“I think you did plan that,” he shot back.
Jernigan’s grin vanished. “Look, my guy’s waiting at the top of the other stairwell, in case you pull anything funny. Since the drugs look legit, I’m letting you out the back way.”
Grant’s eyes traveled from the crumbling concrete steps back to Jernigan’s face.
“You think I’d try to screw over the Russians?” the man asked, exasperated. “That’d be suicide.”
Grant’s heart thumped. Suicide wasn’t on his agenda when he planned to screw over the Russians. “Okay.” He reached out to shake his hand. “Good luck.”
Jernigan’s scowl softened. “You too, man. Don’t get dead.”
In another life, he sensed they could’ve been friends. But in this life, depending on how quickly Captain Lockhart ordered the search and interrogation, Article 112a of the Uniform Code of Military Justice—Wrongful Use, Possession, Etc., of Controlled Substances—was about to rain down on Jernigan.
Grant took the stairs two at a time, and just like Jernigan had promised, no one waited to ambush him. He rounded the side of the bar, his palm squeezing the butt of the handgun in his pocket. After a scan of the parking lot revealed no threats, he slid into the Mercedes.
“Give,” Andrei demanded, and Grant passed the bag. He held his breath while Andrei counted the cash.
Suddenly Andrei was all smiles. “Very good.” He patted the crown of Grant’s head, and his rough hand was cold. “We report back to Vladimir. He is happy.”
Anything to make Vladimir happy.
“The weapon,” Andrei said, holding out his hand.
He handed over the Glock, and Andrei stuffed it into his jacket and peeled out of the lot.
Relief washed over Grant once they were back on the highway. This time his trip to the bar had a happier ending.
He hoped.
***
Andrei was quiet as he drove, leaving Grant to his thoughts. He mused about the past couple of hours. They’d driven from Great Lakes to West Town, this time stopping at another ancient, drafty house. He wondered how many of these Vladimir owned.
Andrei had handed the bag of cash to Vladimir, who seemed unimpressed. Just a drop in the vedro, Grant surmised. He’d waved them off and returned to making out with Katya on the leather sofa. Grant wanted to get the hell out of there before he hurt somebody. The bruise on Katya’s skinny arm made him want to steal back the gun and shoot the don’s freaking head off. His homicidal impulses abated somewhat when Andrei took them to a local bar to give his boss some privacy.
Now that they were done with another long evening, he couldn’t wait to get away from the Russians. “You didn’t have to drive me home,” he said. The three vodka drinks hadn’t seemed to affect Andrei at all, but Grant’s head buzzed from the alcohol and adrenaline. He sensed the Russians were preparing him for bigger deals in the future, now that tonight’s deal had built some trust.
Grant’s eyes grew big as the car sailed past the lobby entrance of his apartment building. “Where are we going?”
“Home, like you ask.” Andrei winked. “I come see where you live.”
He gripped the armrest. Apparently the trust tests were ongoing. Please don’t make a surprise visit tonight, Sophie.
It took some circling for Andrei to find a parking space. Once they did, Grant started down the sidewalk, only to realize Andrei wasn’t following him. He remained standing near the hood of the car. He tilted his head toward the parking meter.
He expects me to pay for parking? Unbelievable. He shook his head as he swiped his Mick Saylor credit card on the meter. The power dynamics were clear in this relationship. Just wait till I take you down. Get Innochka and Katya out of there, and get you and your boss behind bars. Then the power would definitely shift.
“Chicago make you pay all day and night for park,” Andrei mused as they began to walk. “Is bullshit. Corrupt government.”
He suppressed a chuckle. Mafia complaining about corruption? Pot, meet kettle.
He rubbed his hands together as they entered the lobby and nodded at the doorman. He extracted the fob on his keychain and buzzed them through the door leading to the elevators. He was about to press the button when Andrei blocked him with his arm and pressed the number for his floor himself.
A chill bloomed up his spine. When had Andrei been in the building? Had he seen Sophie? Kirsten?
Andrei looked at the shining chrome handrail lining the elevator car. “Nice building. You hold back money from us?”
