Page 13 of Road to Ruin
CHAPTER FOUR
NIKITA
Thomas Jared Kendrick.
Also known as: “Havoc”
D.O.B: 07/07/83
Malicious Destruction of Property.
Two counts of breaking and entering.
Two counts of possession of a controlled dangerous substance.
Four counts of assault.
Three counts of illegal gambling.
Three years served in Orleans Parish Prison.
My eyes skim over the file I brought home from the prison for the hundredth time, and I feel sick. I can’t really believe I took it. If anyone finds out I did, I could lose my job. I felt like I had to do it, though. I couldn’t wait until morning to find out exactly who this Tommy Kendrick character is, and a prison isn’t exactly the kind of workplace where you can stay late if you need to. Once five thirty hits, that’s it. You’re out the door without so much as a by-your-leave.
So, yes. I broke the law. I tucked the file into the waistband of my pants, concealing it underneath my shirt, and I walked out of the place as if nothing had happened. Normally I wouldn’t have risked such an insanely stupid thing. Technically I should be patted down by the C.O.s before I leave the building, but they’re not quite as strict with me as they should be. I’ve worked here for years now, and most counsellors never last more than a few months. Everyone knows me. Everyone trusts me. So while I might get checked religiously on the way into work in the morning, the guards generally wave me through the metal detectors and send me on my merry way later on in the day.
What would have happened if they’d found the file on me, though? I’d have lost my job for sure. My license would have followed shortly after that. Maybe I’d have earned some jail time myself. Fucking stupid of me. It’s only now that I’m home and in my PJs with a bottle of red sitting on the table in front of me that I’m finding myself panicked by how easy it was for me to break a legal and professional code of conduct. Too easy.
I take a sip of my wine, trying to make heads or tails of Tommy Kendrick’s file. Dr. Lindstrom was the counsellor on staff during Kendrick’s stay, or for the majority of it anyway. The guy must have been nearly a hundred years old. At the end of my working day, I sit at my computer and I type up my notes for each of the inmates I treated over the seven hours previous, then I print my comments and observations out and add the papers to the relevant inmate’s file, as well as store the file on the computer. Not Lindstrom, though. He didn’t save a single file during his career at the prison, nor did he type up his notes. Everything is handwritten in the most illegible, scratchy handwriting, like a drunken spider crawled across page after page of paper.
I don’t doubt it made perfect sense to Lindstrom, but I can barely make out every third word. It’s incredibly frustrating, and makes my risk seem worthless. Kendrick’s rap sheet is literally the only printed document in the entire file.
I cut my losses and take out my cell phone, determined to get some info on the guy one way or another tonight. After his weird behavior earlier on, I haven’t wanted to ask Mitch anything. He was almost respectful to Tommy, like he admires the other man in some way.I can’t imagine how that could possibly be the case, but it’s my job to see these things. I read people’s body language like I read the pages in a book. It may not make any sense but that’s what I witnessed.
The phone only rings three times before Mitch picks up. “Nikita? What time is it? Aren’t you normally asleep by now?”
“Mitch, it’s nine p.m. No, I’m not usually asleep by now.” I kick myself as I say the words; for a long time now I’ve been staving off Mitch’s advances, his gentle persuasion tactics to get me to stay at the bar for just one more beer with him, because I tell him I like to go to bed early so I can get up and work out before my shifts at the prison. There’s an extended period of silence between us, and I can imagine the stunned look on Mitch’s face. Damn it. I should have thought before I opened my mouth.
“Okay. Well…what can I do for you?” he asks politely.
I don’t pull any punches. I get straight to the point. “I’m worried about Junior. I need to know he’s okay. You were talking about fights earlier—”
“Nikki, you are not…” He lets out a frustrated sigh. “You can’t just show up at these events, okay? You’ll get yourself into some major trouble. And anyway, it’s been five hours. Do you honestly think Junior’s out throwing punches in a cage? I think there’s more chance of him being dick-deep in some hot bartender than anything else. The guy hasn’t had sex in three years. Listen. The men who organize these things aren’t messing around, Nikita. They’re powerful and they’re dangerous. People don’t talk about them. They don’t even whisper about them in the safety of their own homes.” He’s exasperated, his voice tense. “The Champion Ultime fights are a very well kept secret. I only know about them because…well, my old man used to fight in them when I was a kid. I’m not proud of the fact, but there you go. I grew up around that stuff, and it made for a fairly terrifying childhood. So, please, Nikki. Please. Don’t concern yourself with this stuff anymore. I promise I’ll go and check on Junior in a couple of days, okay? You can even come with me if you really need to. But for now, promise you’re going to let this go.”
“Mitch—”
“I mean it. Tell me you’re going to quit digging this hole. It’s a hole that could turn into a grave really fucking quick, believe me. Nikki? Say the words. I want to hear you say that you’ll drop this.”
I screw my eyes shut, breathing out hard down my nose. God damn it all to hell. If he didn’t sound so serious right now, I might tell him to mind his own business and let me do what I need to, but I get the impression he’s about to drive over here and chain me to my kitchen sink. He’d be able to do it easily enough; the man has access to a lot of restraints. “Okay. Fine. But just so you know…I’m not letting this drop. It’s my duty and responsibility to take care of my patients. If you think I can just switch that off the moment they’re released, you’re grossly mistaken.”
“Of course I don’t expect that of you,” he says softly. “You’re good at your job. You care about people an awful lot. Too much, in fact. It’s one of the things I admire about you, Nikita.”
I squirm, holding the phone away from my ear for a second. Mitch has never come out and said anything sentimental or romantic to me before. He’s never professed his feelings for me, and I thank the lord for that every day. The prospect makes me incredibly uncomfortable. To be fair, it’s not just Mitch. I’d be uncomfortable about any guy telling me he had feelings for me. I’ve had boyfriends in the past, but the moment they become too emotionally involved, I pull the ripcord. I know how ironic this is. Usually that kind of dynamic is reversed between men and women. The psychologist in me should want to analyze why this might be, but, honestly, I try not to think about it.
“I have to go,” I say quietly. “I’m sorry I bothered you so late, Mitch.”
“It’s okay.” He sounds a little annoyed, like he might have been expecting me to say something different. Thank you, or, “I had no idea you admired me, Mitch.” Or maybe, “You’re sweet. There are many qualities I admire in you, too. We should grab dinner sometime and talk about them, then go back to my place and fuck like animals.”
“I’ll see you in the morning, Nik.”
