CHAPTER NINETEEN

Garvey was not happy when the agents arrived. "Hey," she said, arms crossed, face set in a scowl. "Which one of you told Roman Kerry that he was going to be released if he cooperated with you?"

Faith blinked. "Neither of us. We never said he was going to be released, just that we would help reduce the charges."

"Why the hell would you tell him that?" Garvey shouted.

"We needed to find the murderer," Faith explained, "and I have a profile. If we can just—"

"You can't just upend the most important case in this department's recent history because it happens to be convenient for your case," Garvey interrupted. "Roman is my collar, agents. Not yours. Just because you slapped the cuffs on his wrist doesn't suddenly give you the right to decide how his case will be handled."

Faith was stunned by this sudden reversal of attitude in a woman who, up until now, had been solidly on their side. "Detective Garvey, people are dying. We needed the killer."

"Gangsters are dying, agent," Garvey retorted. "And before you get all high and mighty and insist that gangsters are people too, let me remind you that I've spent fifteen years with this department watching those same gangsters orchestrate the deaths of dozens of other people, not to mention trafficking others and hooking thousands more on heroin and cocaine. I'm sorry if it pisses you off to know that their deaths pale in comparison to the deaths of thousands of innocents, but it does, and I'm not about to let one of their leaders shrug off ninety percent of his sentence just because he helps you find a vigilante who's done more to stop this gang than the FBI ever has."

Michael's eyes narrowed. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were supporting this killer."

"Yeah, you don't know shit," Garvey spat back. "I want this vigilante off the streets as much as anyone, but I'm not making deals with the devil to stop an imp."

Faith was as upset as Michael was at the animosity from Garvey, but she didn't have time to argue about it now. "We can talk about this later," she said, "we need to speak to Kerry again."

"Of course you do. And that's all that matters, right?"

Faith had had enough. "Yes, detective," she said coldly. "It is all that matters. You can be as pissy about it as you want, but yes, what matters right now is that we find a serial killer who is currently active in your city. So you can help us, you can get out of our way, or we can have our boss call your boss and get you out of our way."

Garvey nodded contemptuously. "So that's it, huh? Nice to finally meet you, agent."

"You too, detective," Faith spat back. "Now, where's our person of interest."

"Same place you left him," Garvey replied, "where he's probably still whining about the fact I haven't provided a luxury taxi service back to one of the Syndicates whorehouses."

"Thank you," Faith said, brushing past her.

As promised, Roman Kerry was right where they left him in the holding cell. As promised, he was indeed whining about the fact that he was still in jail. When he saw the agents, he jammed a finger into their faces and said, "Hey. You two said you'd get me out."

"No," Faith said, "we said that we'd help reduce the sentence and the charges. You're still a gangster with multiple felonies to your name who threatened a federal agent and ran an illegal dogfighting ring."

"Harris ran that ring. I just stepped in after he died."

"Which will help reduce, but not eliminate, your sentence. Now, speaking of Harris, I have some questions about him."

"Fuck you. I'm done talking to you. You want info? Get me out of this cage."

"How ironic," Michael said contemptuously. "The dog wants out of his cage. Maybe we should put you in a ring with another dog and see how it ends up walking away."

"You name the time and place, Mike," Roman retorted. "I'll be happy to rip your throat out."

"Hey," Faith called, snapping her fingers for attention. "We told you that we'd help reduce the charges if you gave us information leading to your killer. Well, your information led us to a dead end. Give us info that leads to the killer, and those fifteen years turn to two."

"Yeah, I don't think so," Roman said, "See, I made a mistake last time. I forgot that you guys can lie to people just like I can. I trusted you, which was stupid. We're going back to street rules now. Tit for tat. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. Get me out of here, and I'll tell you anything you want to know. Until that happens, you can chase your damned tails."

"So fifteen years sounds better than two, huh?" Faith asked.

"I don't believe for a minute that you're going to help me," Roman said, "not unless I force you. So, I'm forcing you. I want a signed statement that I will be cleared of all charges for assisting the FBI in this murder case."

"People in Hell want ice water," Michael retorted.

"And people on the other side of the cage want answers," Roman retorted. "No one's getting what they want until I get mine."

Faith could see in the set of Roman's jaw that he meant it. They had exhausted his usefulness. She sighed and said, "Well, maybe prison won't be so bad. You seem like a sweet guy. I'm sure you'll make friends."

"Yeah?" Roman sneered. "You want to be my friend, agent? Bet you'd look real nice with your face down and your ass up."

"All right," Michael said, "Enjoy prison."

The three agents left the room. Garvey met them outside, her arms crossed. "Get what you need?" she asked sarcastically.

