon to follow. When he did, it was hard to shake himself free from the rage he still felt burning underneath his skin. "The girls we take in from the road are the ones that need the most...Discipline. They aren't grateful for their place here."
"So you want me to discipline them?" Brandon couldn't help the growl on the edge of his voice as he asked. Send in someone with a kind face to disarm, then punish with the brutality of betrayal. He understood the construct even if he didn't agree with it.
"I prefer the term domesticate," Bohdan said with a small grin.
Pressed against the back wall like a caged animal, she looked between both of them with dark eyes and tears already welling. In a few years, she'd be someone Brandon would look twice at on the street but in the moment, he couldn't discern the bruises on her body from the dirt. Keeping her in a room like this was part of the domestication that Bohdan had detailed out for him. All he had to do was make her submit and his work would be over.
"This isn't what I said I'd do," she started, voice shaky and uncertain while she clutched a hand over her ribs. The blue lace of her bra and panties had once been complimentary to miles of pale skin but now they looked almost garish. She turned her body slightly to the side as if she expected to be hit.
"You must be nice to our friend," Bohdan began as he scuffed the soles of his shoes against cement. "That's not any way to behave, is it?"
"I can handle it," Brandon said as he stilled Bohdan from moving forward. Shirt peeled, he kept it wound around a fist while he approached the girl who turned toward him last minute to claw him in the face.
Fight or flight. He understood the instinct almost immediately. The maneuvers that he could've used to subdue her would've belied his true nature so he fought nearly as unskilled. She drew blood from his collar when nails dug in as his arms wrapped around her waist. Legs kicked until they didn't. Bodies stayed upright until they weren't. Backs to Bohdan, he couldn't be sure how well Brandon had her pinned until he heard the familiar rip of cotton.
"Don't. You don't have to do this," she pleaded softly as her fingers tried to find purchase against the floor.
"Stop," Brandon replied as he eased his hands away from her. One wound in her hair but didn't pull despite the affect that he had her in a grip much tighter than it was. "I need you to trust me."
"Go on," Bohdan said as he looked over, curious and interested as to the scene of sprawled limbs before him.
Brandon's hand was gentle in the way it wiped hair from her face before unbuttoning denim. His mouth angled down and spread quiet words to her. He'd done this with horses before; calm them with soft words before something happened to their bodies as if concentrating on his voice would make it more tolerable to bear.
"Pretend. Like it hurts."
Confusion lasted only in the time it took to knit her brows before his hips moved against her. There was no contact other than the roughness of denim and the curl of torn cotton. She heard him grunt and found her voice in a faked rhythm. Like it hurt, like he'd broken her. He counted seconds off in his head, waiting for an appropriate time to stop the ruse.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to her before the finale. Body pulled off of her but pushed her shoulders down. It wasn't nearly as rough as the tumble downward had been, but with his back like that, he could spit and pretend to adjust.
"Did you enjoy it?" Bohdan asked as he saw Brandon's body peeled upward.
"I think I need more time," he said as he stood up slowly. "Can you give me more time?"
"She's got nowhere else to be until morning," Bohdan conceded as he set a palm on Brandon's shoulder. "Take all the time you need."
The girl curled herself into a ball away from them, sobbing as she tried to gain her bearings. The confusion of what happened only gave way to fear that it was all just another game they were playing with her. Milkovich had pretended to be sincere when he'd come to her at first. He wanted to help, wanted to get her to Florida where she was trying to run to. All of that stopped as soon as he leaned in to kiss her. After that, he'd beaten her for every time she tried to get away from him.
With Bohdan gone, Brandon closed the door and locked the latch before he picked up his shirt and knelt close by her. She edged away from him as best she could and he laid the shirt over her like a blanket.
"What's your name?" He asked gently, using the same tone that he'd had before when he was between grunts in her ear.
"Marisa," she replied softly, almost swallowed up by tears.
"Marisa," he echoed. "I'm not going to hurt you. Take the shirt."
"Why?" Her laugh was dry as she turned a look over her shoulder. "Why do you think I'd trust anything you say?"
"Because I'm a cop." He let the silence blanket both of them. He could've said anything but led with that. "And I'm not going to let anything else happen."
"How?"
The small question poked holes in his conviction. While he'd meant what he said, there really was no way for him to make that claim and truly mean it. He didn't have control over anything in this situation and they both knew it, but he could give her his shirt and he could put in the code for extraction. That much he could do.
He eased up from the floor and pulled the package of cigarettes from his pocket. One was stuck in the corner of his mouth as he flicked the gas station issue flame a few times in order to get it to ignite. In his shirt, she swam in the white fabric but was covered enough that he didn't feel like a pedophile just for being in the same room with her.
"Can I have one?" She asked weekly as she tucked brown hair behind her ear.
"When did you start smoking?" He asked as he held out the lit cigarette for her to take.
"Fourteen," she said as she accepted the cigarette and watched him light another. "I'm sixteen now."
"Do yourself a favor and quit." Smoke plumed from both mouths as he shoved the package back into his pocket. "Where are you from?"
"Pennsylvania."
"Kind of far for sight seeing."
"I was on my way to Disney World," she replied and tapped ash on the floor. "Kind of a stupid idea after this, huh?"
"You're a kid," he started. "It's not stupid. You're a long way from Pennsylvania though."
"Are you really a cop?" She whispered the last word as though Bohdan was smart enough to have camera hidden somewhere. "Why do you trust me?"
"You trusted me," Brandon said with a shrug. "What happened before, that was real. I'm not asking you to tell me how many times this has happened before because I can see from the bruises on your skin it's been more than once. I don't want that to happen again."
"I don't want to die down here. This isn't what I thought it was."
"What did you think it was?"
"He said it was just going to be a couple of nights and then I'd have enough cash to do whatever I wanted."
"The guy I came in with?"
"No, the other one. The younger one." She finished her cigarette and crushed out the end of the filter against the concrete wall that had been painted gray over top. It seemed like such a stupid thing to do, but Brandon understood. They wiped down easier and the lingering smell of paint let him know this room was more done more than once.
"Do you know how long you've been here?"
"Too long," she said with a bitter laugh.
"A month, a year?"
"A couple of weeks, I think."
"Have you been down here that whole time?"
"No, we moved around a lot. It got too cold where we were before so now we're here."
"How many more are there?"
"A dozen maybe? They don't speak English. Only one girl did pretty well."
"What happened to her?"
"I don't know. She's gone now," Marisa said with a shrug. "That's what happens if you don't follow the rules."
"What are the rules?"
"Do what they tell you to do and don't say anything else. I tried for awhile but I don't want to fuck them."
He watched her face shift from a detached kind of calm to something more contorted with grief. The line of questioning had dug too deep at fresh wounds and he knew better. He also knew that he couldn't comfort her. There was nothing he could say, nothing he could do that would erase both the trauma and the lingering waves that it caused in disturbing her reality. He forced himself instead to be present in the moment, to remember what it felt like to watch her start to crack at the seams and that spurned him forward.
