Baker's Dozen

by Amey Zeigler

  Andy raised her leg for a front kick.

  “Kidding,” he yelled, blocking the kick. “I’m actually anticipating seeing you disguised as a debutant. I have a feeling it will be much more pleasant than, uh, the bag lady.”

  Andy sniffed in disbelief.

  “Don’t trust me?”

  Andy faced him. “If you want my trust, Tyler, you’re going to have to earn it.”

  His insides tightened. She was right. After all the lies, how could he possibly be worthy of her trust? He didn’t want to have to lie to her. Hopefully this was the last alias he had to give her. After retrieving the jump drive, the mission would be over, and they’d never be together again.

  “I’ll prove it to you,” he said. Turning toward her, his breath glowed in the lamplight when he exhaled, his flight jacket open, his hands stuffed in the pockets. She stopped, too, facing him. He stared at her, deep into her brown eyes. If only he didn’t admire her so much. “Until next week, then. Text me if you have any questions.”

  Chapter Eight

  Tyrone’s men discovered other pictures of Jack’s woman on his phone. Her hair bleached, her shorts too short to be decent.

  Tyrone stared at the pictures projected on a wall of his penthouse, savoring his little glass cup of avocat, crevettes, et pamplemousse, a greenish frothy mixture of avocado and grapefruit with shrimp. His little weeping eyes stared hard at the images, disgusted.

  “Could Andrew Baker be a woman?” he muttered to himself.

  Tyrone shook his head. Unfortunately, Jack’s shop could no longer play into his schemes. He had other shops to be sure. But it bugged him someone sniffed it out.

  The woman faced the camera in the next shot.

  “Pause it,” he said to Bobby, who controlled the remote.

  His dish forgotten, his gaze focused on her face. He’d seen it somewhere before.

  “Get the images the casino sent over,” he said, remembering some incident early last week.

  Bobby clicked open a file.

  Jack’s pictures were haphazard and fuzzier.

  “Do a side-by-side.” He motioned to Bobby.

  On one side, Jack’s girlfriend. The other, a young woman dressed to meet an underling in Imperium. Tyrone couldn’t even remember his name. Some punk kid whose dad worked here, then squealed on them. Other images flipped through. Then he recognized it.

  A bag. In both images.

  “The bag.”

  Tyrone stared harder, concentrating on the face. Fear gripped his stomach, his appetite gone—the worst thing he could think of. He cursed.

  “Where’s the footage of the loading dock security camera Rodgers sent up. The bag lady running away a few days ago.”

  “Think he’s still got the clip.”

  “I want to review it.”

  Bobby called Rogers who emailed him a clip. Bobby threw it up on the big screen in front of them. A bag lady had a red bag clutched under her arm.

  “Bobby, I think we’ve found Andrew Baker.” Tyrone wiped his mouth, then his puss from his face, sitting forward meeting Bobby’s gaze. “Run a facial recog on her. I want her. Priority one. Alive. I want to have a little talk with her.”

  Bobby nodded, his cheeks dimpling into creases. “Right boss.”

  ****

  Tyrone’s penthouse elevator opened and Hazel, her blond hair curled, red lipstick shining on her lips, marched in. Her long, trailing chocolate-sequined gown—Dior, maybe she said—brushed the gilded ebony columns flanking either side of the elevators. Where his executive suite was designed for business and efficiency, his personal apartments were all about aesthetics. French antiques from the Empire Age lined the walls, their straight and strong lines pleasing to their owner. A massive walnut secretary adorned with gilt Roman laurels, and heads of eagles of the Neoclassical age filled the hallway beyond the columns where Hazel Tyrone, radiating all the beauty wealth and influence could give her, stood with hands on her hips.

  “You’re not going to hang out in here the whole party, Daddy, are you?” she asked.

  “I don’t eat catered meals.” He bent over his counter tops, arranging slices of bread. He couldn’t stand the disappointment on her face.

  “Catered? It’s Chef Teamon. My own. Personal. Chef.” She pounded her heart with each word.

  Over three hundred people were invited. Champagne and chocolate was the theme. He’d spent a small fortune importing Delafée gold-plated chocolates. A waste of money in his opinion. But she’d begged for it with those large blue eyes like her mother, and he consented.