"Detective Garvey," Faith said stiffly. "I fully understand that you're upset right now. I'm pretty sure you and I are upset for similar reasons. So we can butt heads, or you can deal with the fact that the FBI is in charge right now. Make our jobs easier, and we make yours easier."

"By giving my suspects a get out of jail free card?"

"By taking a murderer off the streets," Faith replied, "in addition to orchestrating a raid that by your own admission is the biggest bust you've seen in your career. In addition to busting the three primary revenue streams of the Georgia Syndicate in Atlanta. You're choosing to be angry over a relatively minor detail and ignoring the great help we've done your city, your department and your career. And that's fine. I truly don't care how you feel about this. But you will put yourself and your department at our disposal, or I will go over your head and make sure that whoever I have to talk to knows exactly why. I don't have time to play nice anymore."

Garvey glared at her, and Faith was certain that if Garvey could have teleported her back to Philadelphia, she would have. After a moment, though, the glare faded, and Garvey nodded. "Fair enough. You have your job, I have mine. Up until now, our interests have coincided, and, like you said, you helped us out. Okay. I won't promise to support you if you try to reduce Roman's sentence, but I'll help you find your killer."

"Well, you'll be happy to know that Roman has declined to be of assistance," Michael said, "so feel free to throw the book at him."

Garvey lifted an eyebrow. "So he got stupid again, huh? Can't say I'm surprised."

"Listen," Faith said, "the killer is someone who lost a dog, probably recently. Someone who's intentionally targeting people who stole dogs that ended up dead in the pits."

"So what about Harris then? He wasn't stealing dogs."

"Exactly. He's the outlier, and he's the one this case hinges on. We've been operating under the assumption that it was personal with Mariano, and that the killer was escalating with Evans, but I think we have it backwards. I think the killer went to the one who mattered most first. I think that's why there was a struggle. He needed Harris coherent when he saw him. He needed Harris to know who he was and why he was doing this. He needed to hear Harris admit to his crimes. That gave Harris a chance to escape, which is why there were signs of a struggle in his case but not in anyone else's case."

"So you wanted Roman to tell you if any of Harris's dogs had been killed lately," Garvey surmised, "so you could track those dogs back to their owners."

"Exactly," Faith said, "but he's not talking, so we need to talk to the other gangsters present at the pits."

"All right," Garvey said, "I can help with that. I can't make anyone talk, though. Even the underlings are clamming up."

"We have to try," Faith said.

Try they did. They spent the next two hours interviewing prisoners and getting nothing. The prisoners, interestingly enough, were more than willing to divulge details of their own involvement in the ring. A few were pit bosses. A few were trainers. A few were handlers and a few were what they called "ticket-takers," people who took spectator fees and bets and handled the flow of cash. Two of them were security. They happily detailed their violent defense of the gang's right to make innocent dogs murder each other, but when it came to talking about Harris and which of his dogs hadn't fared well in the pit, they clammed up.

"For God's sake," Faith said in exasperation after the tenth interview once more yielded nothing. "Harris is dead. What's he going to do to you?"

"It ain't about that," the man said, "It's about honor. We don't snitch on each other."

Faith pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose. "Honor? Seriously? You guys stole pets and trained them to eat each other. What kind of honor is that?"

The man drew himself up with sickening pride. "We're wolves, agent. Sure, we eat sheep. But we don't eat other wolves."

"Charming," Faith said, rolling her eyes. "I'm sure you'll find that to be exactly the same when you share a room with a lifer. Good luck with that."

The police officers filed him away, his chest still absurdly puffed out. Faith turned to Michael, hands on her hips and said, "So what do we do now?"

"I don't know," Michael said, shaking his head. Then his eyes widened. "Actually, I do."

He left the interrogation room suddenly. Faith and Turk followed on his heels. He found Garvey and said, "The others arrested that night, the ones who weren't affiliated with the gang. Where did they go?"

Garvey lifted an eyebrow. "They're at county waiting for their arraignment. Why? You think they know something?"

"I don't know, but if they do, I think they might be willing to talk," Michael said. "The gangsters all have the snitches get stitches motto drilled into their brains. We won't get anything from them."

"All right," Garvey said. "You want to go to county, or do you want me to send someone here?"

"What's faster?"

"I'll have them bring someone here. Then they only need to process him instead of him and you."

"Have them send all of them here," Faith said. "We'll talk until we get an answer."

***

Benjamin Ritter was very clearly not the same kind of person as the gangsters Faith and Michael had been talking to before now. He practically shook with fear, and when he accepted the water Faith brought him, he spilled some, bringing it to his lips.