"Don't think about that," Brandon began. "Not right now. You're safe right now."
"Until you leave. Then they'll probably kill me."
"What makes you think that?"
"He did it before when another girl wouldn't do what he wanted," Marisa said. "In front of us and said that's what happened to girls who won't play by the rules."
Brandon slid his phone from his pocket while she spoke and watched the face searching for signal. It didn't surprise him that the reception was shit behind thick concrete walls. The house was designed as a prison and he understood that the minute he saw her in the corner of the room like a wounded animal. He slipped his phone back in his pocket and began to pace slowly.
"What?" She asked as she watched his pacing, suddenly stiffening.
"I can't leave you here."
"It's not up to you."
"What I mean is, I'm not going to leave you here." He stopped in his pacing. "If I leave tonight, I'm coming back."
"The only way any of us get to leave is if you put a bullet in his head," she said. "And we both know you won't do that."
"Look at me," he said to her in a tone he regretted if only because she flinched when he said it. She did what he asked; her gaze met his almost hesitantly but it stayed where it could've fallen away. "I will do whatever it takes to get you out of here. Do you understand me?"
"Yes," she said quietly as though she were being reprimanded.
"You trusted me before, I need you to do it again."
"I'm not going to tell him anything."
"I'm not worried about what you are going to tell him, I just need you to promise that no matter what you see, no matter what you hear, you trust me."
"He'll kill us all if you bring someone here," she warned. "If that's what you're thinking."
"I understand that," he said. "This is where you're going to have to trust me."
"Okay."
"Give me your underwear and curl up in the corner. When I bring him back here, you need to look like I've worn you down."
She looked at him with brows knit but handed him the torn garment after her coltish legs awkwardly stepped out of them. Retreating to the corner, she kept her back facing him and wrapped her arms around her knees. It was as tight and as compact as she could be as she heard the lock on the door slide open. She knew better than to move without being told she could. No one ran when a door was opened.
Brandon took to the stairs and found Bohdan in the front room with a young girl pushed face down into the couch. The final rut had him staggering back with a grin while he looked over at Brandon who tossed the underwear at his feet.
"Am I staying tonight?" Brandon asked.
"If you had enough fun, Milkovich can take you," Bohdan said as he tucked himself in. The girl didn't move from where she was. "Or you can stay and try one who does everything you ask."
"I should go. I need to meet with Cadore tomorrow."
"That job is not as fun as this, yes?" Bohdan's hand clapped down hard on the young girl's ass. Her muffled voice remained in pillows. "Too bad."
"Not as much fun, but I still have work ethic." Brandon shifted in the doorway. "Need to give my two weeks."
"Then you enjoyed yourself." Bohdan's smile settled as pleased as it could be with this knowledge. "It's good to find someone who understands. You'll enjoy yourself here. You can be yourself."
"Tell Milkovich to leave the one downstairs alone," Brandon said with purpose. "I like her."
"For tonight," Bohdan replied with a dismissive wave. "She's his favorite."
Tonight was enough. He only needed to get halfway away from the house to set things into motion. He just hoped he could last that long in the car with Milkovich.
"I need to piss."
Halfway down the lazy black tongue of highway, Brandon's voice filled up the space above the top forty station playing aimlessly in the background and the unintended sighs of the driver who kept his mouth shut the entire way. Milkovich had strong feelings about the man who sat beside him but they only intensified when he was told he couldn't take to bed the one girl in the house who he'd taken a genuine fondness for. The unrest behind his ribcage couldn't decide if he was more angry with his employer or the man who sat next to him.
He didn't say anything back but watched the marker signs to pull off for a pit stop. He didn't need to tell Brandon to make it quick when they rolled into a rest stop that was still lit up by the city's boast of never sleeping. A sleepy attendant inside didn't seem phased by the fact that Brandon had only a thin jacket covering his chest when he entered. Bathroom key obtained, he wiggled it at the vehicle which sat out of place in gunmetal grey.
The bathroom smelled as bad as it looked. The overhead light popped and crackled as it came to life and he didn't bother to look at his reflection in the spotted mirror. He knew the monster that would look back at him wasn't someone he wanted to deal with at the moment. Number punched in, he waited for the other end of the line to sleepily try to focus through the witching hour. Half past three in the morning wasn't uncommon for phone calls, but this came on a separate phone.
"Yeah?" Stanton said as he tried to gain his bearings.
"Traffic stop. Alpha, Charlie, X-Ray, seven five one eight southbound on four ninety-five. Make it clean."
"You sure?"
"We need to talk."
The line cut, he prayed that Stanton had enough of his faculties together to understand the urgency Brandon spoke with. He slid the phone in the back of the toilet so that it submerged entirely. Washing his hands, he returned the key to the attendant inside the gas station and got back in the car.
"Little long for a piss," Milkovich said as he eyed the other man.
"Didn't realize I needed to shit until I got in there," Brandon replied. "Let's go."
It took approximately twenty minutes before the red and blue lights switched on behind them. Without the wail of the siren, Milkovich almost missed them. Brandon felt his stomach tense as they pulled over if only for the low rumble of Ukrainian that escaped the other man's mouth. The officer got out of the car and tapped with the end of the flashlight for Milkovich to roll the window down.
"Did you know you have a tail light out?" The officer started as routine as could be. "Where you headed back from?"
"Tail lights are fine, I checked," Milkovich said without hiding his agitation. "Upstate."
"License and registration please," the officer said, catching the tone.
Milkovich slid both slowly from the visor above him and handed them over. The officer said he'd be right back and went to the squad car. Milkovich reached across Brandon and depressed the glove box where a gun sat. As he reached for it, Brandon stilled his hand.
"What are you doing?" He asked.
"Get your hand off of me," Milkovich snapped.
"Are you fucking insane?" Brandon asked as he knocked the gun out of the way so that it clattered to the floor. Milkovich grabbed Brandon by the back of the head and slammed it into the dash hard enough for him to lose focus on what was happening.
"You fucking idiot!" Milkovich roared before he slipped back into his first language.
By this time, both officers in the squad approached the vehicle. Cautious and slow, the first officer came back to the driver's side window.
"I need you to step out of the vehicle," he began.
Milkovich quieted and did as he was asked with a look shot at Brandon. The second officer asked the same for Brandon, who made sure to kick the gun out of the car. It caused the second officer to shout and draw his gun. The first officer drew his gun as well and demanded that Milkovich turn around with hands up. Brandon did the same and was slammed down against the hood.
The search was easy; it came up with nothing on either party but the gun in plain view was enough to force bracelets on Brandon's wrists too tight while they wrapped it in an evidence bag. Milkovich had nicer treatment while they asked who the gun belonged to. It was an easy play -- Milkovich claimed that Brandon had planned to shoot one of the officers and he was cut loose while Brandon was marched to the back of the squad.