  And this was just the engagement party. Wait until the wedding bills arrived.

  With a large knife, Tyrone cut off the crusts of his bread. “You know I don’t eat anything I do not make myself.”

  “Oh, Daddy!” Hazel checked her lipstick in the reflection of her pocket compact. “You’re so paranoid.”

  “When I am done dining, I shall come down and greet your friends.”

  She wrapped her arms around him and kissed his neck. Then rubbed her lipstick mark away. “They’re your friends too, Daddy.”

  He never once stopped preparing his meal. “I don’t have friends. I have people I work with and people who work for me.” He moved the crusts to the side.

  Hazel just sort of laughed. “What are you making?”

  “Croque-mie,” he said, focused on his counter tops where he rolled thinly sliced meat with Gruyere.

  “I think I shall be happy with Robert,” she sighed, leaning against the counter picking up a piece of crust.

  “If not, I’ll bump him off.” Tyrone honestly didn’t know why she loved the man. Sure, he was loyal, a crack shot, and the best shake-down man he had, but those things weren’t the foundation for a strong marriage. And not what he imagined for his Hazel, who was a miniature of her mother, God rest her soul. Sheer beauty and grace. Of course, Hazel had more spunk and passion. But what did he know about young girls and their hearts. Marianne had loved him, though Tyrone never understood why. If Hazel wanted Bobby, she could have Bobby.

  “You’re so funny, Daddy.” She laughed, her brilliant red lips parting in a smile.

  He grunted. “Your guests should be arriving. You should go and greet them.”

  “Oh, I have people doing it. I want to spend time with Bobby.” With her hand on her chin, leaning over the counter, Hazel observed her father for a few minutes, absorbed in his cooking. Then, she stood. “I’ll expect you later tonight.”

  ****

  The night of the party, Andy stepped from the door of her condo. Tyler leaned against his steel-gray Porsche, arms folded across his chest, his hulking biceps tugging at the rigid sleeve of his tuxedo. His blondish hair shone in the streetlight. He hadn’t seen her yet. Some part of her heart wished they could start over. Or they hadn’t met. Or had met under different circumstances.

  How could she trust him? She wasn’t even sure if he was FBI. At this point it didn’t matter. She was just using him to help her get into the T-Building. Once she had the jump drive, sayonara to him. Andy wanted to eradicate all of Imperium, not just Tyrone.

  When she teetered to the stairs, a little flutter of excitement made her glad she hadn’t eaten. It would’ve all come up. This was her first big heist.

  At the top of the stair, she paused, observing him. What did he think about when he didn’t have anything he must think about. Lies to create, spin, weave, make believable? He didn’t look sinister. His expression was thoughtful, almost playful. This was a whole new Tyler. He wasn’t the same man she first met.

  Andy laughed to herself. It was actually true. Tyler was FBI not Hugh, the Detective. If he was even FBI.

  She wrapped a length of baby pink organza over her bare shoulders and continued down the stairs, careful not to trip on the overflowing dress. This was her best disguise ever. An alluring, sultry, and powerful Andy.

  “Where were you all week?” she asked, doubted he’d been making the same harried preparations she’d been
making over her dress and hair. Every detail had to be planned. “You never answered my text on Thursday.”

  He glanced at her, speechless, his eyes full of surprise and innocence. Maybe he was playing some role, and he really was trustworthy.

  “Thursday?” he asked, recovering from his shock. His gaze shot upward, as if recalling details. “I was somewhere over the Yangtze River.” Trustworthy, until he said some outrageous lie.

  Andy let out an exasperated sigh. “Why do I even bother asking you questions? You just lie.”

  Frowning, she faced away from him. With a gentle touch to her shoulder, he stilled her, turning her toward him. Raising her chin, he made her face him, leaning close enough she could smell his manly scent of shaving cream or aftershave, and whispered to her. “Not everything I say to you is a lie, Andy.”

  “All right,” she challenged, straight into his eyes. “Tell me something I know is absolutely true.”

  “You are indescribably beautiful.”

