Eleven (Brandon Fisher FBI Series)

Chapter 31 & 32

Chapter 31

THE RINGING CELL PHONE CUT through the minute trace of happiness that came from the few small bottles of whiskey I drank back-to-back from the mini-bar. I sat slumped forward, watching out the window over the street. People all had somewhere to be, people waiting on them. I had no one now. I tore off the lid of a fourth bottle and swung it back before I answered.

"Special Agent Fisher."

"Kid, we got a hit on the fingerprint from the recording device."

I sat back, the fresh swig of whiskey soothing me. Even the sound of Jack's voice didn't have the ability to jar me sober. "Who?"

"The guy's name is Peter Robinson. He's on file for assaulting his wife a couple years back. Apparently, he held a knife on her —"

"We'll go now." I stood up holding the cell between my ear and shoulder and hoisted up on the holster around my waist. The combination of rising quickly and the whiskey had me lightheaded.

"The guy owns a pawn shop on the corner of Clark and South Lockwood Ridge Road. Now remember, this could be the unsub we've been looking for. Round up local PD. Go in hot."

Go in hot. I always thought that was something they said in the movies.

"I'm texting the information to your cell. And Kid?"

"Yeah."

"Don't mess this up."

"You can count on—" The line went dead.

If Jack knew I was drinking on the job, I wouldn't have to worry about my career factoring into my marriage.

"ARE YOU GOING TO APOLOGIZE?"

"I don't believe I did anything."

"You basically called me a slut."

"I'm not in the mood right now."

Paige leaned in toward my mouth and sniffed. "You've been drinking."

We headed down the elevator to the lobby. Local PD had been called in.

"If Jack finds out—"

"Is he going to?"

Paige's jaw tightened, and she turned to face the elevator doors. "No."

*****

SOMETHING MUST BE SAID FOR flying through a city at the speed of seventy miles per hour with cruisers trailing behind, sirens wailing and their lights refracting off the glass buildings like a kaleidoscope.

Paige drove while I rode shotgun because as she said that I wasn't in any shape to drive. The Cruze rocked as if on stormy seas. Any more whiskey and it would be revisiting.

"Let me take the lead." Paige figured that with the driver's seat came the position of power.

I didn't say anything, and she glanced over. She swerved through traffic as a ribbon being weaved through a basket. How she managed with only half her attention on the road, the rest devoted to me, I didn't know.

"Why were you drinking anyway?"

"Call it lunch."

She scrunched up her face. "What—"

"We've been putting in overtime. The way I see it, lunch is my time. On my time—"

"It's after four in the afternoon, and you drink yourself shit-faced?"