The Bigot List: (A J.J. McCall Novel)

by S. D. Skye

  “No, you and I kept our end of the deal. But the FBI didn’t. Some self-serving bastard didn’t keep his end of the deal,” she spat as her anger welled inside. “He didn’t honor the oath, and Karat might pay for his treachery with his life.”

  “Listen, I realize you’re frustrated and angry. Hell, I am too,” Tony said. “The best thing we can do for Viktor is to make sure that he doesn’t die in vain. We’re going to take this information and use it to find the rat scum sucker, whoever he is. But right now we gotta get to the car before that cop gets back. If he catches us with this big ass trash bag, we’re toast.”

  In no time, they arrived at the car. J.J. tossed the drop contents into the back seat, the Park Police officer drove up and turned down his window.

  “You guys find what you were looking for?”

  “Yeah, we got it,” Tony smiled. “Thanks, officer. We’ll be on our way now.”

  “Have a good evening,” he said, before turning to J.J. “And you…take better care of your belongings.”

  She smirked at the scolding.

  Tony and J.J. slipped into their seats, and the engine revved. Rock Creek Parkway would put them at headquarters in twenty minutes.

  “Looks like we’re gonna have another late night. Let’s take this stuff to the office and review it,” Tony said.

  J.J. shot Tony a glare suggesting he’d put his brain in the bag with the drop materials. “Are you kidding me? Not after the day I’ve had. Not even at gunpoint. Let’s just head to my place to review the package and we’ll take it to the vault in the morning.”

  “And violate Bureau security regulations?”

  J.J. shot him the side-eye. “Gimme a break. Before you started working with me, you didn’t even know the Bureau had regulations.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, and I only learned the regs because you’re always in trouble for breaking them. Someday, I’ll teach you how not to get caught.”

  “Tonight let’s just focus on finding the evidence to arrest Jack,” J.J. said. “And tomorrow, all of our troubles will be over. Right?”

  J.J. turned on the radio. The slow romance-filled melodies of Quiet Storm show filled the silence. She and Tony rode mostly in silence toward her “uptown” condo in D.C.’s Woodley Park area, anticipating the moment she’d open the package and find it…

  The smoking gun.

  It had to be inside. Had to be. The one piece of evidence that would help her lock up Sabinski up for the rest of his life. Her mind churned, longing for the moment she could confront him.

  Distracted by a familiar song, she broke out in song. Her father said she had the voice of a nightingale. And a love song transported her mind back to the intimate moment she and Tony had earlier shared. The kiss felt too real. Tony had awakened a sleeping beast, and she needed to knock it back to sleep fast. She’d pulled out her mental shovel and prepared to bury the memory of what happened in the deep recesses of her mind at the precise moment Tony’s brain succumbed to his ego.

  “Look J.J., if you wanted to invite me over to your place, you only had to ask. You didn’t have to pretend you didn’t want to go to headquarters. I realize I can sometimes have that effect on women. If you know what I’m saying.”

  She shook her head and blinked rapidly. His sweet moments were touching, but, oh, that Italian machismo. “Earth calling Tony! Welcome back to reality,” she said. “If you wanted to kiss me, you didn’t have to put on that performance with the Park Police. You only had to ask. I realize I can have that effect on men. If you know what I’m saying.”

  He winced, laughing uncomfortably as they approached the stoplight. Tony locked his eyes on J.J.’s and a sexy grin sliced between his lips. She leaned into him and smiled, her face a reflection of his. Softly, she traced her index finger along his jawline, down his neck, to his bicep. “Well, since we’re here together, in this car, on this glorious moonlit night . . . and we’re on the way to my place. I’ve got an important question I’d like to ask you.”

  He cleared his throat and then shot her a gloating I-know-you-want-me glance. “Yeah?”

  “Why don’t we pull over,” she paused, “at that McDonald’s up the street. I still want ice cream.”

  He shook his head. “That was cold.”

  “No, the ice cream’s cold,” she said. “That was just funny.”

  Despite their deep-seated desires to explore the “something” between them, whatever it was, they never crossed the line. They treaded along the edges with tight-rope walker precision but never crossed it because both had insurmountable familial obstacles to overcome.