“I pay you everything I have,” he countered. “Just wait till you see inside the apartment—it’s not that nice. But the rent kills me all the same.”
“Is not rent killing you,” Andrei said. “Is way you lose at cards.”
“Thanks,” he muttered as he stepped out of the elevator. He mentally checked off the items in his apartment as he’d left them. The FBI’s secure phone was hidden away in his dresser drawer. Sophie’s clothes were all upstairs at Kirsten’s. The props were in place. The button mic on his shirt was still recording as far as he knew.
What was he missing?
His heart fluttered as he unlocked the door. Andrei followed him into the dark one-bedroom apartment. He tossed the keys on the counter between the kitchen and living room. “Want a drink?”
One of Andrei’s eyebrows approached his hairline.
He felt like an imbecile. He went to the kitchen and filled a couple of glass tumblers with ice. As he reached into the cabinet above the refrigerator for a bottle of whiskey, he caught a glance of the Russian thumbing through some books on a shelf.
With the two glasses, he approached the bookshelf. Andrei turned to him with a wicked grin. “Books not work for you.”
He looked at the gambling instructional manuals then back at the mobster. “So you come here to insult me, then?” He pulled the drinks to his chest. “The door’s right over there, bud.”
Andrei chuckled. “Sorry to offend host.”
“Hmph.” He paused before extending a glass.
“No,” Andrei said, pointing to the drink Grant held in his other hand. “That one.”
He gave him the drink he wanted. “Did anyone ever tell you you have trust issues?”
“Not if he want to live.” Andrei took a sip. “Poker like sex, da? If you not have good partner, you better have good hand.”
Grant laughed.
The uninvited guest stepped over to the record collection. “You have old record player. Why?”
“It was my mother’s.” When they’d stocked his apartment with Mick Saylor props, he’d asked for a collection of records from the Frank Sinatra era. He couldn’t believe it when the FBI found that record player at a second-hand shop—almost exactly like the one his mother had owned. They’d lost just about everything when she’d taken him and Logan to Joe’s after his father’s arrest, and it calmed him to have a piece of family history back.
“Your mother dead?” Andrei asked.
He swallowed. “Yes.”
“Your father beat her.”
He blanched, wondering if his cover was blown, then remembered telling Andrei about the abuse when he refused to whip Innochka. He looked down at his whiskey, then raised the glass to his lips.
Andrei asked, “He kill her?”
“No.” He sighed. “She died from cancer when I was twelve.”
“Make you tough,” Andrei said as he patted his cheek. He gestured around him to the plain walls. “No photos. Why?”
“Would you put up photos of the man who beat your mother?”
“I would not.” Andrei replied. He took a long sip. “I do not.”
He nodded. He’d thought Andrei gave him a strange look that night at the house. “Your dad beat your mom?”
He looked away. “Is okay he beat me and brothers. Is way we learn.” His jaw clenched. “Is not okay he beat Mama.” He swirled his drink, and the ice cubes clinked against the glass. “Is not okay he kill her.”
Gr
ant drew in a sharp breath. “He killed your mother?”
“Is okay now.” Andrei smiled. “We take care of it.”
“We?”
Andrei strode toward the back of the apartment, all business. “Toilet here, yes?”
“Uh, yeah.”
When the Russian closed the bathroom door, Grant poured most of his whiskey down the drain. He blew out a breath as he leaned over the sink, his elbows resting on the countertop.
“What is this?”
He straightened. To his horror, Andrei held Sophie’s makeup. How had he missed that bottle of foundation? “You’ve been scrounging around in my medicine cabinet? That’s not cool, Andrei.”
“You have lover here?”
He blinked. “No. The truth is…I sometimes wear makeup on nights I sing.” He manufactured a blush. “Frank Sinatra did it too.” He thought that juicy tidbit would make Andrei laugh, but the Russian kept scowling.
Andrei then held up a tube of lipstick. “You wear lipstick too?”
He tensed. “Uh…”
“You have girlfriend. Just say it.”
