Stealing Mr. Right

by Tamara Morgan

  Okay, now things were getting freaky. The Whiskey Room was well-known as a favorite FBI haunt, situated as it was across the street from the New York field office.

  “I’m familiar with it, yes,” I hedged.

  “What if we met there instead?” He dropped my hand and lifted his fingers in a Boy Scout salute. “There’s nowhere safer to meet a perfect stranger, I swear. My coworkers and I meet there after work all the time. You’ll be surrounded by badges.”

  “Badges?” Was he about to admit to being an FBI agent?

  “Yeah. Want to see mine?” He didn’t wait for a response as he fished into his interior jacket pocket and flashed me the shiny gold of his authority as an upholder of the law. “I probably should have mentioned it earlier. There’s a reason I know so much about bullets and casing banks. I’m not as creepy as I seem.”

  I reached out to touch the badge, though I wasn’t able to make full contact. Despite years of close calls with the law, I’d never been that close to a badge before. I was half-afraid it would burn my skin, like holy water scalding a vampire.

  “Aren’t you supposed to keep it a secret?” I dropped my fingers and shoved them uncomfortably behind my back. “So, like, bad guys can’t sniff you out?”

  “But then how would I impress attractive women on the street?”

  “I guess it’s no worse than accidentally flashing a wallet full of hundred-dollar bills,” I allowed after only a brief moment of panic. “Or casually mentioning how hard it is for you to find condoms that fit without cutting off vital blood flow.”

  “No way. Men don’t really say that kind of thing.”

  “Oh, aren’t you so sweet and naive? Don’t worry. I’m suitably impressed by your credentials.”

  “I also have a hard time finding condoms that fit without cutting off vital blood flow, if it helps,” he added.

  In that moment, with his adorable smile and crinkled eyes pointed dead-on at me, I almost wished I was a dance teacher who had nothing but free time to cavort with dangerously attractive officers of the law. What kind of a life would that be—so ordinary, so comfortable, so sane?

  Not mine, that was for sure.

  “Okay, FBI Agent Grant Emerson.” I took a deep breath. This was not a moment for vague dreams or fanciful what-ifs. It was all or nothing. Go big or go home. “You won me over with that last one. Let’s go to your upstate restaurant for dinner and/or murder.”

  “Really?” His smile went from adorable to lady-slaying powerful. “I can pick you up around six or so?”

  “I’m not that won over. A girl always needs an escape route. How about you give me the address and I’ll take a Zipcar instead? Say, around seven?”

  His eyes clouded over for the briefest moment, disappointment mingled with something darker, before he pulled out a business card and scrawled an address on the back. “You sure you aren’t going to make me drive all the way out there to sit alone at a table?” he asked. Cannily, I thought. “A trick like that might end up breaking my heart.”

  “I’ll be there,” I lied. It was a tough one to get out, even for a woman like me, accustomed to half-truths and misdeeds. “I’m not so easy to get rid of. I have this way of worming into the least likely places.”

  At that, he took my hand and kissed it like a knight of old. The action almost killed me on the spot, especially when he didn’t relinquish his hold right away. He peered at me over the top of my fingers instead. “I have a feeling that’s true, Penelope Blue.”

  Oh man. He was rhyming again.

  “And I have no reason to get rid of you just yet,” he added with a wink. “In fact, I have a feeling we’re about to become very good friends.”

  6

  THE CALL

  (Present Day)

  Despite my best efforts, figuring out the motives of a highly suspicious FBI agent turns out to be no easy task.

  On the first day of surveillance, all I get from Riker is a text informing me that he can see straight into our living room from the tree across the street, prompting me to install new blinds and consider chopping down the oak for firewood. The second day is equally unproductive since I don’t hear from Riker at all. In a panic, I call Jordan, thinking he’s been caught and is currently in FBI holding, but she assures me that all is well.

  “He told us to sit tight. He thinks he might have a lead.”

  “What kind of lead?”

  “He wouldn’t say.”