  Andy flushed. A gooey warmth flooded her body but she forced it away. She glanced at her reflection in his Porsche. A complete transformation from her norm. Her hair coiled around her head, slicked with plenty of pomade, bobby pins, and a cloud of hairspray the stylist promised would create a bulletproof protection around her head. Her custom-made dress hugging her toned body overflowed with pale pink ruffles, and sported beaded sequins down the boned bodice. Whoever Tyler’s boss was, he was generous. She’d never paid so much for a costume piece. And her makeup, contoured and air-brushed, her eyebrows aristocratic and shaped all made her feel like an electric outlet that couldn’t keep the electricity in.

  She gave him a shove. “Har, har.”

  He caught her arm with considerable tenderness. “I’m serious, you are absolutely breathtaking.”

  Unable to believe him, she readied an uppercut meant for his jaw, but he blocked it squarely, catching her fist in his hand. He held her hand in the warmth of his palm, then drew her nearer.

  “No fighting tonight,” he said, close enough to warm her cheek with his breath, his gaze staring into hers with intensity, maybe a little bit of hurt. She caught her breath, stunned by his seriousness, the deep penetrating steadiness of his gaze. “Truce. For one night,” he said, gently taking her arm, wrapping it around his firm bicep, pressing it there longer than necessary. “You can at least pretend to like me.”

  “You are a great liar,” she said, stifling her breath, her whole body tingling from his touch. “It’s a compliment.”

  “Thank you. It’s my job.”

  “Are we going in this?” she asked nodding toward the Porsche.

  “Not that piece of junk.” Her heart sank just a tad, to at least to her belly button. “I ordered something unassuming.” Andy frowned. She would’ve liked to have taken the Porsche when she wasn’t dressed as a bag lady.

  She cocked her head, scanning the street lined with Volkswagens and Toyotas. He didn’t approach any car, but stood, staring at her.

  From down the lightly damp street, clopping echoed off the high rise, glass and concrete buildings. She caught her breath.

  “No,” she sighed, her eyes widening, her lips parting in a smile. Then the white horse-drawn open-air carriage and driver pulled into view.

  Andy couldn’t believe this was happening. When it stopped in front of them, Tyler opened the carriage door. A smile crept on his usually stoic lips, his eyes dancing in her delight. He held out his hand to her, his smile broadening. “Shall we?”

  The most romantic night of her life, her legs waxed smooth, nails, hair, makeup all for a bride rather than a party, and it was all to obtain information. It was surreal.

  “You know how to soften a girl up. You’re smooth.”

  Tyler held the door open, his face fallen. Once they entered the carriage, he reviewed their plans, face taut and stressed, serious again. She nodded as he spoke, but wasn’t paying attention. She concentrated on his face, so near, wishing to see his carefree smile again. Sadly, his face hardened.

  Before they descended from the carriage at the impressive, impregnable, and historical T-Building nestled at the bank of the Mississippi, Tyler handed her something smaller and flatter than a pencil eraser.

  “What’s this?” she asked, taking it.

  “Comms unit. You put it here.” He slipped the little bug in her ear. “In case we get separated.”

  “Can they hear us?”

  “Of course. They are just ears tonight. No interfering. Only for emergency extraction, if things get bad. But they mostly want to stay out of it. Covert. You understand.”

  Andy frowned as she placed the bug in her ear. She didn’t like this, this spying, not on other people, but on her. She was a solo gal, and this intrusion made her nervous.

  The carriage stopped at the foot of an impressive limestone staircase, leading up to a well-lit building. She’d studied the plans for the spacious historical building. The first floor held reception and a ballroom. The other twenty or so floors had office spaces. The very top, Tyrone’s penthouse suite. But they only had to get to the seventeenth floor.

  “Do you have the coded entry key?” Tyler asked, descending the carriage first.

  “Yes. I hid it someplace you will never find it.”

  “Where would that be?”

  “My bra.”

  Tyler frowned and held out a hand for Andy to descend to the carpet leading to the doors. Andy glanced up, counting the stories to Conner’s floor.

  Seventeen. Darkness.

