Money, Honey

by Susan Sey

  Goose nodded. “Would he know where to find her? Would he know about her family? Her husband, her children?”

  “He must if he’s here. But to answer your question, her husband wasn’t on the radar when Villanueva left the country. And Evie, Christ, she’s only two.” He pushed down the sour bile rising in his throat, swallowed the bitter laugh that wanted to bubble up after it. He’d worked so hard for so many years to be unlovable, to discourage friendship, affection, emotional ties of any kind. He’d dropped his guard once—one damn time in thirty years—and look what had happened. He’d turned a man like Villanueva loose on his sister and her innocent child.

  “Is there anybody else?” Goose asked gently.

  He didn’t look at Liz. Didn’t dare. She was on Villanueva’s radar now, too. All because he’d wanted her. Desperately, hopelessly and, he admitted now, selfishly. He’d gotten complacent, hadn’t bothered to hide his desire beneath his usual careful layers of casual detachment. No, he’d let the world see how much he wanted her. He’d let Villanueva see it. And now she was paying for it.

  “Liz,” he said finally. “He knows about Liz.”

  Goose just nodded. “I’ll see about ordering surveillance for the potential targets,” she said.

  “It’ll be done tonight?” Patrick asked.

  “I’ll make certain of it.”

  “Good.” He watched as she disappeared through the door, cell phone already to her ear. He turned to find Liz watching him, her eyes dark and intent. “I modified your security system,” he said, for lack of anything better to say. There was an apology hovering somewhere in his throat, but he couldn’t bring himself to force it out. Because the nasty truth was that he wasn’t sorry enough yet. He still wanted her with a raging ache that clawed at him. “You should be safe enough at home.”

  “You’re not coming with me?”

  He scrubbed a weary hand over his face. Christ, why didn’t she just paint a fucking target on her chest? “No.”

  She gave him a piercing look, and he did his best to erase any remnants of hunger from his face. “I’m already a target, you know,” she said, as if she could read his mind. “Have been for years. I’m used to it.” She crossed the room, laid one small hand on the arms that Patrick had crossed over his chest. Something inside him broke and bled at the gentleness of her touch, at the forgiveness in it. Forgiveness he didn’t deserve.

  “I’m not going home with you, Liz. It was a bad idea.”

  “You don’t want me?” she asked, her face small and serious.

  He resisted the urge to close his eyes, to whimper. Instead, he composed his face in the coolest lines he could manage and lied. “No. I don’t.”

  Her hand faltered, then fell away. “I see.”

  He doubted very much that she did. But he didn’t stop her when she walked out the door.

  “I BEG your pardon. I had no idea,” Liz said into the phone the next morning. “I’m so sorry to have intruded. My condolences on your loss.” Shaken, she hung up and peeled off her suit jacket. Summer was a ways off yet, but the weather had taken a capricious turn toward July overnight. The air was so heavy and hot that breathing was like sucking a milk shake through a straw.

  She squinted against the sun blasting cheerfully through the meager windows of the FBI’s Grief Creek Resident Agency. Her eyes were gritty and tired as she turned this grim new development over in her head, tried to make it fit with the other pieces of the puzzle.

  No matter which way she turned it, she didn’t like the picture that emerged.

  Coffee, she thought, rubbing her eyes. A cup of coffee would blow out the cobwebs and she’d get back to the ugly task of tracking down every last living soul who might have had contact with Villanueva during the past six years, who might be able to provide one clue about what his next likely move might be.

  Another agent wandered past her cube, leaned in and said, “Hey, Liz. Gorgeous day, huh?” She gave him a look that had his stupid grin faltering. “Ah, SAC Bernard’s looking for you,” he said, hastily ducking back into the hallway. “Sounds pissed.”

  Liz rubbed the wrinkle between her brows, bid a reluctant farewell to that desperately desired cup of coffee. “Great.”

  Two minutes later, she was standing in front of SAC Grayson Bernard, her face as blank and precise as his desk. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  “I did.” Bernard was facing the window, gazing at Main Street like a king surveying his holdings. “I understand there was an unexpected confluence of the Villanueva case and the counterfeiting case last night. Report.”

  Liz clasped her hands behind her back, kept her eyes level and gave him a terse rundown of last night’s events. “There’s some phone work I want to do today on the Villanueva case that I’m hoping will provide some clarity on his motives.”