His mind raced as he searched for a plausible explanation. Damn Sophie for leaving her makeup all over the place!
“I will meet her.” Andrei nodded. “Bring her to show tomorrow. We have drinks.”
“But—”
He’d already tossed the makeup on the sofa and returned to the front door. “This place a dump, Saylor. Hope your lady look better than this.”
When the door closed, Grant realized his mouth was hanging open. What the hell just happened? There was no way he’d bring Sophie near those thugs.
He marched into the bedroom and yanked open the drawer. He snatched the hidden cell phone and had Agent Bounter on the line in seconds.
“Bob’s Bar and Grill,” he answered.
“What the fuck are we gonna do? I can’t bring So—”
“Shut up and calm down,” Bounter said, lowering his voice. “He could’ve wired the place when he was there.”
“Oh.”
“We’ll get some people in there to check for bugs tomorrow. For now, you sleep.”
“But—”
“Listen to me,” he ordered. “We won’t let Sophie near them, okay? We’ll figure something out. Give us some time.”
“Okay.”
“You were excellent tonight. Keep it up…not much longer now. I know how stressful this is, but you’re handling it like a pro. You did good, Mick.”
“Thank you.”
“We’ll be in touch. Be good.”
The phone clicked. He stared at it for a long minute. Then he typed out a text:
Are your buns warm?
He paced for a few minutes and finally Sophie responded:
Sorry, was asleep. Come find out for yourself.
Oh sorry to wake u. Talk tomorrow?
U can’t come up?
He sighed. He could almost feel the warm silk of her skin beneath his hands.
Too risky. :(
Did it go OK?
Yes. Went great.
He wasn’t about to share Andrei’s invitation. As soon as he sent the message, he typed another:
I love you, Bonnie.
I love you so much, McSailor. Please be careful.
I will.
Ms. Broccoli loves you too. :)
She better love me more than she loves Rog. Goodnight.
I’ll dream about you, Jack Dawson.
He chuckled. She always had to have the last word. Once he lay in bed, her face floated in his mind, bringing a smile to his lips.
14. Connections
BEN FLUNG HIMSELF on to his bed. This being grounded thing sucked balls. He’d already listened to music, studied for his physics test, and whacked off (Dr. Hunter had told him masturbation was completely normal). Now he was bored.
Discordant music emanated from his phone, signaling a text from Dylan:
Wazzup?
He smiled. Finally. Someone to talk to. His fingers flew over the phone’s touchpad.
Uber bored. Want to go out but in prison.
Still grounded, huh? Nick is too. U guys r no fun.
He typed:
U talk to Nick?
Yeah, don’t u?
Apparently Nick’s dad had only put him on the no-associate list. Thanks, Grandpa Barberi. He sighed as he typed:
Nope. His dad thinks I’m a criminal or sumpin.
U r a badass, fo shizzle. Ur mom’s at work?
Why don’t u sneak out?
Have to be here if she calls home phone.
Dude, she’s got the cell bars locked tight!
No shit.
And she used to be so cool.
He was about to respond when Dylan’s next text popped up:
Momster’s bitchin at me to go to bed. Hasta la vista.
Sweet dreams, Momma’s boy.
Five seconds later, he was bored again. Then he heard a key in the front door. “Mom, can we get a Wii?” he called once he heard the door swing open.
“No, Benji.” Her voice sounded tight.
“How ’bout a pet, then? A dog?” He rolled off his bed and headed to the family room. “I’m so bored—” Holy shit…there was a man standing next to his mother in the middle of their apartment.
She must’ve noticed him freeze in place because she pasted on a fake smile and dipped her open palm to the side, gesturing to the blond man. “Ben, this is Hans.”
The man stepped over and offered his hand. “Hallo, Ben.”
His accent was strange—German, maybe—and Ben hesitated. When he slipped his hand into the guy’s rough grasp, a tendril of dread inched up his spine. He looked up to meet the man’s eyes, trying to make sense of his physical reaction. When he caught a flash of something sinister, he yanked his hand back.
“Ben? What’s wrong?” his mother asked.