  A shiver of excitement tickled her stomach as she exited the carriage. Behind them, a line of BMWs and Audis dropped off guests. Andy absorbed it all.

  “Is that a Bentley?” she asked.

  Andy swallowed, holding the outlandish invite in her hand. The paper and the wax seal weighed heavy in her hand. A lady in a red sheath gown and white elbow length gloves checked her invitation. A sprig of diamonds nestled in her pompadour-style hair-do. She smiled through her matching red lipstick.

  People stared at them. Andy touched her hair, trembling a bit.

  “Can they tell we’re not supposed to be here?” Andy whispered to Tyler. “Everyone’s staring at us.”

  “They are staring because you are so beautiful.”

  Surely, he was joking, but his expression was true. Not a lie or a tease. Pure earnestness.

  She patted her bobby pins, still in place. “Yeah, and I’m really intimidating in this outfit,” she said tugging at the detachable frothy pink chiffon skirt of her dress. “I look more like sherbet punch than a fighting machine. And it weighs a ton. Sure, I’m irresistible.”

  “You are.” He passed her sly sideways glance, a smile in the corner of his mouth. “Admit it. You want me to lust after you.”

  “I do not.”

  “Do too. I can feel it.”

  “Shhhhh.”

  A couple passed them on the plush carpet talking about their stock portfolios. Andy’s bodice slipped, her underarms were too exposed. And too sweaty. She yanked uncomfortably at her bodice, tugging it up again. Or maybe being with Tyler made her uncomfortable. “I am out of my league here.”

  “I thought you could adapt to any situation.”

  “Usually I can. Usually, I’m dealing with the dross of society, petty people trying to get away with petty crime. Not used to rubbing elbows with mega-millionaires.”

  “Billionaires.”

  “I was using alliteration. Allow me some poetic license, will you?” They stopped as the people ahead of them stopped.

  “Just wanted you to be accurate. How about brilliant billionaires? Or brainy billionaires.”

  Another woman in an emerald green dress, her red hair held in place with emeralds stopped them. “Step this way for the photo shoot.”

  They glanced at each other. They didn’t realize they were standing in the photo line.

  “The photos will be available on the couple’s website,” the woman with emeralds said.

  Tyler kind of s
hook his head. “No pictures tonight.”

  The red-headed lady was taken aback. “But why not?”

  He jabbed a thumb in Andy’s direction. “My wife doesn’t know I’m with her, and I don’t want any photographic evidence,” he said, scooting Andy out of line and into the main flow of the dance floor while the lady stared after them, opened mouthed.

  “It often shocks me how easily you lie,” Andy accused.

  He faced her, his expression earnest. “Does it shock you how easily you lie?”

  Andy’s heart burned with shame.

  In the slow music, he wrapped his arm around her and led her to the dance floor. His head bent toward her, his face near hers. “I don’t care if you hate me lying, but don’t be a hypocrite. Especially in the line of work we do.”

  “We do?” Andy didn’t think he’d think the FBI and her investigative journalist gig should be mentioned in the same category.

  “Lying protects us while we seek justice,” he said.

  “Yes, but I don’t lie to people who trust me.”

  His eyes narrowed, his face too close to hers. “You don’t lie to say, your stepmom?” He spun her around.

  Andy burned again with guilt. “She couldn’t handle the truth.”

  “And you’ve decided for her?”

  “Those lies protect her.”

  “I knew you’d understand.”

  Before Andy refuted him, he moved again, taking a sharp spin.

  “Avoid the photographers,” he said.

  “There are tons of them.” Men in tuxes and women in simpler dresses with cameras hanging around their necks were everywhere—taking pictures of the couples dancing, at the table sampling the hor d’oeuvres with caviar and fois gras.

  Other photographers scanned the room, photographing the fresh flowers, lights, liquor, and couples.

  Andy had no idea which couple was Hazel and her fiancé, and she didn’t care.

  Andy glanced around. “We need a distraction to get upstairs.”

  “Let me go scope out the elevators,” Tyler said, leaving her in the middle of the dance floor. “I’ll be on comms.”

  Andy scanned the room, wondering if it was inappropriate to snag some beautifully crafted chocolate while on the job when a voice stopped her.