by G. K. Parks
“Be creative.” He pressed his lips together. “Try to develop a shorthand between yourselves. If things go south, at least you’ll have immediate back-up. In the event it turns into something life or death, don’t sacrifice yourselves. Pull the badge and make the call.” Mark looked stern. “Just make sure it’s not premature. If something looks uncertain, hold out as long as you can to make sure it is what it appears to be.”
“Got it,” Michael responded and glanced at me. We were a team for the duration. At least he understood that we had to agree before making a move. It was the only way to safeguard the mission and ourselves.
“Excellent.” Jablonsky stood up. “Let’s get the two of you situated at the art gallery so you can ease into your new identities. This ought to be fun.”
After all the instructions, Michael drove to the gallery, Paintings and Pinnings, and found a metered spot a couple blocks away. The owners, Sara and Greg Sylvar, were accommodating. They closed shop at lunchtime to give us a complete tour and an insider’s view of how the art world worked. Greg had an art history degree and recommended some light reading to help sell my cover. It was almost dinnertime when we left.
“I never realized the public was this amenable to law enforcement,” Michael commented as we got back into the car.
“Maybe they were afraid we’d turn their information over to the IRS for a thorough audit if they didn’t play ball.” As he listened to my rambling, he checked the mirrors and backed out of the parking spot. “Jablonsky wants us to ease our way into becoming regulars at Specialty Vineyard, so I guess we should check in and then consider going to dinner.”
“How old are we?” he asked, the demeaning quality I often heard when we were going through training was back.
“I’m twenty-four. You’re twenty-seven?” I couldn’t remember the date of his cover’s birthday which probably meant spending so many late night hours memorizing things had let some minute details slip past. I’d need to refresh myself on all of it again tonight just to make sure it was ingrained in my being.
“Yes, and so is Michael Price.” I wondered how deep cover agents kept things straight. It felt like we were suffering from dissociative identity disorders and had multiple personalities. “That probably means we aren’t in our seventies and hoping to cash in on the early bird specials.”
“Fine.”
We went back to the OIO building. I reread our falsified backgrounds twice, cover to cover, before going home to change. Michael was picking me up for our date this evening. Undercover assignment here I come. On the drive home, I just hoped no one would recognize us from last night. In the event they did, we’d need a decent cover story, and I had an idea.
Five
Having learned my lesson the last time I went out in a dress, I had a tote bag packed with a change of clothes. Spending the night in the office was more conducive when I was in either work attire or something more casual, like jeans and a t-shirt. In the event the maitre d’ or one of the wait staff noticed our repeat presences, I had a cover story prepared. Mark could be my father, which fit perfectly since he often acted as a cross between a teacher and parent, and we had gone out for a nice meal. My fiancé was supposed to join us but had to try to woo a potential art dealer instead, explaining why he and Boyle spent the evening at the bar. It sounded good on paper, and when I ran it by Michael, he agreed it was plausible.
Arriving at the restaurant, he turned on the charm, and I had no choice but to play along. The hostess seated us at a cozy table for two and lit the candle in the center for additional ambiance. A moment later, the server arrived, and Michael made some pretense of it being a special occasion. It was an excuse to order one of their finest bottles of wine. The man returned, presented the bottle, poured a small sample into a glass, and Michael swirled, sniffed, and did all the other pretentious things people do when pretending they know something about wine. After it met his approval, two glasses were poured, and we were left alone.
“Honey,” he purred, “aren’t you having a good time? You need to relax. We aren’t at work.” Reading between the lines, I tried to appear more comfortable in this setting as I searched the room for signs of Victor Spilano.
“You’re just as tense,” I retorted, glancing at him. “Maybe you need to drink some wine.” I wasn’t entirely sure drinking on the job was permitted, but there was no other way to blend in when your mark was in the wine business. He picked up the glass and held it out, waiting for me to clink mine with his. “Adorable.”
“I must be the luckiest guy, getting to date you,” he sounded snarky, “what with all these smart-alecky comments and everything.”
“That’s part of what made you fall head over heels in love with me. It’s not my fault if I just swept you off your feet.”
He ignored it and picked up the menu, pretending to read as he studied something behind me. I hated not being able to see whatever had caught his attention. My back was to the front door. All I had was a great view of the bar, and if I tilted a little to the side, I could see a sliver inside the kitchen.
The server returned and took our orders which were basic and perfunctory. While we waited for him to return, Michael pulled out his cell phone. “Smile,” he instructed. After he clicked a few photos, he passed the device to me.
Victor Spilano was standing off to the side of the foyer, speaking with someone in a business suit. I had no idea who the other man was, but as I skimmed through the photos, I found a few close-up shots that might be viable for facial recognition.
Our meal arrived, and we ate while Michael continued to keep tabs on the mark. Eventually, his gaze shifted to the side, and I was ecstatic to have something more useful to do than try to see some indecipherable reflection in the glass surfaces of the bar. Victor was in the middle of the room, against a back wall, speaking with a group at the table. It appeared the restaurant’s owner was schmoozing with the regulars.