“Uh…” He gulped. The man still stared at him with an eye-fucking gleam. “Nothing…”
She gave him another strange look as she headed into the kitchen. “We’ve talked about this before. This apartment’s too small for dogs.” She took down a couple of wine glasses. “Besides, I don’t want to walk a dog in the winter. March in Chicago is bad enough.”
Hans nodded. “Colder than a witch’s tit out there.”
His mother’s giggle shocked him. When was the last time he’d heard her laugh? And why was she giggling at that stupid thing? His mother had just started to reply when he blurted, “Where’d you guys meet?”
She extracted a wine bottle from a paper bag. “I served him at the restaurant tonight.”
“It seems you’re still serving me,” Hans said, nodding at the bottle of red.
“Well, you bought the wine, handsome,” his mother replied.
Ben made a gagging noise, which drew his mother’s glare. “Isn’t it a school night? It’s past your bedtime.”
He felt his jaw unhinge. Bedtime? “I don’t have a fucking bedtime, Mom.”
“Watch your language,” Hans warned in a sharp tone.
He whirled to face the stranger in his apartment. “Who the fuck are you to tell me what to do?”
Glints of rage in his eyes, Hans took a step toward him.
“Ben,” his mother said as she rounded the corner of the kitchen. She planted herself between the two men. “Hans has had a tough day, and I…I’m sorry I didn’t warn you I was bringing home a guest.”
Ben relaxed just a bit.
“Would you please hang out in your room?” she asked. “I’d really love some privacy with Hans. He’ll only be here a few minutes.”
“Is that all?” Hans crooned. “I hoped to spend more time with the beautiful lady.”
Now Ben definitely was going to barf. “Don’t worry—I’m outta here.”
He almost fell over when his mother leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. What was her deal tonight? “G’night, Benji.” She cradled his face in her hand.
Hans gave him a leering smile, and Ben swi
veled and hightailed it to his bedroom. Once his door was closed, he leaned back against it, letting out a long sigh. There was something creepy about the German dude, for sure, but he’d never seen his mom so chill—so happy. Her trilling laughter floated through the flimsy wooden door, unnerving him further.
He grabbed his earphones from his pillow. The music couldn’t come fast enough. Once the blasting grind of his favorite band filled his ears, he flopped back on his bed. After the pulsing drumbeat calmed him down, he reached for his phone to set an alarm. Morning swim practices were over now that the end of the season approached—thank God he didn’t have to wake at the butt-crack of dawn. But now he wouldn’t get to see Lindsay till afternoon practice.
He scrolled through photos on his phone, stopping at the same one he always did. He could stare at this photo for hours. Lindsay sat next to Olivia on a bench on the pool deck, and she had no idea he’d snapped her picture. Her long brown hair fell in waves over her shoulder, and she turned toward Olivia with a laugh parting her sweet mouth. He loved the squint of her eyes, the little dimple in her cheek, the flash of her slightly crooked teeth—her whole face lit up with happiness.
His thumb rubbed over the image, then he cradled the phone to his chest. Do you ever think about me, Lindsay? His eyes fluttered shut as he blew out a frustrated breath. Of course she didn’t. She wouldn’t. She thought he was a bad influence, which was probably true.
He lifted the phone and cracked open one eye, gazing at her beauty. But I think about you, Linds. A lot. She sat, frozen in a state of happiness. He was frozen too. But his state was far from happy.
You’re pathetic, Barberi. His heart thudded with a dull ache.
***
Grant sat up with a jerk, the covers falling away from his chest, which pounded with a ragged heartbeat. What the heck had woken him? As he glanced around the apartment, his breath began to slow. Daylight fought through the corners of the blinds, illuminating the silent bedroom. Damn. How late was it?
He groaned as he found the alarm clock—already ten in the morning with nothing to show for it. In the Navy, his day would’ve been almost half done by now. This late-night gig just wasn’t for him.
Swinging his legs over the side of the mattress, he flinched at a ding from his cell phone. Ah. That was probably the sound that woke him.
On Best Behavior (C3) Page 17