  Tony was supposed to fall in love with and marry a good Sicilian woman, one who would stay home, cook, and birth male heirs.

  As for J.J.?

  Well, her father, a former Black Panther, would go ballistic, melt out of his skin if his only daughter waltzed through the door with Tony on her arm. She and her father had grown close, almost inseparable since the crippling loss of her mother. Each week she ate Sunday brunches with her brother and father; they helped keep the family together. She visited without fail despite Max’s criticism of her career choice and the constant chidings she took for not finding herself a good black man, as if they grew on the “Brother Tree” and all she needed to do was pluck one from its ripe fruit and marry him.

  If only finding a good man of any color was that easy.

  Love had mostly evaded her for thirty-two years. Mostly. She’d almost been taken once, but her gift saved her in the nick of time. With Tony, there was a major difference between her past and present, one thing she couldn’t deny: Tony was the only man in three decades of life who never made her itch. With the exception of the wife comment in the park, her discomfort in his presence emanated from only one source—her heart.

  Chapter 11

  Thursday Night…

  The unit was desolate and dark. The only the exception was the light from a desk lamp in Sabinski’s office. He’d stayed late to type up a few reports, thumb through some closed cases, several involving Russian sources that had mysteriously disappeared in mid-2005. He wanted to find out why. Could ICE Phantom go back that far? He considered the possibility when Lana tapped on his door.

  She stuck her head inside, scanned to ensure the coast was clear. “Hey, Jack. I was trying to put my files away but couldn’t get into the vault.”

  Jack ran his hand along the back of his neck and then waved her inside. “Come in. Close it.”

  Sabinski’s eyes clung to Lana’s every move. Her sexy grin sucked the air from the room and rendered him stuporous. His eyes locked on her hands as she unfastened her suit jacket. Each button she opened revealed a sheer white blouse agape to the waistband of her mini skirt. Her nipples were taut and visible through the sheer fabric. He licked his lips hungrily as she sauntered toward him and bent over his desk just enough. A hint of cleavage was all he needed to see to make him wild. Then Lana eased into the lone chair in front of his desk.

  Sabinski spun his seat sideways. “Come on now, Lana. You know that’s not your seat.”

  She glided to him, as a stripper to her pole, claimed a seat on Jack’s lap, and pressed her lips to his.

  As the passionate kiss lingered and Jack’s member swelled, neither noticed Chris. He’d forgotten his wallet inside his desk and swung by on the chance that Jack was working late. And working late Jack was.

  Chris heard voices and peered through the venetian blinds. There she was. He wondered why she hadn’t answered any one of his dozen phone calls or two dozen texts. Visibly flushed, his jaw tightened and stomach burned; the tips of his fingers rolled into his palms. He wanted nothing more than to storm inside and bash Jack’s head in. Lana belonged to him and him alone. But she’d be livid if he didn’t stick to her plan. That’s why he created one of his own, a plan to rid himself of Jack and ensure Lana could live without the fat bastard’s interference.

  Chris turned away, stormed to his desk. He wouldn’t be played for a fool this time. His h
ands juddered as he grabbed his iPod and earphones from beneath the clutter in his desk drawer. Hurriedly, he plugged the buds into his ears. The device took a moment to tune in. His buddy in the headquarters’ Special Projects Unit, the “Q” of the FBI, modified the iPod so that it no longer played music. Rather, it functioned as a receiver for the wireless transmitter Chris had planted beneath Jack’s desk. He huddled into the corner of his cubicle, concealed in the darkness, and tuned into Jack’s and Lana’s conversation.

  Just as the signal came through, Jack cried out a loud moan.

  “Ahhhhh…you’re amazing,” Jack said. His zipper sounded. “You sure know how to make an old man feel young again.”

  “Please. I don’t see any old men in here,” she hummed.

  “What are you doing here, Lana?” he asked.

  She relieved her knees and returned to his lap.

  “A girl like you could have anyone you want,” Jack said. “Why me?”

