One More Bite
Page 30
Cole rolled his eyes in a perfect imitation of irritated adolescence. “Geez, Mom, can’t you tell the difference between a gnome and a waiggin?”
I curled my free hand into a fist, then made a conscious effort to relax it before it hauled off and punched somebody without my permission. “Waiggins are at least seven feet tall. And green!”
“Oh. I keep forgetting you majored in Supernatural Criminology.” Cole sighed. “Okay, Ruvin’s a half-gnome. But he’s trying to blend, just like Vayl. And he doesn’t worship Ufran.”
“How do you know?”
“I asked.”
Only Cole would have the nuts to talk religion with a perfect stranger. “Still—”
He leaned his chin on my shoulder. “I checked him out. He’s fine. And he’s over three-and-a-half feet tall, so he could pass for a seinji. In fact, he regularly does. Maybe he could help with our . . . project. You never know.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “So Pete’s briefed you?”
He nodded.
Good. The less we discussed the son of a bitch who’d agreed to smuggle gnome larvae into the Canberra Deep Space Communication Complex the better. Every time I thought of the kind of scumbag who’d willingly put his own life, not to mention the innocents who worked at the Complex, at risk just so the gnomes could scoop out NASA’s third space-gazing eye and stomp it into jelly, my concentration went to hell. But it wasn’t just our target.
Despite all evidence to the contrary, I knew my department’s Oversight Committee had backed off on suspending me with major reservations. If I screwed up even a little, I could kiss my career goodbye. Which meant we needed to get under cover before the worst happened. I checked my watch. Three thirty p.m. We might just have time. If we hurried.
“Let’s get him loaded,” I said.
Cole squeezed my shoulder. “But then you’ll miss the best part.”
I snaked my arm around his waist so I could jerk him close enough to whisper in his ear. “You’re about to lose your best part.”
“Hey, this event is costing somebody a lot of money. You might as well enjoy it.” He grinned down at me, his bright blue eyes daring me to loosen up and have some fun.
“This is so unnecessary.”
“Wrong again, Petunia. Picking up a casket-rider and the woman you’re about to fall out of love with is boring. Arranging a funeral procession with a displaced band from the French Quarter and a quartet of professional mourners is one for the diary. You do keep a diary, don’t you, Jaz?”
“No! And don’t call me that. I’m here as Lucille Robinson, remember?”
Cole frowned. “But if you’re Lucille, who am I?”
“Hell if I know. As I recall, your last text said you didn’t like the name they’d picked for you and had demanded a new one.”
“Damn straight! The CIA has no imagination, you know.”
I’d have told him to pipe down, but between the band’s latest number and the wails of the four women who’d emerged from the backseat of the hearse to drape themselves and a blanket of flowers over the casket’s tee-time accessories, I could barely hear his whispers.
“Sure,” I agreed, mainly because I thought I’d seen the coffin wobble. Had one of the pallbearers stumbled, or . . . I checked my watch again. Holy crap, we were cutting this close!
“Do you want to know my new name?” Cole asked as we led Cassandra and Bergman toward the country club casket. Would Tiger Woods be caught dead in one of those? I thought not.
I sighed and said, “Since we’re going to be working together for the next few days, a clue to your fake ID might help.”
“Thor Longfellow.”
I stopped and stared, not even turning when I heard Cassandra stumble to a halt behind me. “No.”
His hair bounced cheerfully as he nodded. I asked, “How did you get away with that?”
He shrugged. “The girl who assigns identities really likes Thai food, and I know this place on the East Side—”
“Say no more.” I should’ve guessed he’d charmed that ridiculous cover out of a woman.