  Which isn’t surprising, considering how much Riker loves to be mysterious. It matches his dark hair and broody outlook. That man was a magician in a past life, I’m sure of it.

  Unfortunately, day three isn’t proving itself all that helpful, either. Riker refuses to pick up his phone, and Grant has been the soul of cheerful husbandly ardor, present in body but distant in mind.

  “Hey, Pen?” Marta, the woman who runs the activities department at the dance studio where I work, pokes her head through the door. Since I have to stick to my regular routine as much as possible, I’m currently in the middle of one of my sessions teaching beginners’ ballet to a bunch of four-year-olds in multicolored tutus. And by beginners, I mean the hyperactive kids who mostly need a place with four walls and a semiresponsible adult until their parents get out of work. No one else cares for this job, which is the primary reason I’m allowed to do it, but I also like the disorganized chaos. These little princess terrors are my kind of people.

  I should probably mention that I don’t get paid to work here. My position is and always has been done on a strictly volunteer basis—though I do use their printer to make fake pay stubs every month. I’m nothing if not thorough.

  “What’s up?” I ask. “If it’s about my foot, I promise I’m not putting any more weight on it than necessary. There will be no lawsuits or workman’s comp claims, on my honor.”

  Marta, a thin-lipped woman whose face always seems to be pulled back as tightly as her hair, doesn’t smile. My charm has never had much effect on her. “Very funny. You have a phone call. It’s your husband.”

  An adorable pixie of a girl wearing a neon-green tutu swirls past me, and I find myself transfixed by the revolutions of that unearthly color over the faded wood floor.

  “My husband?” I ask. “Are you sure?”

  “Well, that’s what he called himself. Do you want me to take a message?”

  It’s a simple question—and an even simpler situation—but I have no idea how to respond. I never get phone calls at work. In fact, I’ve made a point to reinforce that the rec center’s budget is so low that they rarely pay the phone bill. The last thing I need is one of those relationships where Grant and I regularly check in with each other at work. Sorry, dear. Can’t talk now. Jordan’s about to choke a security guard with a smoke bomb. Want me to grab some Thai for later?

  “Hello? Pen?”

  “Sorry. Of course. I’ll go talk to him.” I blink myself into focus, suddenly struck with the thought that maybe I should grab some Thai for later. Grant’s been working almost nonstop since our failed anniversary night, and in my panic about the necklace, I haven’t had a chance to get him a gift. “Would you mind watching the kids for a few minutes?” I ask.

  Marta waves me off, her face relaxing as she claps the girls into a semblance of order. Poor dears. Like most of the people in my life, they’d be better off having someone skilled and, you know, noncriminal to depend on. I slip out quietly so as not to disturb the lesson.

  Even though the front desk isn’t the most private place to have a conversation, no one seems to notice or care when I pick up the beige plastic receiver with a tentative, “Hello?”

  “Oh, good. You’re there.”

  In terms of romantic effusion, Grant’s greeting could use a little work, but the subtext—that he wasn’t sure I could be trusted to appear at work during my regular hours—gave my heart enough of a pitter
-patter to make up for it. “Yes, I’m here. Is everything okay? Have you been shot or something?”

  “Is that the only reason I can call you?”

  “You have, haven’t you? You took a bullet.” I’m only half joking—I can’t think of any other reason for this unprecedented phone call unless it’s part of this sneaky test of his to see if I’ll take the necklace. “How long do you have to live?”

  He hesitates. “If I were to tell you I only have five minutes, what would you do?”

  “Five minutes exactly, or five minutes ballpark figure?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m dying. What would you say to me if you knew it was the last thing I’d ever hear?”

  Romance might not be my forte, but I know the answer to that question. It’s I love you. No matter what’s happening or whose life is on the line, a wife should always send her husband to the great beyond with at least that much.

  But Grant isn’t dying, and I’m not sure I care to deal with the repercussions of that claim. In all our time together, that’s the one lie we’ve both managed to avoid. “Um…I promise to wear black every day for a year after you’re gone?”