  “Why not you? Seems you and I differ in our perceptions,” she said flirtatiously, peppering his fat head with kisses.

  Chris struggled to restrain his gag reflex. Hearing them coo at each other like a pair of fucking teenagers made him sick. The things he’d done for the love of that woman, but she’d warned him from the beginning that her career was her first priority—and she would go to any lengths (or stoop to any depths) to fulfill her mission. But he hadn’t banked on her tryst with Sabinski becoming part of the package deal. Disgusted, he couldn’t stand to listen to another gut-wrenching word. He slammed the iPod in his desk drawer and slipped out of the office unnoticed.

  “Now back to our discussion,” Lana reminded Jack, easing into a business-like tone. “You were telling me about the vault.”

  “Oh, yeah. I met with Freeman and the AD about this compromise business. They’ve revoked access to everyone on the bigot list. We’ll all have to take polygraphs. No access until we pass.”

  “Everyone’s got to take it? Even you?” she asked.

  “Everyone. I just finished drafting the list and you and I are the first two. I want to make sure we don’t miss a second of precious time finding this fucking mole.”

  She swallowed hard, noticeably more uncomfortable than moments before.

  “What is it?” Jack asked, concerned.

  “Now that you mention this mole, I’ve been hesitating to speak with you...about Chris. It’s probably not my place to say anything but, uhhh...he’s been acting strangely as of late. Well, more strange than usual. I think he’s in trouble, and I’m not certain I can help him.”

  Jack sat forward in his seat. “What kind of trouble?”

  “I don’t know. He’s secretive. He’s been spending insane amounts of money, buying very pricey gifts, too expensive for an agent’s salary. There are also the crazy mood swings....and the flash drive. I’ve seen him with it in the office.”

  “Is that right?” he asked. “Well, I’ll definitely follow-up on the flash drive issue. They’re not authorized in the SCIF. As for the money, well, anybody could see he’s got it bad for you.”

  She shook her head. “Well, he’s certainly not in love with me. Obsessed maybe. I was really hoping you could just...I don’t know...have a talk with him.”

  He nodded. “I’ll speak with him tomorrow afternoon and see where his head’s at.”

  “Appreciate that Jack.” She stood in front of him, sighing in relief. “So, what about J.J. and Tony?”

  “What about ‘em?” Jack snapped.

  “Another one of the agents mentioned they’re targeting a diplomat providing intelligence on European missile defense negotiations. They might need access sooner than we do.”

  “Her case is shit. Karat’s not giving up anything of value, so I made certain they’re the last two on the list. They aren’t scheduled to take the exam until Friday. I’ll assign you to work her cases until she gets access if she ever gets access again. Wouldn’t surprise me if the bitch is guilty.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me either. Which begs the question, why is she still working here? I’ve been telling you to get rid of her for years.” Lana cut him a sideways glance. “Don’t tell me you’ve bought this competent act of hers. She’s not good. She’s lucky.”

  “Lana, give me a break, will you? I’ve denied every promotion she’s ever been up for. I’ve made her working environment as hostile as I can without getting myself fired. I don’t get it, either,” Jack replied. “Something tells me she won’t leave until she finds what she’s looking for.”

  “Looking for? What do you mean by that?”

  “J.J.’s father was a Black Panther, one of those hoodlums who killed cops for sport. I’ve overheard her talking to Donato about COINTELPRO a few times. She’s probably biding her time until she can access the restricted files,” Jack said, referring to the FBI’s 1960’s covert program. J. Edgar Hoover created it to neutralize the Black Panthers and other black civil rights and dissident organizations. “And don’t even let me get started on Donato. His father’s a former Capo in the Bonanno crime family. He’s serving seven years on racketeering charges. Trust me when I tell ya, the rotten fruit don’t fall far from the tree.”

  “So you’re suggesting the crimes of the parents apply to the children? If so, my father doesn’t have a clean past either. I mean, he didn’t before he died. So, what does your little theory make me?”

  “Beautiful.” The glint in Jack’s eye suggested he’d finished with his conversation. He wanted to talk about a more appealing subject. “Now, are you coming to my place tonight so we can finish what we started? I don’t know about you but I need an entree with my appetizer.”