The look they exchanged on the pass said enough. Milkovich expected an explanation but he also expected that Brandon would keep his mouth shut. Brandon spat toward the first officer in response as if to acknowledge and assure that he had no plan to say anything while they shoved him in the back of the car. Milkovich sat in his own car for a few minutes before he pulled back onto the road and continued back toward Queens.
"I need you to call Stanton and give him an address before we get to the station, can you do that?" Brandon said as he tried to adjust in the back of the squad. It was definitely uncomfortable while being cuffed so tightly.
"Sure, he said he's going to have Carter on standby," the second officer said as he dialed Stanton and relayed the address.
"Tell him to look in the basement and any outlying buildings," Brandon said as he heard the officer give the address. "Tell him to go now and I'll explain later."
He came through the precinct like any other criminal; shoved and shackled until it was his turn to be expedited directly into an interrogation room. Carter was already there with a folder full of warrants and a pen that couldn't stop tapping against the edge of the table. Brandon had always hated that nervous tic about him more than anything else. The noise was inconsistent and excessive.
"Just couldn't wait, could you?" Carter asked.
"There's not any time," Brandon said. "He's probably got a dozen girls in that house and he'll kill them."
"You think he wasn't already tipped?" Carter set the pen down. "You just blew this case for us."
"There's enough to hold the other two. I don't know why you're not executing those."
"These are copies, we've got the teams out there now, but you want to tell me why these girls were the last straw?"
"He's shipping them in from all over. Like fucking cattle." Brandon's pacing stopped so that he could rest his hands on the table. "Hundreds of fucking videos raping girls. How old is your daughter now?"
"Eleven," Carter answered.
"Eleven. Imagine if that was your kid up there? I should've put a bullet in his fucking head before I left." He smeared a hand over his face. "I mean Jesus fuck, Carter."
"Don't put that in your official statement. The lieutenant is out issuing these warrants and when she gets back, you'll get debriefed."
"Debriefed," Brandon echoed. "I almost had them all."
"We've got Alice on multiple counts and Cadore. The thing with Bohdan should've been turned over and you know it."
"To who? When? I'm not just going to sit there and let some asshole get away with rape and murder. That's not doing my fucking job."
"You need to calm down," Carter snapped. "You did your fucking job but there are a lot of other people in this city who do theirs also. You need to trust them now and be glad that you made it this far without catching a bullet."
"You haven't been in this as far as I have. You don't understand."
"I understand more than you think. Now, calm the fuck down. Sit the fuck down and wait for your debriefing. Look over the warrants in the mean time." Carter pushed the folder forward. "Every count is there in writing, no one is walking away as soon as the bracelets are on. Take some fucking pride in that."
"I'll take some pride in it when I see it happening. Right now all I have is paper and smoke."
"I had paper and smoke for nearly three years, Schmidt. While you spun your wheels with this and as frustrating as it was to be blind most of the time, I trusted you to do your job. Trust me to do mine, and Stanton and the lieutenant to do theirs. By the end of the day, you'll have your actual life back. You should be happy for that."
Brandon took up the paperwork with a set of agitated fingers. The words clearly printed but carbon copied jumped out at him. Each count described specific moments for him; he could see them in the writing that rested in journals he'd sent to a safe place. Each moment that had led to this was clearly printed in neat lines of police jargon. He'd have his life back in a few hours, but he wasn't so sure that he'd go back to it the same person as when he'd left. Surely they had to know that. Surely that was why he was still in an interrogation room long after Carter excused himself to actually greet the day.
News came in waves. The teams hit every place with swift precision. Alice and Cadore were in holding before the clock hit noon. The raid on the house upstate hadn't provided them with Bohdan, but it had provided fifteen underage girls and thousands of counts of child pornography. The house overturned also provided them with ties to other people in the city they could move in on. Some had cases slow building and others had never been heard of.
They came to collect evidence from him shortly after noon. Clothes were bagged and filed. Statement taken. Hair, skin, and cheek swabs filed beneath his actual name. He showered at the precinct and slid into a pair of standard issue Academy gear. It felt strange to wear clothes he'd spent three years trying to avoid. Nick Chandler came with a pair of shoes from the apartment he shared with someone when he wasn't stuck in the thick of a cover operation and lunch.
They couldn't talk to each other, but the sentiment didn't go unnoticed. By late afternoon, he was finally allowed to glean actual information about the others. The lieutenant would be in to brief him as soon as she was finished congratulating members of her team and fending off the media who wanted to know why the city had moved so many tactical teams so early in the day. It was likely that someone had tipped them off but department leaks were routine. It was good press -- the kind that sold papers because of controversy.
He focused on keeping his breathing even and his demeanor calm. Stuck in the same room for so long was bound to get to anyone and he knew his time was being wasted. It was hard to be on the other end of the line, being relieved rather than actively participating and he hated it. When he finally looked at himself in the two way mirror, he saw the version of himself that he'd become. The demon with hollow sockets for eyes and teeth that gnashed at the very thought of sinking into someone else's skin. It was hard to concentrate on anything else after he'd seen his reflection but the smell of the precinct flooded him with old memory. Steel, sweat, and old paper. The hum of processing and the faint wail of phones that rang.
Welcome home, he thought.
"You've done well, detective," Lieutenant Hill announced as she finally sat across from him in the briefing room.
"I could do better," Brandon replied.
"You've done more than enough. The purpose of this meeting now is to debrief you so that you're aware of how we are going to proceed."
Brandon sat still and braced himself for the inevitable.
"As you will be a key witness in any trial, you know that you can't question anyone in an official capacity. However, you will be allowed to watch should you wish to sit in on any of the interrogations."
"As far as anyone knows though, I was brought in right?"
"Yes, as far as anyone knows you were also arrested. We have Ms. Himura and Mr. Cadore in private holding for the time being."
"Who's the attorney?"
"Lupinsky."
"Of fucking course it is," Brandon said with a laugh. "I should've known."
Gregory Lupinsky was a very expensive criminal lawyer who specialized in making things go away. He played dirty and fought hard. Brandon understood their caution in not allowing him any access to anything other than what he'd told them. It was a slippery slope and the minute he found out that there was an undercover officer, he'd begin wearing down every one of Brandon's contacts and his activities until there was nothing left but ash. Brandon wasn't worried about the defamation of character so much as the lack of credibility as a witness.
"Can you pass any test given to you at this time?"
"I can," he said. "The most that will show up is trace alcohol. Which I've detailed in my statement as far as why I imbibed."
"Is there anything you can think of that he'll find out and use against you?"
"He's going to drag me through the wringer either way. I'm sure the fact that this is a drug case is enough, but my tests have always come back clean."
"Except the time you reported being drugged by Bohdan."
"Except the time I reported being drugged by Bohdan, yes."
"Were you clean?"
"Do you want me to answer that honestly or answer that as a police officer?"
"Answer it to the best of your ability," Lieutenant Hill said.
"Yes."
"Then there should be no problem with you on the witness stand. He's going to rip you apart either way and you know that. We'll prepare you for that."
