by K. A. Tucker
“Yeah, I get it. I have a younger sister.”
I know he does. Ana Boone. Twenty-one. Blond hair and blue eyes, looks like a Russian porcelain doll. Drives a Maxima, supplied by her uncle. Enrolled in an esthetician’s program.
“You guys don’t look at all alike,” he muses.
“I know. I’m much prettier.”
He smirks. “I take it you didn’t grow up together?”
I feel the frown zag cross my forehead. Why is he assuming that? My mind, still in an odd state of slow motion, scrambles to . . . Right, Warner’s accent. “No, we didn’t. He’s actually my stepbrother. Related through marriage.” We’ll need to tweak my official cover story to keep track of these changes. I was supposed to be an only child.
Luke begins nodding to himself, as if that makes sense. “Is he out here on business?”
He’s asking way too many questions. This isn’t good. A good undercover profile is simple. Not completely boring, but it doesn’t spark questions or thoughts or curiosity from the target.
“He lives in Portland now. Thought he’d swing by on his way out of town to check up on me. He brought me scones.” I lift the bag for further proof. Needing the subject to change, I ask, “What brings you to my doorstep at . . .” I pick up my phone, “ . . . ten a.m.?”
Luke doesn’t answer right away, instead simply staring at my face. Like he’s deciding what he wants to say. A boyish smile finally curls his lips. “You owe me a meatball sandwich. I’ve come to collect.”
It’s so playful, so flirtatious, so genuine, that I can’t keep the grin away. “You couldn’t wait until tonight?”
“Nope.” He pats his stomach. “I’m starving.”
“And what if I’m not free?” I fold my arms over my chest, deciding how “hard to get” I should play with my target. With each passing minute, I’m more comfortable with this situation; less inclined to believe that he heard anything at the door, and more on the path that he’s simply hoping to put in enough time during the day to get laid tonight.
He grabs Stanley’s leash from the bench by the door. “But you are. Come on. Let’s go.”
I ball my hands into fists, hiding my chipped polish. I guess I’m not getting my nails painted again before tonight’s date. Or a blow-out. I’ve never just walked into a salon and asked for someone to blow-dry my hair, unless I was there for a cut and color already. It seems absolutely ludicrous to pay someone fifty dollars when I can do it myself, for free. At least, that’s what I told myself before I had it done for this cover.
I’ve been going twice a week, since.
“And where exactly are you leading me?” That’s for the team’s benefit. How long will it take to get them in place? Do I go with him? Or should I send him away for an hour, until I get the go-ahead?
“Well . . . I’m assuming you don’t have what you need in your fridge.” He strolls over to look inside my refrigerator. The cartons of leftover Chinese food and Warner’s beer answer for me. “So?” He flashes me a chemically whitened smile, one that I’m betting works well to get him what—and who—he wants.
As if in answer, my phone beeps with an incoming text.
Dad’s ready. Go.
I guess that answers that.
“It’s your favorite kind of weather outside, too. If you’d open the blinds, you’d know.” He hits the button on the wall and the blinds revolve to allow dim daylight into one side of the living room. “That’s my condo over there. I live right across from you.”
“Seriously?” I plaster on my best mock-surprise face and then focus on sticking my feet into my Hunter rain boots, trying to play it off. “Talk about a small world. That’s crazy.”
I catch his secretive smile as he passes by me and I follow him out, locking my door behind me. I watch my target’s sleek movements and rigid muscles as he moves ahead of me, Stanley trotting beside him. A thrill courses through my limbs. By my turn of luck in this case, I tell myself. Definitely not because of Luke Boone.
■ ■ ■
I’ve been a cop for over four years now, two of those undercover. I’m used to back alleyways and seedy motel rooms as meet spots for my cases. Pockmarked targets named Jorge and Bruce, who bathe in cheap drugstore cologne and think complimenting a woman’s breasts should prompt her to take her shirt off. I’m used to walking through the front door of my small apartment after a day of work and climbing into a long, hot shower, happy that I’m only pretending, that my life’s road hasn’t led me to such a sad, sordid reality.