  “You already wear black every day.”

  “I’ll add a veil.”

  He sighs. “You would, too, just so you could say you held up your end of the bargain.”

  I open and close my mouth, unsure how to proceed. He actually sounds hurt that I didn’t follow the script.

  Fortunately—or not—there’s no time to backtrack. “I know you’re busy today, but do you know where my passport is?” he asks.

  I do. It’s right next to my passport, the pair of them entertaining one another inside the sanctity of our safe. They’re probably discoing under the bright lights cast by the multimillion-dollar necklace.

  “Um, yes? I think it’s at home where it always is.”

  “Perfect. I know it’s out of your way, but can you swing it by the Bureau this afternoon?”

  I pull the receiver away from my ear and stare at it, tempted to give it a shake. Is he kidding? He wants me to open the safe I’ve been studiously avoiding since Saturday and journey to the wolf’s lair?

  “It’s kind of urgent, so sooner is better,” I hear him say from a distance.

  I put the phone back to my ear with a start. “What? Why? Are you going somewhere?”

  “No, no—nothing like that. It’s just this new thing I’m trying out.”

  “What kind of thing?”

  “A top secret thing.” He pauses, and I can hear a clipped voice of authority in the distance. I strain to make out the words, listening for anything that might sound like diamonds or necklace, but the voices are too far away. As usual, he gives me just enough to raise suspicion—never enough to cast it aside. “Listen, I’ve got to run, but you’ll come by later with that passport?”

  “I just have to get all the way home and open the safe first…” I say, hoping he might give me more to go on.

  He doesn’t. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down. Good ol’ dependable Pen.”

  Good ol’ dependable Pen, my ass. I’m the least trustworthy human on the planet, and he knows it. Either he’s trying to butter me up so he can slam me with some new curveball, or there are darker forces at work. Not for the first time, I wish I had the ability to cut through his smiles and compliments, chuck aside his flattery, to see the real man below. There are times, like when he was in that jewelry store with my necklace, that I’m sure he’s my enemy.

  There are also times, like this moment, when I suspect he might be more.

  “Grant, before you go—”

  “Yeah? Have you decided what your last words will be before I succumb to all this blood loss?”

  My chest constricts at the image of Grant actually bleeding out, all that life and vitality trickling away. The stubborn man takes so many risks on the job and always with a kind of cheerful unconcern for his own well-being. It’s not that much of a stretch to picture it.

  “It’s just…” My voice wavers enough that I have to take a deep breath before continuing. “Would it be okay if I stop by a little later with the passport, maybe closer to six? I was thinking I might bring takeout with me, if you think you could spare half an hour.”

  Whether it’s the cheap handset or the profound silence of his hesitance, I hear nothing but buzzing for a full ten seconds.

  “You want to have dinner with me tonight?” he eventually says.

  He’s so surprised by the offer that I feel like I’ve accidentally announced my darkest secrets. “Only if you’re not too busy,” I rush. “I was thinking Thai sounds good.”

  “Thai does sound good.” His voice is warmer than before, and even though the noises in his office pick up, he doesn’t hang up right away. “In fact, Thai sounds great.”

  7

  THE NECKLACE

  (The Next Day)

  “Is it possible to invent a murder necklace?”

  Jordan looks up from the table where she’s working, goggles over her eyes and some sort of makeshift chemist’s lab set up in front of her. There’s a burner and a milky-white liquid bubbling in a flask, which I figure has equal chances of being an explosive or a recipe for a chai latte.

  “Are you asking about my capabilities or soliciting my professional opinion?” she asks.

  With a kick of my foot, I manage to slam her apartment door shut behind me. I’ve got actual chai lattes balanced in my hands, which makes navigating the security locks a bit tricky. I’m only supposed to use her spare key in emergencies, but this is. An emergency, I mean. I’m pretty sure I’m dying.