"He's going to ask why I didn't turn this over to the Feds."
"The Federal bureau doesn't take on drug cases often anymore unless they are directly correlated to the Cartel or are large scale production. We did not know the scope at the time of the operation or we would've included the Feds. Come on, detective, I know how to play this game better than that."
"But do they?"
"Right now, I need you to worry about the present. Go home and get some rest. We've got someone on you. In the morning we'll go over the rest of the details. You look tired, Brandon."
"I doubt I'll sleep. Just thinking about this paperwork is giving me a panic attack."
"I mean it. Rest. See your family if any are around. Try to prepare yourself for the rest of this. You can worry about the paperwork when the dust settles."
"That sounds like my superior officer has told you I'm already in trouble," Brandon said with a grin.
"Oh, he's mentioned sending you to evidence processing for at least a year. You win this case though and maybe he'll reconsider."
"There's nothing to win. It's clear cut and the evidence is there."
"Some of it is," Lieutenant Hill said as she stood up. "You're dismissed."
Brandon rose from the table with a nod and left the briefing room. There were no cinematic congratulatory handshakes or well wishes. People who passed him in the hall were busy on their own trajectory. The world didn't stop spinning on its axis because a case closed and he knew that better than anyone. He shifted through the hall toward the main exit like a ghost. This place seemed familiar and yet he couldn't remember more than the lingering scent memory of what it was like to be there.
Outside, he recognized the white wash wedged next to steel and concrete. He started toward the sidewalk when a familiar voice called to him.
"You can't go home on the bus. Nobody can watch you then," Nick Chandler leaned against a beat up Caprice that had obviously seen better days.
"Who the fuck takes the bus?" Brandon shot back. "Although I'd trust it over that piece of shit. This all the budget allows now?"
"I spent most of it on your mother, but listen," Nick shot back as he opened the passenger door, which creaked and groaned with use. "Shave your fucking face and get a haircut if you don't do anything else. You're a disgrace to this department and the uniform."
"You sound so much like Waters there it's almost unreal."
"I've been working on my impressions. I do a mean Jimmy Stewart," Nick said as he got in on the driver's side.
"I'm sure," Brandon agreed.
"No, I mean I do a mean one not a nice one. I'll buy you a beer."
"Can't."
"Lupinsky?"
"Yeah."
"Fuck. You'd think that dipshit would get tired of making money but losing every case."
"He doesn't lose them, they just disappear," Brandon corrected.
"Lose, disappear. It's all the fucking same. I'm sure he's going to fabricate some bullshit with this one too and get them off the hook. I'm sorry, man."
"I wouldn't be so sure. I've got solid testimony and they've got good evidence."
"But do you have a judge?" Nick asked with a wink as he pulled away from the curb to start their journey away from the precinct.
"I don't need a judge. I want this fairly finished."
"You just said you had Lupinsky. It's not going to be fair."
"Doesn't mean my side has to be unfair."
"You really are living that dream of Criminal Justice, aren't you?" Nick paused for just a minute as he thought about how he'd word what he wanted to say next. "I mean, good for you but if all else fails you're going to need to put pressure on a judge to recuse themselves. Lupinsky's got a lot of people on the underhand payroll."
"I know, but I'm not going to do any of that. It's just time he understands that even a god bleeds."
Halfway down the lazy black tongue of highway, Brandon's voice filled up the space above the top forty station playing aimlessly in the background and the unintended sighs of the driver who kept his mouth shut the entire way. Milkovich had strong feelings about the man who sat beside him but they only intensified when he was told he couldn't take to bed the one girl in the house who he'd taken a genuine fondness for. The unrest behind his ribcage couldn't decide if he was more angry with his employer or the man who sat next to him.
He didn't say anything back but watched the marker signs to pull off for a pit stop. He didn't need to tell Brandon to make it quick when they rolled into a rest stop that was still lit up by the city's boast of never sleeping. A sleepy attendant inside didn't seem phased by the fact that Brandon had only a thin jacket covering his chest when he entered. Bathroom key obtained, he wiggled it at the vehicle which sat out of place in gunmetal grey.
The bathroom smelled as bad as it looked. The overhead light popped and crackled as it came to life and he didn't bother to look at his reflection in the spotted mirror. He knew the monster that would look back at him wasn't someone he wanted to deal with at the moment. Number punched in, he waited for the other end of the line to sleepily try to focus through the witching hour. Half past three in the morning wasn't uncommon for phone calls, but this came on a separate phone.
"Yeah?" Stanton said as he tried to gain his bearings.
"Traffic stop. Alpha, Charlie, X-Ray, seven five one eight southbound on four ninety-five. Make it clean."
"You sure?"
"We need to talk."
The line cut, he prayed that Stanton had enough of his faculties together to understand the urgency Brandon spoke with. He slid the phone in the back of the toilet so that it submerged entirely. Washing his hands, he returned the key to the attendant inside the gas station and got back in the car.
"Little long for a piss," Milkovich said as he eyed the other man.
"Didn't realize I needed to shit until I got in there," Brandon replied. "Let's go."
It took approximately twenty minutes before the red and blue lights switched on behind them. Without the wail of the siren, Milkovich almost missed them. Brandon felt his stomach tense as they pulled over if only for the low rumble of Ukrainian that escaped the other man's mouth. The officer got out of the car and tapped with the end of the flashlight for Milkovich to roll the window down.
"Did you know you have a tail light out?" The officer started as routine as could be. "Where you headed back from?"
"Tail lights are fine, I checked," Milkovich said without hiding his agitation. "Upstate."
"License and registration please," the officer said, catching the tone.
Milkovich slid both slowly from the visor above him and handed them over. The officer said he'd be right back and went to the squad car. Milkovich reached across Brandon and depressed the glove box where a gun sat. As he reached for it, Brandon stilled his hand.
"What are you doing?" He asked.
"Get your hand off of me," Milkovich snapped.
"Are you fucking insane?" Brandon asked as he knocked the gun out of the way so that it clattered to the floor. Milkovich grabbed Brandon by the back of the head and slammed it into the dash hard enough for him to lose focus on what was happening.
"You fucking idiot!" Milkovich roared before he slipped back into his first language.
By this time, both officers in the squad approached the vehicle. Cautious and slow, the first officer came back to the driver's side window.
"I need you to step out of the vehicle," he began.
Milkovich quieted and did as he was asked with a look shot at Brandon. The second officer asked the same for Brandon, who made sure to kick the gun out of the car. It caused the second officer to shout and draw his gun. The first officer drew his gun as well and demanded that Milkovich turn around with hands up. Brandon did the same and was slammed down against the hood.
The search was easy; it came up with nothing on either party but the gun in plain view was enough to force bracelets on Brandon's wrists too tight while they wrapped it in an evidence bag. Milkovich had nicer treatment while they asked who the gun belonged to. It was an easy play -- Milkovich claimed that Brandon had planned to shoot one of the officers and he was cut loose while Brandon was marched to the back of the squad.