"Jail's not so fun a place to be, is it?" Michael said sympathetically.

Benjamin swallowed and shook his head.

"People being mean to you, Ben?" Michael asked.

"Or are they being too nice?' Faith said.

Ben shivered. "N—no one's hurt me yet, but… look, agents, I know I made a mistake, okay? I shouldn't have been in that place. It's not for me."

"Really?" Faith asked, "because you told Detective Garvey that was your ninth visit to the pits. If it wasn't for you, why did you go back?"

Ben swallowed. "I… I know I shouldn't have—"

"We've established that, Ben," Michael said. "Read you loud and clear. You did wrong. Believe me, we have no confusion on that point. The reason we're here now is because you have a chance to do right."

Ben blinked. "I… I don't understand."

"That's okay," Michael said, his voice laced with contempt. "I wouldn't expect you to. So let me help you out. We believe we know who's been electrocuting people to death with a shock collar. You heard about that, right?"

Ben nodded. "Some of the guys at the warehouse were talking about it."

"Look at you, keeping your ears open," Faith said. "That's good. That's real good."

"It sure is," Michael said, "it means you might actually be able to do good."

A lightbulb went off in Ben's head. He finally realized that if he cooperated with the agents, then they would be inclined to release him. "Y-Yeah. Okay. What do you want to know?"

"Are you familiar with Harvey Harris?" Michael asked.

"H-Bomb? Yeah, he was the master of ceremonies. The dogfights were his baby. He was the one who first organized them. He built the league and everything, created the brackets, wrote the rules. He was turning it into a legitimate sport that…"

He saw the stony faces of the agents and Turk's narrowed eyes and decided that it probably wasn't in his best interests to speak so glowingly of dogfighting. He swallowed and finished with, "Anyway, yeah. I know him."

"Wonderful," Faith said, "How many of his own dogs fought?"

"Well, he didn't fight his own dogs much anymore. He'd find dogs for other people, but the only dog I know that he fought under his own name was a German shepherd he called Huntress."

Faith tried to keep the excitement from showing on her face. "What happened to Huntress?"

Ben shrugged. "Well… she wasn't a very good huntress."

"Lost her fight, huh?" Michael asked.

"Badly. She didn't even fight back. She just stood there and let herself get literally eaten." He shook his head. "I couldn't believe it. A lot of people were pissed. Harris talked her up, you know? She told everyone she was small but fierce. Talked about how he had seen her take down powerlifters and bodybuilders five times her size. Said she scared the hell out of all the other dogs in the pits. Then she didn't fight. Didn't even try to protect herself, not even when the other dog bit out her—"

"All right," Michael interrupted. "We get the point."

"Now this is the important part, Ben," Faith said, uncrossing her arms and leaning forward on the table. "Do you know who Huntress's owner was before Harris stole her?"

Ben shook his head. "They never told us any of that. I didn't even know that he stole the dog. I thought they raised them from puppies to be fighters."

Michael sighed. "See, that's a problem, Ben. That helps us, but only a little. Meaning we can only help you a little. I don't know if you're aware, but betting on dogfights nine times in a row carries a sentence of up to three years each. That's twenty-seven years, Ben. That's a lot of life. You're what, twenty-seven, twenty-eight?"

"Twenty-nine," Ben said.

"Twenty-nine. So you'd be… fifty-six when you get out?" Michael whistled. "That's a long time. Well, with the info you gave us, maybe we can shave a third of that off. That means you get out at forty-seven. I guess that's not too bad—"

"Wait!" Ben said, "Wait! I… I can tell you what she looked like. She… she had a little divot in her ear, right out of the top. Right he—" he reached for Turk's ear, and Turk growled low in his throat. Ben jerked his hand back and said, "Um… right on the top. She also had light brown fur, lighter than his, almost tan. Uh, and blue eyes. I guess she was a husky mix or something."

Michael smiled. "Now that's more like it, Ben. All right. We'll see what we can do about these charges."

"Oh, thank you!" Ben cried. "Thank you so much! I'm so sorry. I'll never do anything like that ever again, I swear!"

"Uh huh," Michael said.

He nodded at the officer, who led the still profusely grateful Ben out the door. He turned to Faith and said, "You want to talk to the others, or do you want to start looking for this dog?"

"We start looking for the dog," Faith said. "If we find this dog, then we find the killer."

"You're sure of that?"

Faith looked at Turk next to her and thought of everything she would do to anyone who hurt him, everything she wanted to do to West just for threatening to take him from her. She had been fortunate enough to get Turk back. Huntress's original owner hadn't. He had no reason left to control himself.

"Yes," she said, "I'm sure."