Now I’m standing in front of an adorable meat shop in downtown Portland with a gorgeous target to my left, admitting to myself that I’ve felt nervous flutters like this only once before . . . when I was seventeen and going on a first date with the high school quarterback.
Shaking the stupid out of me, I ask, “What do we do with Stanley? He doesn’t take well to being tied to a post.” I’m just guessing, seeing as I’ve known the dog for all of three days. But the last thing I need is him going Jekyll and Hyde again and attacking an unsuspecting passerby.
In answer, Luke scoops up the chubby dog, tucking him under his arm, as if he weighs nothing at all. “No worries. I know the owner, Dmitri. He won’t care.”
Dmitri. Sounds Russian.
I remember a case that the Washington MCU was overseeing a couple of years back, involving Ukrainian mobsters. They ran a butcher shop in Columbia Heights. It’s probably just a coincidence. “Kozlov’s Butcher Shop,” I read the sign out loud, assuming Bill or one of the other guys on my detail right now will make note. I haven’t seen them tailing us. Not that I would. They’d never risk being made by getting close enough to be spotted, not like in the movies, where they make surveillance teams look like complete tools. “I haven’t been in here yet.”
“I’ve been coming here since I could barely walk. My grandpa used to work here. He and Dmitri were best friends. ”
Right. Luke’s grandfather. Oskar Markov. Warner gave me the rundown. Luke, his sister, and their mom moved in with Oskar and his wife, Vera, after Luke’s father took off. They all lived together until Oskar’s death from lung cancer ten years ago, two years after his wife’s. Both heavy smokers. Somehow Luke didn’t get the message, because he still lights up. I wonder if that has more to do with addiction or the simple fact that Rust still smokes too.
I trail Luke in, inhaling the garlic-permeated aroma. It’s obviously an old store and family-run, based on the dated black-and-white checkered linoleum floor and the rows of black-and-white pictures of men in white butcher’s aprons covering one side. The owner isn’t too concerned about design, and yet there is something decidedly charming about it. Something you’d expect in an ethnic suburb and not in the trendy downtown core.
Jars of pickled herring and borscht line the front of the meat counter, and a wiry gray-haired man with thick-rimmed glasses stands behind it. “Luka!” he exclaims in his thick Russian accent. “I wouldn’t recognize you, if not for your deda’s eyes.”
This must be Dmitri.
Luke dips his head, his usual confident smirk replaced with a sheepish grin. “I’m sorry, I’ve been busy.”
“How is your mother? And Ana?”
“They’re good. They send their love.”
“And you’re taking good care of them?”
“Of course, Dmitri.”
“Good boy.” Gray eyes flicker to me, prompting Luke to introduce us.
“Dmitri, this is Rain.”
Dmitri nods, first at me, and then at Stanley, whose flat nose is twitching from all the various scents. “Yours?” he asks Luke.
“No.”
Another glance at me. “I didn’t think so.” Dmitri wipes his hands on a rag and then grabs a slice of salami and tosses it right into Stanley’s waiting mouth. “What can I get for you today?”
Luke taps on the glass in front o
f the tray of ground meat. “Half a pound each of the beef, veal, and pork. That’s what you said, right?” He looks to me for an answer.
“Yeah. I mean, it depends how hungry you are.”
Dmitri slaps double that onto a sheet of butcher’s paper, wrapping and taping with the expertise of a man who’s been doing this for fifty-plus years. He tosses the packages onto the counter without weighing them, with a casual wave. No charge, he’s saying. “Tell your uncle to swing by, okay? And soon. Nikolai has some business for him.”
Luke shares a look with Dmitri and a spike of adrenaline hits me. I’m guessing Nikolai and Rust Markov aren’t going to be discussing meat grades.