The look they exchanged on the pass said enough. Milkovich expected an explanation but he also expected that Brandon would keep his mouth shut. Brandon spat toward the first officer in response as if to acknowledge and assure that he had no plan to say anything while they shoved him in the back of the car. Milkovich sat in his own car for a few minutes before he pulled back onto the road and continued back toward Queens.
"I need you to call Stanton and give him an address before we get to the station, can you do that?" Brandon said as he tried to adjust in the back of the squad. It was definitely uncomfortable while being cuffed so tightly.
"Sure, he said he's going to have Carter on standby," the second officer said as he dialed Stanton and relayed the address.
"Tell him to look in the basement and any outlying buildings," Brandon said as he heard the officer give the address. "Tell him to go now and I'll explain later."
He came through the precinct like any other criminal; shoved and shackled until it was his turn to be expedited directly into an interrogation room. Carter was already there with a folder full of warrants and a pen that couldn't stop tapping against the edge of the table. Brandon had always hated that nervous tic about him more than anything else. The noise was inconsistent and excessive.
"Just couldn't wait, could you?" Carter asked.
"There's not any time," Brandon said. "He's probably got a dozen girls in that house and he'll kill them."
"You think he wasn't already tipped?" Carter set the pen down. "You just blew this case for us."
"There's enough to hold the other two. I don't know why you're not executing those."
"These are copies, we've got the teams out there now, but you want to tell me why these girls were the last straw?"
"He's shipping them in from all over. Like fucking cattle." Brandon's pacing stopped so that he could rest his hands on the table. "Hundreds of fucking videos raping girls. How old is your daughter now?"
"Eleven," Carter answered.
"Eleven. Imagine if that was your kid up there? I should've put a bullet in his fucking head before I left." He smeared a hand over his face. "I mean Jesus fuck, Carter."
"Don't put that in your official statement. The lieutenant is out issuing these warrants and when she gets back, you'll get debriefed."
"Debriefed," Brandon echoed. "I almost had them all."
"We've got Alice on multiple counts and Cadore. The thing with Bohdan should've been turned over and you know it."
"To who? When? I'm not just going to sit there and let some asshole get away with rape and murder. That's not doing my fucking job."
"You need to calm down," Carter snapped. "You did your fucking job but there are a lot of other people in this city who do theirs also. You need to trust them now and be glad that you made it this far without catching a bullet."
"You haven't been in this as far as I have. You don't understand."
"I understand more than you think. Now, calm the fuck down. Sit the fuck down and wait for your debriefing. Look over the warrants in the mean time." Carter pushed the folder forward. "Every count is there in writing, no one is walking away as soon as the bracelets are on. Take some fucking pride in that."
"I'll take some pride in it when I see it happening. Right now all I have is paper and smoke."
"I had paper and smoke for nearly three years, Schmidt. While you spun your wheels with this and as frustrating as it was to be blind most of the time, I trusted you to do your job. Trust me to do mine, and Stanton and the lieutenant to do theirs. By the end of the day, you'll have your actual life back. You should be happy for that."
Brandon took up the paperwork with a set of agitated fingers. The words clearly printed but carbon copied jumped out at him. Each count described specific moments for him; he could see them in the writing that rested in journals he'd sent to a safe place. Each moment that had led to this was clearly printed in neat lines of police jargon. He'd have his life back in a few hours, but he wasn't so sure that he'd go back to it the same person as when he'd left. Surely they had to know that. Surely that was why he was still in an interrogation room long after Carter excused himself to actually greet the day.
News came in waves. The teams hit every place with swift precision. Alice and Cadore were in holding before the clock hit noon. The raid on the house upstate hadn't provided them with Bohdan, but it had provided fifteen underage girls and thousands of counts of child pornography. The house overturned also provided them with ties to other people in the city they could move in on. Some had cases slow building and others had never been heard of.
They came to collect evidence from him shortly after noon. Clothes were bagged and filed. Statement taken. Hair, skin, and cheek swabs filed beneath his actual name. He showered at the precinct and slid into a pair of standard issue Academy gear. It felt strange to wear clothes he'd spent three years trying to avoid. Nick Chandler came with a pair of shoes from the apartment he shared with someone when he wasn't stuck in the thick of a cover operation and lunch.
They couldn't talk to each other, but the sentiment didn't go unnoticed. By late afternoon, he was finally allowed to glean actual information about the others. The lieutenant would be in to brief him as soon as she was finished congratulating members of her team and fending off the media who wanted to know why the city had moved so many tactical teams so early in the day. It was likely that someone had tipped them off but department leaks were routine. It was good press -- the kind that sold papers because of controversy.
He focused on keeping his breathing even and his demeanor calm. Stuck in the same room for so long was bound to get to anyone and he knew his time was being wasted. It was hard to be on the other end of the line, being relieved rather than actively participating and he hated it. When he finally looked at himself in the two way mirror, he saw the version of himself that he'd become. The demon with hollow sockets for eyes and teeth that gnashed at the very thought of sinking into someone else's skin. It was hard to concentrate on anything else after he'd seen his reflection but the smell of the precinct flooded him with old memory. Steel, sweat, and old paper. The hum of processing and the faint wail of phones that rang.
Welcome home, he thought.
"You've done well, detective," Lieutenant Hill announced as she finally sat across from him in the briefing room.
"I could do better," Brandon replied.
"You've done more than enough. The purpose of this meeting now is to debrief you so that you're aware of how we are going to proceed."
Brandon sat still and braced himself for the inevitable.
"As you will be a key witness in any trial, you know that you can't question anyone in an official capacity. However, you will be allowed to watch should you wish to sit in on any of the interrogations."
"As far as anyone knows though, I was brought in right?"
"Yes, as far as anyone knows you were also arrested. We have Ms. Himura and Mr. Cadore in private holding for the time being."
"Who's the attorney?"
"Lupinsky."
"Of fucking course it is," Brandon said with a laugh. "I should've known."
Gregory Lupinsky was a very expensive criminal lawyer who specialized in making things go away. He played dirty and fought hard. Brandon understood their caution in not allowing him any access to anything other than what he'd told them. It was a slippery slope and the minute he found out that there was an undercover officer, he'd begin wearing down every one of Brandon's contacts and his activities until there was nothing left but ash. Brandon wasn't worried about the defamation of character so much as the lack of credibility as a witness.
"Can you pass any test given to you at this time?"
"I can," he said. "The most that will show up is trace alcohol. Which I've detailed in my statement as far as why I imbibed."
"Is there anything you can think of that he'll find out and use against you?"
"He's going to drag me through the wringer either way. I'm sure the fact that this is a drug case is enough, but my tests have always come back clean."
"Except the time you reported being drugged by Bohdan."
"Except the time I reported being drugged by Bohdan, yes."
"Were you clean?"
"Do you want me to answer that honestly or answer that as a police officer?"
"Answer it to the best of your ability," Lieutenant Hill said.
