A Singing Canary

 239.

Sarccino is singing like a canary. Understanding his best chance to be the fortification of the deal, and most importantly to protect himself from retaliation, he must sell-out those residing up-stream at this dangerous point of no return. Still he is plays fast and loose with the interrogation process. We are exchanging possibilities over the true identity of the person responsible for the hits, at this point someone known only as C. We know that he or she is now in the driver's seat of the terrorist group formerly steered by Mr. Big and then The Queen. I have already ordered Harlan and Drysdale to arrest the inhabitants of the brick Colonial, but upon their arrival the perps were absent. They are waiting for their return to engage. We have also moved The Queen to a safe house near us, should there be a "plan B' or a second shooter, in the works or lurking in the shadows. I am prompting Sarccino's memory of anything that might help in the id process when two unscheduled door knocks disturb our seance.

"Enter." I respond.

An agent other than the usual one covers the six feet of space in the room and leans to speak in my ear. I address Sarccino after the one-way communication, "Agent Morris is going to escort you to a more comfortable accommodation, I have to go, we'll pick up where we left off as soon as I return."

"Something hot on the streets?" Sarccino says hoping to continue his indoctrination into the club, knowing that time off for good behavior is a desirable perk.

"You might put it that way."

Sarccino cocks his head at a radical angle in the universal body language of asking "whaaa?"

"Your beautiful white Taurus was just fire bombed. Looks like the word is already on the street and somebody, C maybe? wants to keep you from hitting the high notes in the arpeggio."

"You gotta get my family outta here," he shouts trying to stand but reminded by the wrist chains of that particular improbability.

"Exactly where I'm going boss."