“Rain, the market right next door should have whatever else you need.” Luke pulls his wallet out and begins rifling through an impressive stack of bills. “I’ll meet you there in five.”
He wants to talk to Dmitri alone. Crap. Is it about this thing with Nikolai, or something else? “I’m not sure how Stanley will take to me leaving,” I say, looking for a reason to stay.
“Ah, he’ll be fine,” Dmitri answers, tossing another piece of meat the dog’s way. I have a feeling he’s right. I could step outside and get hit by a bus right now and it wouldn’t faze my guard dog, his eyes glued to the meat counter.
When I still don’t move, they both turn to look at me, and I know that I have no choice. Anything else I say will be too suspicious.
“Sure. Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” I shake my head at the cash that Luke holds out.
As soon as I see the slight frown zag across his brow, I realize my error. He’s not used to seeing girls turn down money. It seems like such a minor thing, and yet it’s the seemingly minor things that can be the most explosive when you’re undercover.
I walk out, silently chastising myself.
Chapter 11
■ ■ ■
LUKE
The bell over the door rings as Rain disappears around the corner.
“Beautiful girl,” Dmitri notes, his brows arching in question.
“She is.”
“That thing,” he nods at Stanley, still tucked under my arm, his bulging eyes somehow bigger, “is not.”
I chuckle, giving Stanley’s head a rub and earning a snort in return. “He’s not so bad.”
“You always were a sucker for the ugly dogs,” he murmurs, moving to wash his hands. “Thank God you don’t pick your girls like you pick your dogs.” A long pause. “She’s not our people, Luka.”
She’s not Russian. My deda always told me to stick with “our people.” Old-school thinking. It obviously made an impact on Rust, given the vast majority of people he does business with are Russian. I suspect the people he does the illegal kind with are all Russian.
Me . . . I’m much more open-minded. “I just met her, Dmitri.”
“And yet you’re shopping for meat with her.”
I can’t help the chuckle. “It’s not a ring.” Not that Dmitri ever would have bought his wife an engagement ring.
“Well, hopefully you will be settling down with someone and soon. Don’t be like that uncle of yours,” he mutters. “Sometimes I wonder about him . . .”
All these guys wonder about Rust. Why doesn’t he settle down and get himself a wife? They’ve all got one—women to parade around, cook their meals, and wash their clothes. Basically, to mother them.
“Tell me what this business with Nikolai is about.” No more time for relationship talk. It’s Saturday. We have a small window of time before the next customer comes in. Perhaps only minutes.
Dmitri pauses, eyeing me. I’m sure he still sees me as the fat little kid who came in here every Saturday, stealing pieces of ham and shoveling them into my cheeks when no one was looking. “We need to sell a car. Stefan . . .” His voice drifts off with a sigh, the displeasure in his face evident.
I don’t have to ask what he means. His grandson, Stefan, a fucking pothead and disgrace to Dmitri’s family, must have gone out and stolen a car. He’s a few years younger than me. I knew early on that he was short half a deck of cards. He has a penchant for theft and has caused Dmitri and his son, Nikolai, problems in the past.
“Hard to sell?”
A severe gaze levels me. “Likely impossible in America. Too risky. I was hoping Rust could help us get rid of it.”
I ask what Rust is going to ask. “You can’t just wipe it clean and ditch it?”
“What is that saying? When you are given lemons, you make lemonade.” Dmitri shrugs. “I could use some lemonade.”
“Right.” Too much money to just ditch, I gather. The bell announces an elderly couple and the end to our conversation. “I’ll talk to Rust. We’ll sort this out for you, I promise.”
He places his hand over his chest and then holds it outward. A sign of respect and love. Something my deda and he used to do when saying goodbye. My heart instantly warms.
“Talk to you soon.” I wave the package of meat at him on my way out the door.
And walk right into Rain.