"Yes."
"Then there should be no problem with you on the witness stand. He's going to rip you apart either way and you know that. We'll prepare you for that."
"He's going to ask why I didn't turn this over to the Feds."
"The Federal bureau doesn't take on drug cases often anymore unless they are directly correlated to the Cartel or are large scale production. We did not know the scope at the time of the operation or we would've included the Feds. Come on, detective, I know how to play this game better than that."
"But do they?"
"Right now, I need you to worry about the present. Go home and get some rest. We've got someone on you. In the morning we'll go over the rest of the details. You look tired, Brandon."
"I doubt I'll sleep. Just thinking about this paperwork is giving me a panic attack."
"I mean it. Rest. See your family if any are around. Try to prepare yourself for the rest of this. You can worry about the paperwork when the dust settles."
"That sounds like my superior officer has told you I'm already in trouble," Brandon said with a grin.
"Oh, he's mentioned sending you to evidence processing for at least a year. You win this case though and maybe he'll reconsider."
"There's nothing to win. It's clear cut and the evidence is there."
"Some of it is," Lieutenant Hill said as she stood up. "You're dismissed."
Brandon rose from the table with a nod and left the briefing room. There were no cinematic congratulatory handshakes or well wishes. People who passed him in the hall were busy on their own trajectory. The world didn't stop spinning on its axis because a case closed and he knew that better than anyone. He shifted through the hall toward the main exit like a ghost. This place seemed familiar and yet he couldn't remember more than the lingering scent memory of what it was like to be there.
Outside, he recognized the white wash wedged next to steel and concrete. He started toward the sidewalk when a familiar voice called to him.
"You can't go home on the bus. Nobody can watch you then," Nick Chandler leaned against a beat up Caprice that had obviously seen better days.
"Who the fuck takes the bus?" Brandon shot back. "Although I'd trust it over that piece of shit. This all the budget allows now?"
"I spent most of it on your mother, but listen," Nick shot back as he opened the passenger door, which creaked and groaned with use. "Shave your fucking face and get a haircut if you don't do anything else. You're a disgrace to this department and the uniform."
"You sound so much like Waters there it's almost unreal."
"I've been working on my impressions. I do a mean Jimmy Stewart," Nick said as he got in on the driver's side.
"I'm sure," Brandon agreed.
"No, I mean I do a mean one not a nice one. I'll buy you a beer."
"Can't."
"Lupinsky?"
"Yeah."
"Fuck. You'd think that dipshit would get tired of making money but losing every case."
"He doesn't lose them, they just disappear," Brandon corrected.
"Lose, disappear. It's all the fucking same. I'm sure he's going to fabricate some bullshit with this one too and get them off the hook. I'm sorry, man."
"I wouldn't be so sure. I've got solid testimony and they've got good evidence."
"But do you have a judge?" Nick asked with a wink as he pulled away from the curb to start their journey away from the precinct.
"I don't need a judge. I want this fairly finished."
"You just said you had Lupinsky. It's not going to be fair."
"Doesn't mean my side has to be unfair."
"You really are living that dream of Criminal Justice, aren't you?" Nick paused for just a minute as he thought about how he'd word what he wanted to say next. "I mean, good for you but if all else fails you're going to need to put pressure on a judge to recuse themselves. Lupinsky's got a lot of people on the underhand payroll."
"I know, but I'm not going to do any of that. It's just time he understands that even a god bleeds."
Two drops of blood landed in the sink of the Queens apartment while he checked the sharpness of the straight razor he hadn't used in three years. Warm lather on his face had softened whiskers but the drag of steel against his face still pulled. He took his time and went slow, with the grain as his father had caught him and when he finished the face that stared back at him was almost unrecognizable. He didn't look thirty despite his birthday passing between court dates. He felt older than that.
Cotton and silk dressed his throat as he wound the loops of the tie his father had given him when he graduated from the academy. The double windsor was a knot his father had never mastered, but one that he perfected so that the wide triangle didn't swallow the diameter of his neck. The suit jacket whispered over his shoulders when he ironed it down and clasped the button over badge and gun. It felt almost too heavy to wear both despite the sig sauer being relatively light in comparison to the metaphorical weight he'd been carrying around his neck for years. The piece of tin held his badge number and asserted that he belonged even if he didn't feel like it.
He surrendered his weapon before court, opting to sit in the back while proceedings happened. He wasn't scheduled to testify but the brunette who took the stand looked miles away from the bruised and broken girl he'd held down in a basement. Conventionally pretty, she flattered creme tones and her lawyer played to that. While they hadn't managed to nail Bohdan down. They had gotten Milkovich. Despite her smile, he could sense her tension as she sat in the room with him.
Brandon knew she'd been reassured several times over that nothing would happen to her, but he also understood the lack of trust. People who hadn't been in her position just wouldn't understand how hollow those words were. As the examination began, he caught her eye and lifted a hand faintly. He hadn't been allowed to speak with her prior to her testimony, but he wanted her to know that when he'd said he'd be there, he meant it.
The visible relaxation was almost immediate. Despite the line of questioning and the indelicate way that Lupinsky conducted himself, she managed to stick to her answers without wavering. Most people would've crumbled under that kind of pressure but he'd known her strength even before they'd walked into the courtroom looking for some semblance of justice.
When court broke after her testimony for a short recess, he eased out of the courtroom. Sitting through the proceedings would only make him angry all over again. Milkovich was a fish he'd managed to hook but it wasn't big enough. He was sure that Bohdan was in the Ukraine by now, back to doing the same thing in a country that didn't give a shit. Blowback would come or it wouldn't. It all depended on who told what and how well he did in the case with Cadore.
He was headed toward the door when he saw her approaching. The lawyer, who had become as much of a mother figure as anyone had ever wanted, wasn't far behind. Just to make sure nothing was said because soon, he'd be the one in the witness box.
"I guess I shouldn't be surprised," she said as she stopped just short of touching him.
"I meant what I said," Brandon replied.
"Detective," her lawyer warned.
"Easy Carol," Brandon said with a grin toward her. "I'm on your side, remember?"
"You said I could talk to him after I was on record," Marisa said as she turned back to look at her lawyer.
"Five minutes," Carol said as she stepped back and looked over her other appointments.
"You did great," Brandon assured. "Lupinsky is an asshole."
"I don't need the dad approval," Marisa shot back. "But thank you anyway."
"Speaking of, your parents come down?"
"Yeah. They're more happy I'm alive than anything."
"Don't give them too much shit."
"You know, I never got to tell you thank you," she started. "For what you did."
"You don't need to," Brandon replied. "I did my job."
Marisa closed the space between them and wrapped her arms around his neck. The hold was surprisingly tight and Brandon's hold was one handed and loose in comparison because he could see Carol's face and the overwhelming disapproval. On the withdrawal, she pressed her mouth against the side of his neck quickly. The affection left her rosy cheeked.
"Some day you'll learn to take gratitude," she said. "I'm glad you came today."
