Read Online Shattered by Jay Bonansinga - Free Book Online Page B

reeked of old sweat and ammonia. Milambri cupped his hand over the photograph of Ulysses Grove and closed his fist. “Yeah, that’s a good one,” he said with a laugh, loud enough for the guard to register nothing out of the ordinary.
    Splet looked down at the crumpled little photo. “Is there a problem?”
    â€œShut the hell up.”
    â€œDid I say something wrong?”
    â€œShut your hole, dickhead,” Milambri growled, still displaying his yellow teeth in that bogus grin. “And lemme explain something to you.”
    â€œI’m sorry if I—”
    â€œYou bring that shit in here when I’m looking at a goddamn nickel without possibility of parole?”
    â€œI didn’t mean to—”
    â€œShut up, faggot. And listen. And learn. I will erase your family…you bring that shit in here when I’m up for review in two weeks.”
    Splet swallowed drily. “I’m sorry.”
    â€œShut your mouth,” Milambri said, his grin changing to more of a yellow rictus. He ripped the photo from the carton and shoved it back at Splet. “I don’t know where you got the idea the Outfit was some kinda drive-up window for faggots looking to wax some G-man…but lemme set you straight. Tagging somebody in the Bureau is like popping a priest. Comprende , dickhead? You follow me?”
    Splet nodded, putting the picture in his shirt pocket. His voice softening. “Yes, I follow you, sir…absolutely, yes.”
    â€œGet that shit outta here.”
    â€œI’m sorry I—”
    Milambri had already pushed himself away from the table, and had risen to his full six-foot-plus height, the carton of cigarettes under his massive tree trunk of an arm. He nodded at the guard. The guard came over, and the two men strode away without a word, without even glancing at Splet.
    The animal sounds echoed. An obese woman cackled in one corner.
    Splet let out a long, anguished sigh.
    He left the building with the crumpled picture still in his pocket.

SEVEN
    Around 5:30 that afternoon, Grove met his mother at Reagan International, and they hugged each other warmly, exchanging banalities. It felt good to see the old girl again, despite the rancid memories that she stirred in Grove, and he told her she was looking too skinny, and she should eat more of that kashishi stew she always used to foist on the neighborhood kids.
    They walked out of the airport arm in arm. In the parking garage, Grove piled her things—her valise, her shopping bag of half-eaten sandwiches, trinkets, and empty water bottles—into the Blazer.
    For much of the ten-mile hop back to Alexandria, they rode in awkward silence. Along the way, Grove would catch a glimpse every few moments of Vida in his peripheral vision, her proud Nubian visage raised against the overcast daylight, her long, wattled neck as brown as tobacco leaves. She looked as though she were summoning some kind of celestial energy from the clouds as she chain-smoked her filterless Camels, the ashes flecking and tossing in the wind.
    Grove had seen that look on her face before. It usually meant trouble. That defiant gaze aimed up at the heavens, eyes narrowed, brow furrowed and crinkled with loose skin. Those looks usually preceded some kind of metaphysical proclamation about the crops failing or locusts coming or rivers running red. Grove had fought those old superstitions for most of his life. He’d been embarrassed by them as a child, and rebelled against them as a young man. But nowadays he was a different person. He was a believer. Vida had saved his life on more than one occasion with her mysterious juju.
    In fact, for years now, Grove had been formulating a new unified theory of his work as a profiler, his efforts to confront evil, his place in the cosmos. He had become more and more interested in his African heritage, and had started collecting spiritual ephemera, charms, talismans. He had secretly become obsessed