Chapter 12
■ ■ ■
CLARA
“You used, like, four ingredients. You’re telling me that if I do exactly what you just did, my sauce still won’t taste as good, just because I’m not Italian?”
I lick the tomato sauce off the spoon before dumping it into the sink. “Sounds about right.”
He chuckles from his perch beside my kitchen island, elbows resting on the granite, where he’s been sitting since we got back. “That’s bullshit.”
“Fine. Next week we’ll do this at your place. I’ll sit on my ass and watch you cook for me.” The perfect plant for another “date,” if all goes well tonight.
His eyes drop down at the mention of my ass, and I feel my cheeks burn under his scrutiny. Turning the sauce down to a low simmer, I move on to the meat mixture, pushing my sleeves up so I can begin rolling the meatballs into perfectly round spheres. Something I could do in my sleep. It used to be one of my Saturday morning chores, helping my mother make this staple in our household. As odd as it may seem, I’ve always found this process relaxing.
“I guess I should be paying more attention, then, shouldn’t I?” Luke slides off his stool and comes around to stand next to me, rolling a sleeve up over a defined forearm with slow, precise skill. He steps in until he’s hovering over me, his chest butting against my shoulder.
I pretend not to notice.
Just like I pretended that his hand on the small of my back as we walked home from the store didn’t affect me.
He leans toward the simmering pot. “My buddy’s girlfriend’s sauce smelled as good as this.”
“Is she Italian?”
“Russian.”
I groan. “Have you listened to nothing I’ve said today?”
A playful pinch against my ribs has me jumping. “That market has good stuff, from what I’ve heard.”
“Yeah. I’ll definitely be going back.” I barely noticed what they carried, too busy scrambling through, grabbing what I needed so I could get back to the butcher shop in time to overhear even a word or two of whatever business Dmitri and Rust have together.
Unfortunately, their discussions must have been quick or cut short, because I plowed right into Luke in my rush, already on his way out the door to meet me. We shared a laugh about it, as I hid my disappointment.
And now he’s standing so close, and I’m being hit with mental flashes of last night and the body that’s against me now heading toward the shower, and I’m needing to remind myself exactly why I’m here in the first place.
To arrest him, and put everyone he works with in cold, dark cells.
I’ve been in this deceitful place before. And yet this time, it feels completely new and different.
And somehow, more dangerous.
Minty breath grazes my cheek and I c
an’t help but breathe deep. Can’t help but turn into it. Can’t help but look up into a set of blue eyes that belong to a guy who helps young mothers pick up groceries and feeds homeless old men and doesn’t look criminal at all.
“You’ll have to wash your hands if you want to touch these balls.”
He breaks into a broad grin. Replaying the words in my head, I roll my eyes and laugh. “What are you, twelve?”
His gaze drops to my mouth. “I know this may sound chauvinistic, but I love a woman who can cook.”
“Why am I not surprised?” I answer, sensing him shifting in slowly. Preparing to let him have a small kiss before I break away with excuses.
But then his phone begins to ring.
The slightest groan escapes him. “Sorry, I’ve gotta take this.”
I swallow the mixture of relief and disappointment rising inside me. “Go ahead.”
He makes his way straight for the small patio off the living room, digging into his pocket.
It’s obviously a call he doesn’t want overheard. I have to give him some credit—he’s already smarter than every other scumbag I’ve busted. They always assume that their code language is ingenious, that no one will understand that when they’re talking about types of birds and numbers and what intersection they saw them flying past, they’re talking about illegal stuff. Maybe a normal person wouldn’t.
From the corner of my eye, I watch Luke take a seat in the wrought-iron chair and light up a cigarette, phone pressed against his ear. He glances over at me a few times but I keep my head down, rolling the meat. Watching the clock. When the first few balls are sizzling in the pan, I grab one of Warner’s beers and a glass.
And I push through the patio door, acting like nothing’s wrong with stepping out here to offer my guest a drink.