"Marisa," Carol snapped as she came back to retrieve the girl. "We still have to finish out the trial."
"Listen to Carol," Brandon said in response. "She's a smart lady and she'll take care of you through court. When it's over though? Head to Florida."
Carol looked between the two of them for some kind of clarification. Marisa tucked hair behind her ear and nodded before she allowed herself to be taken away with her lawyer. Even though Brandon smiled after her, he felt sick to his stomach. She'd never understand that while she was grateful for what he'd done to help her, he still remembered what he'd done to her. At least, what he made someone else believe he'd done to her.
He wasn't sure that he could reconcile that and as much as he wanted a drink, he knew better. He was completely sober through the proceedings because he knew that when his number was pulled to testify, he needed to be as clear as he could. Lupsinsky wouldn't let him go without at least sinking his teeth in and while his police record was exceptional, he knew that the way he'd managed to make his way into this assignment wasn't exactly the cleanest. However, it'd been taken out of every record that Caesar had introduced him. He didn't want the man involved if he didn't have to be.
The heat of summer came by the time he was asked to testify against Cadore. He sat in the court room looking entirely unfettered despite the fact that he spent the majority of his time in jail. The suit he wore was expensive and impeccably pressed. He carried himself in a way that suggested while he was offended by the accusations, he wasn't exactly surprised by them either. What had surprised him most was Brandon.
It wasn't that Brandon had been particularly clever or even ahead of him most of the way, but that he hadn't recognized it. Even when he'd had inklings that Brandon wasn't what he seemed, he'd never suspected he'd be the one to bring that empire crashing down. Alice had made an easy deal. All she did was synthesize and while it was a major loss in terms of what Brandon wanted, the testimony was enough to help nail the coffin on Cadore closed.
She spun a tale of how she was blackmailed and manipulated into working for Cadore. The near fatal beating had also been pinned on him, which Lupinsky used against her by claiming that no one who was beaten so badly would willingly go back to work for someone who had wielded the blows. It painted her as a lovesick child so desperate for attention that she'd more or less made up the scenario to make it seem more compelling.
Her inability to leave and continuance to take money offered from Cadore was damaging against the prosecution but she'd managed to mark up enough points that caused any objective person to question Cadore's claim of innocence. Innocent men didn't need chemists to build an empire.
Lupinsky attempted to paint him as a simple man with a plan and dreams of becoming mayor one day. He claimed jealousy on the part of the NYPD and that this was all to impede a great man from becoming powerful and asking for change. When it was Brandon's turn at bat, the argument turned into gross negligence for allowing him to have free reign of how the operation was handled. Who did he report to?
Brandon didn't focus on the ego blows or the defamation of character so much as Cadore's reaction to seeing him on the stand. The look in his eye was too sharp, too focused on remembering him. When Brandon stared back, it was for the same reason. No matter how hard Lupinsky pontificated, the damning evidence that had been gathered against Cadore was overwhelming. Even if he claimed to only own the properties where the labs were built, there were images of him from camera footage and his prints on everything.
He'd almost made it too easy, but that had been his philosophy from the start. The more up front and out in he open he could be, the easier it was to hide. Police never looked at or for the obvious because there had to be a deeper meaning or motivation. It had almost worked. That was the look that he'd given to Brandon as they sat nearly facing one another. He'd almost managed to build a perfect empire, but he'd been greedy and careless.
The truth was that he'd loved Alice. As much as a man like Cadore could love anyone, but she was only interested in the thrill of making money and doing something she could brag about to people. Cadore was interesting at first and dangerous but his calm and level headed approach to business took all of the passion out of it. He knew where he wanted to be and when he wanted to be there rather than acting on impulse. Acting on impulse would've made him easier to manipulate and that was what Alice relied on most.
Charm didn't win out over everything and both of them were prime examples of that. Even with natural charisma, the evidence pointed to a hefty sentence; something that Lupinsky eventually had to give himself to. He could make things disappear in smaller cases, but this had too many people involved for him to just sweep it under the table. So, in an last ditch to try and help Cadore, he resigned from the case.
The resignation wasn't taken well. Lupinsky was the best lawyer for these kinds of cases and it looked like he found Cadore guilty of crimes he didn't commit. Finding Lupinsky face down in an indoor pool two days later had shifted the case's dynamic from speculative to damning. Even though Cadore was in custody so that his hands were figuratively tied, everyone knew why Lupinsky had allegedly drowned himself despite being in excellent health with no mental disturbances to speak of.
His replacement came from the same Firm; a woman named Hurst who picked up where Lupinsky left off despite it being too late. The judgment was handed down as consecutive terms on consecutive charges in the form of a guilty verdict. Cadore's parole date was joke; set long after he'd expire of natural causes was something that she brought up in her appellate statement. He wasn't being given a natural right to freedom that peole wh were wrongfully imprisoned were entitled to Brandon honestly couldn't understand the level of delusion they were operating on.
Court ate up the majority of Brandon's time between filing paperwork and attempting to adjust to life in precinct he'd been assigned to but only spent a few months in. It was a bit like relearning the dynamic of an easily greased wheel. Eventually he'd be back in the field doing something more than taking his grandfather's name as is own and pretending that his connections overseas could sell more than the various odds and ends they picked up at a local market for far more that they were worth.
For a brief while, he'd flown toward the sun but even Icarus fell back to the reality of Earth.
Cotton and silk dressed his throat as he wound the loops of the tie his father had given him when he graduated from the academy. The double windsor was a knot his father had never mastered, but one that he perfected so that the wide triangle didn't swallow the diameter of his neck. The suit jacket whispered over his shoulders when he ironed it down and clasped the button over badge and gun. It felt almost too heavy to wear both despite the sig sauer being relatively light in comparison to the metaphorical weight he'd been carrying around his neck for years. The piece of tin held his badge number and asserted that he belonged even if he didn't feel like it.
He surrendered his weapon before court, opting to sit in the back while proceedings happened. He wasn't scheduled to testify but the brunette who took the stand looked miles away from the bruised and broken girl he'd held down in a basement. Conventionally pretty, she flattered creme tones and her lawyer played to that. While they hadn't managed to nail Bohdan down. They had gotten Milkovich. Despite her smile, he could sense her tension as she sat in the room with him.
Brandon knew she'd been reassured several times over that nothing would happen to her, but he also understood the lack of trust. People who hadn't been in her position just wouldn't understand how hollow those words were. As the examination began, he caught her eye and lifted a hand faintly. He hadn't been allowed to speak with her prior to her testimony, but he wanted her to know that when he'd said he'd be there, he meant it.
The visible relaxation was almost immediate. Despite the line of questioning and the indelicate way that Lupinsky conducted himself, she managed to stick to her answers without wavering. Most people would've crumbled under that kind of pressure but he'd known her strength even before they'd walked into the courtroom looking for some semblance of justice.