  “Professional opinion.” I set the cups down, as far away from her experiment as possible, and shrug off my messenger bag. “If you wanted to kill someone, could you put poison in the metal or invent some kind of incredible shrinking gold that slowly tightened in a choke hold?”

  She flips the switch on her burner, the flame dying from a healthy blue to an orange whimper. “Is this about the diamond necklace?”

  I wish. The diamond necklace might be causing me sleepless nights and panic-inducing anxiety, but it’s the one currently around my neck I’m really worried about. Yesterday, it was passports and Thai food. Today, this. I don’t know how much more I can take.

  “I can’t get it off.” I twist my head to reveal the slinky gilded chain pressed against my throat. It’s probably too soon for the poison to be taking effect, but I swear I can feel my skin burning away in a neat circle. “He welded the clasp shut or something. I’m trapped, and only the jaws of death will save me.”

  The goggles come down, which is good, because they were making Jordan’s eyes freakishly large. “Holy smokes, Pen. That’s some necklace.”

  “Don’t start.”

  “No—I’m serious.” She draws closer for a better look. This time, she smells like chloroform and candy instead of sulfur and candy. It’s still oddly appealing. “I think I might like it better than the one we were trying to steal. It’s beautiful.”

  “I know it’s beautiful.” I give it a tug, but the thing is made of kryptonite or something. “No one is questioning its beauty. What I’m questioning is its lethality.”

  “Hold still a minute.” Her fingers are warm as she pushes my hair aside to work the clasp, a task that takes her all of five seconds before the chain slips from around my neck and pools into her waiting palm. “You’re so dramatic sometimes. It’s got a security clasp, that’s all. So it won’t fall off or get stolen by a light-fingered thief.”

  “Oh.”

  She doesn’t say anything more, just examines the newest piece of jewelry that’s been introduced to throw my life into disorder. This one isn’t nearly as big or expensive, but Jordan is right about how stunning it is. It’s a delicate gold chain, twisted in the center to showcase a perfect infinity knot. Exactly my style and an ideal com
plement to my simple wardrobe. “I guess Mr. Romance wasn’t done with the anniversary celebrations yet, huh?”

  I glance sharply up. “Don’t call him that.”

  Jordan blinks at me in surprise.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just…” I trail off, shifting on the balls of my feet, and reach for one of the cups of tea. I’m not really thirsty, but if I don’t bring some kind of snack or beverage to Jordan’s house, she always feels a motherly urge to feed me. Instead of drinking, I toy with the lid. “I don’t like it when you guys call him Mr. Romance, that’s all. It’s not like that between us.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Okay.” She nods. I’m so used to fighting Riker over every little thing that it feels almost wrong to have someone respect my boundaries without question. “It is from Grant, though, right?”

  “Oh, it’s from Grant. He took me back to Paulson’s today.”

  Jordan laughs, the sound of it so genuine and warm that I feel better in an instant. It’s exactly what I need to sort my feelings, to know that I’m not going crazy all alone. “Did you hear that, Oz? Pen paid a visit to our favorite jeweler today.”

  Oz pokes up from the couch in the living room like a meerkat.

  Although I once again manage to subdue the worst of my alarm, I stagger back a step at the sight of his tousled head appearing as if from nowhere. I swear, if that man were an assassin, I’d be dead ten times over by now.

  “Jesus, Oz. Have you been here this whole time?” I ask.

  He shrugs and makes a vague gesture toward the door. “Girl talk?”

  I pick up on his meaning right away. It’s nice of him to offer to leave so I can have a chance to chat with Jordan alone, but there’s not much of a point. As much as I wish I could keep things close to the heart the way he does, I’ve always been the hang-your-dirty-laundry-out-for-all-the-world-to-judge type. Ladylike mystery is for much classier women than I.

  “He’s keeping me company while I try out this new compound,” Jordan says. “It was supposed to be a liquid explosive that neutralizes itself after a few minutes, but I got some of the components wrong. Here. Smell it.”