After dinner, I ordered a dessert for us to share. Since Victor was in the building, we might as well hang around as long as possible. When the check was brought, Michael asked about catering and renting out the space for a private function. Within moments, Victor Spilano stood before us. He was unnaturally tanned with almost black hair and a gauntness to him.
“How was your meal?” he inquired, resembling a shark by showing tons of teeth.
“Excellent.” I smiled demurely, wondering which of us wore the pants in our pretend relationship. Since this was Michael’s idea, I let him take lead.
“Michael Price,” he extended his hand, “this is Alex. We work just down the street at Paintings and Pinnings. Normally, we have events at the gallery catered by a local bistro, but there’s a very impressive artist planning a show, and since this place is fantastic, we were wondering if it would be possible to rent your restaurant for an evening or have you cater our function.”
“Mr. Price, you obviously have exquisite taste. I’m the owner, Victor Spilano.” He motioned to the bartender. “If you wait a moment, I’m sure I can scare up a price chart for our services. How many guests were you estimating?” Michael looked at me.
“It is invitation only.” I tried to pretend I had some idea what was going on. “It should be in the ballpark of a hundred, maybe one fifty.”
“We can easily accommodate you,” Spilano insisted.
He went to the bar, and I looked at Michael. Flying by the seat of our pants on our first night conducting surveillance seemed like overkill. Were we pushing too hard? Would Victor become suspicious, or was I paranoid as usual? Michael moved his hand in a take it easy gesture.
When Spilano returned with a printed sheet of services and features, Michael skimmed it and smiled. “Thank you so much. How much notice do you need?”
“Normally, a month, but if you’re in a bind, I can probably scrape something together in as little as two weeks.” He was incredibly congenial and accommodating. If I didn’t know he was an arms dealer, I might have liked him.
We
stood. Michael shook hands with Victor before putting his arm around my waist and escorting me to the door. As we stood outside, I could feel the unease of being watched, and I cuddled up to him. There was no way to turn around to see who might be observing us, but it was best to sell ourselves as a couple. Michael kissed my temple and opened my car door, helping me inside as soon as the valet handed him the keys.
“That was fun,” he remarked as we drove to the OIO building. “I believe our first day undercover was a complete success.”
“You pushed too hard. We’re trying to blend in, not draw more attention to ourselves.” From my estimation, he was behaving brashly. “The only thing we were supposed to do was get a feel for the place, not start party planning.”
“It’ll get us inside,” he argued. “Doesn’t Jablonsky ever let you call the shots? You never seemed particularly subservient at Quantico, so what the hell happened to you?”
“This is our first outing. I don’t want to blow it. I’m under strict orders not to get shot.”
“Paranoid much?”
“Screw you.”
“That might help sell us as a couple.”
“Do you ever take any of this shit seriously?” I growled. “You always talk a good game and throw out the jibes and the insults, but watching you tonight, I realize it’s obvious you don’t have any fucking idea what you’re doing.”
“I have a better understanding of this than you. Have you even been out of the office?”
“Oh and you have?” It was obvious neither of us had any experience with this type of assignment. We were getting into hot water, and I wondered how Jablonsky and Boyle would react.
I didn’t have to wonder long. After the photos were turned over to the analyst, Jablonsky shut the four of us into his office.
“What the hell are you doing?” Boyle yelled. “You were given basic instructions. It was premature to make such an impact.”
“Sir,” Michael began, “an opportunity presented itself. There was no guarantee Spilano would be there any other night. For all any of us know, he might be going on vacation for the next three months.”
Boyle looked annoyed. The same look was reflected on Jablonsky’s face.
“It was a good call,” I piped up. Although I didn’t necessarily agree, I understood the basic tenet of this job; never throw your partner under a bus. “Any suspicion could easily be mitigated. It isn’t at all uncommon for the casual diner, looking to have an event catered, to ask for more information after enjoying a wonderful meal. We sold it from the beginning. From the wine to the dessert.”
“Now you’re drinking on the job too? You’re federal agents. Why the hell do you need to imbibe at work?” Jablonsky snarled.
“Selling our cover. We aren’t impaired. Would it make you feel better if we submit to a breathalyzer or a blood test?” I wasn’t backing down. Maybe Michael made a dumb move, but there wasn’t anything else to do except let it run its course.
“Tenacious. Goddamn tenacious.” Jablonsky sighed. “Fine, fill out a report on everything you witnessed and get out of here. Tomorrow morning, we’ll have an official briefing prepared for your next course of action, and whatever we tell you to do, you better pay attention this time.”
“Operations like this aren’t resolved in a day. Undercover work is slow. You aren’t going to make a case in an hour. Some agents go undercover for months or longer. This is a marathon, not a sprint,” Boyle cautioned.
“Yes, sir,” Michael and I responded in unison. We needed to stop doing that.
“Parker,” Jablonsky barked, “you wore that last night. Go get some other appropriate clothing to wear for days of working at an art gallery and going out on dates.” I nodded, and he jerked his head toward the door. We were being dismissed.
I picked up my change of clothes and went in search of the locker room. After returning, I took a seat at my desk and began writing my report.
