[ So here was the thing--people tried their best to keep Vecchio's old cases off his desk. They did. Generally speaking they even did pretty good at it too, because the risk was that one day he'd walk in somewhere and introduce himself and someone in this city would remember a slick Italian chatting them up once and it'd all be over.
It was a dumb plan, but hell if the Mountie had let it go then it could work, and they played their hand of luck pretty well all things considered. Even when they'd been named and shamed on the evening news, Kowalski's face and Vecchio's name actually in print, right there on screen, nobody had called in to make a point of it. They'd skated on thin ice, made it through, and that was good; it was greatness. But just like a run on poker it was only a matter of time before his cards were bad and his bluffing was worse, and that was when Fraser would rob him of the rest of his air.
So. He got the call at his desk, someone had asked for him - for Vecchio - by name, and he'd shrugged it off and grabbed his coat. Probably one of his contacts; they didn't leave a name. The note gave a time and a place, which thanks to his taking an extra hour at lunch chasing a cashier thief around an arcade meant he was in danger of being late.
The alleyway was down the side of a train station. The one where Fraser had been shot, if his memory was right, but either way--meeting at a train station, not that weird. Of course usually people would meet inside a train station, wouldn't they? He scratched at his stubble and took a look around the place. It was a nice sunny day, but that didn't do much for the alleyway, which was dark in all the corners. There was an ugly sedan parked up the other end of the way. He climbed out of the GTO, patted the car on the bonnet, fought down the urge to draw his gun for fear he'd spook whoever he was meeting with. Maybe they weren't here yet? ]
no subject
It was a dumb plan, but hell if the Mountie had let it go then it could work, and they played their hand of luck pretty well all things considered. Even when they'd been named and shamed on the evening news, Kowalski's face and Vecchio's name actually in print, right there on screen, nobody had called in to make a point of it. They'd skated on thin ice, made it through, and that was good; it was greatness. But just like a run on poker it was only a matter of time before his cards were bad and his bluffing was worse, and that was when Fraser would rob him of the rest of his air.
So. He got the call at his desk, someone had asked for him - for Vecchio - by name, and he'd shrugged it off and grabbed his coat. Probably one of his contacts; they didn't leave a name. The note gave a time and a place, which thanks to his taking an extra hour at lunch chasing a cashier thief around an arcade meant he was in danger of being late.
The alleyway was down the side of a train station. The one where Fraser had been shot, if his memory was right, but either way--meeting at a train station, not that weird. Of course usually people would meet inside a train station, wouldn't they? He scratched at his stubble and took a look around the place. It was a nice sunny day, but that didn't do much for the alleyway, which was dark in all the corners. There was an ugly sedan parked up the other end of the way. He climbed out of the GTO, patted the car on the bonnet, fought down the urge to draw his gun for fear he'd spook whoever he was meeting with. Maybe they weren't here yet? ]