  “Let me wrap up my report. I’ll see you later. Maybe I’ll even pour your favorite cocktail,” she answered.

  Chris, without realizing it, had held his breath as he waited for her. Concealed in the FBI garage’s darkness, he stood statue-still and fixed his eyes on the exit door. What’s taking her so long? he wondered as he stewed in his own disgust. He watched until she appeared in the doorway. His gaze stalked her until she entered her vehicle, the convertible Benz he bought with the spoils of his dirty work. He clenched his eyes tight, trying to shake the image of Lana and Jack from his mind.

  Never again, he thought. Never again.

  He had one trump left. One trump that could make the Jack problem disappear for good. And the time had come to play it.

  Chapter 12

  What the hell was I smoking? J.J. thought, wondering what possessed her to invite Tony to her cozy slice of sanctity. It was a foreclosure she got for a steal. Inside the elevator, she hit number ten on the panel and watched the numbers light up as she tried to dim her anxiety. The maid service had been rescheduled for the following day, so she hadn’t had a chance to do the ritual maid pre-arrival clean up.

  Now she was afraid of what he would think of her.

  When they finally entered her condo, a slow smile brightened his face. His lips parted slightly as his gaze roamed J.J.’s sparsely decorated apartment, from the sectional sofa and naked dining room table, to the Crate & Barrel wall shelf supporting her 51-inch flatscreen and Bose stereo system (she loved her toys). He halted abruptly before passing the photos of J.J. with her father and brother. Another photo of J.J. with her mother, aunt, and grandmother as a child.

  Then her heart stopped. Tony’s expression told her he’d spotted the one she never meant for him to see.

  “Nice place. Decorate much?” he said as he made a bee-line toward the shelf.

  She tried to intercept him, but her reflexes were slow. She couldn’t position herself ahead of him.

  “Well, well, well, what have we here?” He snickered at the photo of J.J. wrapped in the arms of her last relationship faux pas. He grabbed the frame and held it up facing her. “Who the hell is this douche bag?”

  Douche bag? He can tell from the picture?

  J.J. would never give Tony the satisfaction of knowing, but he’d hit that nail on the head. At the age o
f thirty-two, she’d never suffered a severely broken heart thanks to her gift. It protected her from dating liars for longer than an outing or two. Except for this one.

  Grayson Chance was known as “Six” to his friends and the many victims of his smash-and-dash. Six could light a fire with the heat from the sexual vibe he radiated. Tall and chiseled, his body was carved from a mass of perfection. His face was sweet as sugar cane; he was Easter Bunny brown…and equally hollow. He could donate a sliver of his ego to every living person on the planet and still have enough left over to rate pompous asshole.

  He’d been recruited by the CIA in college and became a counterintelligence case officer when he graduated from The Farm, the CIA’s training academy. For the last ten years, he’d been both a case officer and security officer, mostly serving in overseas embassies and consulates. His job was to catch CIA case officers cooperating with foreign intelligence services such as the Russians, thus a joint investigation at the Agency a few years ago brought J.J. and Six together.

  They shared a torrid on-again-off-again affair. She was drawn to his mystery, his charm, his sense of humor. Nobody had ever made her laugh more...except Tony perhaps. They shared moments when their souls connected on heights she’d never before allowed herself to reach. And the sex! He did sensuous things to her body that made her shiver at the mere thought. One or two of his moves might be illegal in every state except California and Kentucky. The problem with their relationship? He couldn’t stop living his legend, always undercover. The real Grayson rarely stood up and the legend always lied, so she always itched. Couldn’t stand to be around him except when their time together didn’t involve speaking, which was often, but not often enough. His career and lifestyle forced them onto separate paths. Her path led to sanity, his path led to the land of ill repute. Six’s career consumed him. Somewhere along the line, he lost himself...and so he lost J.J. The break-up was difficult, at least for J.J. Six, on the other hand, possessed an ice-cold resilience when it came to failed relationships. But, all in all, J.J.’s decision to let go was probably the best for both of them. Probably.