“You didn’t have to back me up in there,” Michael said. The area was empty since we were the only ones working late. “I can take responsibility for my own actions.”
“Stop being so impatient,” I chided. “We’re in this together, and I don’t want my ass handed to me again because of the next dumb thing you do.”
He finalized his report and picked it up to drop off at Jablonsky’s office. “See you tomorrow, Parker.”
“Lucky me.”
Six
The next three weeks blurred into one monotonous day. Carver and I spent our fair share of time at Paintings and Pinnings, Specialty Vineyard, and work. It was all beginning to wear on me. Undercover assignments were the pits. I hated paperwork, but constantly having to pretend to be someone else was just as tedious and soul-sucking. At least it was a learning experience. For future reference, if given the option, I wanted to work investigations, not gather intel.
It was a Saturday morning; Jablonsky had given us the weekend off to help maintain our sanity. I slept until noon, and after getting dressed, I went for a run. It was one of the few things that actually helped clear my mind. When I returned from my five miles, Michael was standing outside my door.
“You’re still running after something completely unobtainable?” he queried.
“Don’t you have a life?” I sighed.
“Yes, in Los Angeles.” He looked aggravated. “Until we get this sorted out, I’m stuck here.” He followed me inside. “Plus, who are you to talk about a life? In the last three weeks, I don’t believe you’ve unpacked a single box. Work is all you do. That’s not much of a life.” He went to my fridge and poured a glass of soda while I went into my room. “Running doesn’t count as a life either. And you could have invited your fake fiancé along.”
“Why are you here?” I stood in the hallway between my bedroom and bathroom, wanting to take a shower and go on with my day without all this bullshit. We were off for the weekend. That meant I shouldn’t have to deal with him.
“Boyle called. P&P is hosting an unplanned event tonight, and since we’re supposed to be star employees, it would look suspicious if we weren’t there. The surveillance van on Spilano has seen some odd movements, and our bosses think it’d be a good idea if we were in the vicinity.”
“But it’s our day off,” I protested.
“Honey, we don’t get days off. It’s part of the job.”
“And you accuse me of not having a life.” I shut the bathroom door.
Maybe the novelty of being a federal agent was wearing thin. I’d been assigned to Jablonsky for the last seven months, and although I still had a lot to learn, getting dragged into a long-term undercover assignment had never been on my radar. The few times Mark and I had a quiet moment, he would try to instill upon me vast amounts of facts and information that he thought new agents should know. He hadn’t wanted anything this large-scale to rest on two newbies either, but we were all determined to make lemonade.
When I came out, Michael was on the phone. Rummaging through the fridge, I made a sandwich and sat at my kitchen table. He hung up and took a seat.
“There’s been another shipment confiscated. Boyle wants to try to end this. He’s having an invitation to the gallery’s gala sent to Spilano. Although it’s short notice, it will give Victor a better understanding of the type of service we expect from his business, so he should show up.”
“Why the urgency? He’s already been hired for the catering gig next week. It’ll give us a chance to snoop while he’s busy making sure the food prep and waiters are all prepared. What are we doing tonight?”
“We were told not to do anything,” he rolled his eyes, “but Jablonsky’s sending a few members of his team into the restaurant. If Spilano’s otherwise occupied, we might have some idea of what to expect the following week. Maybe it’ll be enough to tip his hand or catch him off guard.”
“I didn’t think we had enough for a search warrant.”
“The rules have changed. We have a second source coming forward and pointing the finger directly
at Victor. The ink should be drying as we speak.” I bit my lip, processing through everything. “Face it,” Michael continued, “you don’t even know what to do with a day off.”
“I went for a run, and later, I planned to hit the range.”
“That’s not a day off. That’s self-imposed training. Let me guess, after that you were going to curl up with a nice book or catch up on paperwork.” Dammit, I hated how he guessed my routine. “Alex, we could have such fun together,” he looked devilish, “but tonight, we’re working. I’ll meet you at the office, and we’ll go to P&P together. Okay?”
“Fine.”
* * *
After dressing for an art opening and ensuring my go-bag was in my trunk, I went to the OIO. There was no sign of Boyle or Carver, and I was relieved. I checked my e-mail, skimmed through the latest developments on a few other open cases, and then went in search of Jablonsky. He was in his office.
“Knock, knock,” I announced from the doorway. He looked up and gestured inside.
“I’m glad the California boys aren’t here right now.” He looked exhausted, and the couch in his office possessed a crumpled blanket. I filed that thought away for later. “Parker, this isn’t normally the type of assignment I’d send you on. This was meant to be information gathering only, but things have changed. You’re in too deep, or I’d pull you out.”
“What’s changed?” It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Michael, but he might not be aware of the current situation.
“We’re sending in a team of agents. We have a search warrant, but I don’t expect us to find anything damning. Spilano isn’t an idiot. He isn’t going to keep anything incriminating at work or home, which are the only two places we know to search. Instead, we’re hoping to panic him. If he’s afraid his illegal activities will be discovered, he might do something stupid.”