When court broke after her testimony for a short recess, he eased out of the courtroom. Sitting through the proceedings would only make him angry all over again. Milkovich was a fish he'd managed to hook but it wasn't big enough. He was sure that Bohdan was in the Ukraine by now, back to doing the same thing in a country that didn't give a shit. Blowback would come or it wouldn't. It all depended on who told what and how well he did in the case with Cadore.
He was headed toward the door when he saw her approaching. The lawyer, who had become as much of a mother figure as anyone had ever wanted, wasn't far behind. Just to make sure nothing was said because soon, he'd be the one in the witness box.
"I guess I shouldn't be surprised," she said as she stopped just short of touching him.
"I meant what I said," Brandon replied.
"Detective," her lawyer warned.
"Easy Carol," Brandon said with a grin toward her. "I'm on your side, remember?"
"You said I could talk to him after I was on record," Marisa said as she turned back to look at her lawyer.
"Five minutes," Carol said as she stepped back and looked over her other appointments.
"You did great," Brandon assured. "Lupinsky is an asshole."
"I don't need the dad approval," Marisa shot back. "But thank you anyway."
"Speaking of, your parents come down?"
"Yeah. They're more happy I'm alive than anything."
"Don't give them too much shit."
"You know, I never got to tell you thank you," she started. "For what you did."
"You don't need to," Brandon replied. "I did my job."
Marisa closed the space between them and wrapped her arms around his neck. The hold was surprisingly tight and Brandon's hold was one handed and loose in comparison because he could see Carol's face and the overwhelming disapproval. On the withdrawal, she pressed her mouth against the side of his neck quickly. The affection left her rosy cheeked.
"Some day you'll learn to take gratitude," she said. "I'm glad you came today."
"Marisa," Carol snapped as she came back to retrieve the girl. "We still have to finish out the trial."
"Listen to Carol," Brandon said in response. "She's a smart lady and she'll take care of you through court. When it's over though? Head to Florida."
Carol looked between the two of them for some kind of clarification. Marisa tucked hair behind her ear and nodded before she allowed herself to be taken away with her lawyer. Even though Brandon smiled after her, he felt sick to his stomach. She'd never understand that while she was grateful for what he'd done to help her, he still remembered what he'd done to her. At least, what he made someone else believe he'd done to her.
He wasn't sure that he could reconcile that and as much as he wanted a drink, he knew better. He was completely sober through the proceedings because he knew that when his number was pulled to testify, he needed to be as clear as he could. Lupsinsky wouldn't let him go without at least sinking his teeth in and while his police record was exceptional, he knew that the way he'd managed to make his way into this assignment wasn't exactly the cleanest. However, it'd been taken out of every record that Caesar had introduced him. He didn't want the man involved if he didn't have to be.
The heat of summer came by the time he was asked to testify against Cadore. He sat in the court room looking entirely unfettered despite the fact that he spent the majority of his time in jail. The suit he wore was expensive and impeccably pressed. He carried himself in a way that suggested while he was offended by the accusations, he wasn't exactly surprised by them either. What had surprised him most was Brandon.
It wasn't that Brandon had been particularly clever or even ahead of him most of the way, but that he hadn't recognized it. Even when he'd had inklings that Brandon wasn't what he seemed, he'd never suspected he'd be the one to bring that empire crashing down. Alice had made an easy deal. All she did was synthesize and while it was a major loss in terms of what Brandon wanted, the testimony was enough to help nail the coffin on Cadore closed.
She spun a tale of how she was blackmailed and manipulated into working for Cadore. The near fatal beating had also been pinned on him, which Lupinsky used against her by claiming that no one who was beaten so badly would willingly go back to work for someone who had wielded the blows. It painted her as a lovesick child so desperate for attention that she'd more or less made up the scenario to make it seem more compelling.
Her inability to leave and continuance to take money offered from Cadore was damaging against the prosecution but she'd managed to mark up enough points that caused any objective person to question Cadore's claim of innocence. Innocent men didn't need chemists to build an empire.
Lupinsky attempted to paint him as a simple man with a plan and dreams of becoming mayor one day. He claimed jealousy on the part of the NYPD and that this was all to impede a great man from becoming powerful and asking for change. When it was Brandon's turn at bat, the argument turned into gross negligence for allowing him to have free reign of how the operation was handled. Who did he report to?
Brandon didn't focus on the ego blows or the defamation of character so much as Cadore's reaction to seeing him on the stand. The look in his eye was too sharp, too focused on remembering him. When Brandon stared back, it was for the same reason. No matter how hard Lupinsky pontificated, the damning evidence that had been gathered against Cadore was overwhelming. Even if he claimed to only own the properties where the labs were built, there were images of him from camera footage and his prints on everything.
He'd almost made it too easy, but that had been his philosophy from the start. The more up front and out in he open he could be, the easier it was to hide. Police never looked at or for the obvious because there had to be a deeper meaning or motivation. It had almost worked. That was the look that he'd given to Brandon as they sat nearly facing one another. He'd almost managed to build a perfect empire, but he'd been greedy and careless.
The truth was that he'd loved Alice. As much as a man like Cadore could love anyone, but she was only interested in the thrill of making money and doing something she could brag about to people. Cadore was interesting at first and dangerous but his calm and level headed approach to business took all of the passion out of it. He knew where he wanted to be and when he wanted to be there rather than acting on impulse. Acting on impulse would've made him easier to manipulate and that was what Alice relied on most.
Charm didn't win out over everything and both of them were prime examples of that. Even with natural charisma, the evidence pointed to a hefty sentence; something that Lupinsky eventually had to give himself to. He could make things disappear in smaller cases, but this had too many people involved for him to just sweep it under the table. So, in an last ditch to try and help Cadore, he resigned from the case.
The resignation wasn't taken well. Lupinsky was the best lawyer for these kinds of cases and it looked like he found Cadore guilty of crimes he didn't commit. Finding Lupinsky face down in an indoor pool two days later had shifted the case's dynamic from speculative to damning. Even though Cadore was in custody so that his hands were figuratively tied, everyone knew why Lupinsky had allegedly drowned himself despite being in excellent health with no mental disturbances to speak of.
His replacement came from the same Firm; a woman named Hurst who picked up where Lupinsky left off despite it being too late. The judgment was handed down as consecutive terms on consecutive charges in the form of a guilty verdict. Cadore's parole date was joke; set long after he'd expire of natural causes was something that she brought up in her appellate statement. He wasn't being given a natural right to freedom that peole wh were wrongfully imprisoned were entitled to Brandon honestly couldn't understand the level of delusion they were operating on.
Court ate up the majority of Brandon's time between filing paperwork and attempting to adjust to life in precinct he'd been assigned to but only spent a few months in. It was a bit like relearning the dynamic of an easily greased wheel. Eventually he'd be back in the field doing something more than taking his grandfather's name as is own and pretending that his connections overseas could sell more than the various odds and ends they picked up at a local market for far more that they were worth.
For a brief while, he'd flown toward the sun but even Icarus fell back to the reality of Earth.