  “And your counterfeiter?” Bernard hadn’t moved from the window, hadn’t yet glanced in Liz’s direction and it had her nerves stretched piano-wire tight.

  “Is as bright as his profile implies. He’s been careful never to call from the same phone twice, never to meet in person or in a location where recording devices are of any use. But I’m confident in our plan. The trap’s been baited. Now we pit our patience against his ego.”

  “Patience is an undervalued trait,” Bernard said, “and I admire it in an agent, particularly one as young as you. But I don’t think it’s patience behind your desire to linger over this case.”

  Liz frowned. “Sir?”

  Bernard moved away from the window, his flinty eyes meeting hers for the first time since she appeared in his office. He walked to the desk, reached into a drawer and removed a folded newspaper with his usual economy of motion. He placed it on the desk facing Liz and slid it toward her with one finger, as if it were something toxic.

  She stepped forward, scanned the paper and her gut went to ice water. Because she was looking at a photo of her and Patrick—grainy but exquisitely recognizable—the first time they’d visited Cargo. They were dancing, if you could call it that. She closed her eyes, but the image was burned into her brain. Patrick’s hands spread low over her hips, her arms twined lovingly around his neck, the arch of her body as she pressed herself willingly against every available inch of him, the expression of pure and sensual abandon on her own face.

  And that frightened her more than anything. In Patrick’s arms, she was different, softer. More vulnerable and lost. She’d known that. She just hadn’t known it showed so badly.

  And she certainly hadn’t known it had been recorded and published.

  “Is there an explanation for this, Agent Brynn?” Bernard’s voice was clipped, expressionless.

  Sweat gathered under her heavy ponytail, between her shoulder blades, and she cursed herself for not checking the weather before she’d dressed in a winter-weight suit that morning. She felt wilted and wrinkled from the inside out.

  “O’Connor attracts attention,” she said simply. “We knew it was possible that the press would trail us. It had to look authentic.”

  Bernard gave her a penetrating stare, his eyes like granite. “You’re good undercover, Brynn,” he said, his diction as sharp as the crease in his trousers. He turned the newspaper to face him, tapped one blunt fingertip on the picture of her face. “But not this good. He’s gotten to you. Again. And he’s using it to screw with your head while he pursues his own agenda.” He paused, captured her gaze. “An agenda that’s brought Villanueva right into your territory. My territory.”

  Liz clamped her teeth together, sucked a breath in through them. “With respect, sir, I don’t believe that’s entirely accurate. After conducting extensive interviews with O’Connor, both together and separately, Agent di Guzman and I are of the opinion that he’s a target to Villanueva, not an accomplice.”

  Bernard gazed at her. “Do you deny that your feelings for O’Connor have become personal? That they’re affecting your performance in this case?”

  Liz’s heart thudded to a halt inside
her chest. She couldn’t give an answer to that. Not to Bernard, not to herself. She simply wasn’t prepared.

  “He’s given me reason to trust him,” she said finally. God knew she didn’t want to trust him, hadn’t meant to, but now that she said the words aloud, she knew they were true. There’d been a brilliant flash of honest pain on his face last night when he’d talked about his niece as one of Villanueva’s potential targets. There had been a similar pain in his eyes when he’d lied and said he didn’t want her. It meant something, enough to have trust sinking fragile roots into her heart. But was it enough? Trusting the right people had never exactly been her strong suit, after all.

  “As of this morning, however, whether I trust O’Connor has become a secondary concern,” Liz said.

  Bernard lifted a pale brow. “Yes?”

  “I attempted to contact Villanueva’s ex-wife this morning to find out if she’d had any contact with him since he skipped the country. I spoke to her current husband.”

  “And?”

  “She’s dead. She and the son she had with Villanueva were killed three weeks ago, their throats slit while they slept. The boy was seven.” Liz’s voice wanted to tremble but she held it steady as she reported. “Villanueva’s profile shows he has a particular propensity for knives and the psychological ability to delay gratification for years if he deems it necessary. It’s my professional opinion that he’s pursuing a vendetta, systematically taking out anybody he feels betrayed him. He talks about paying debts, but he doesn’t want money. He wants blood.”

  Bernard’s brows came together as he considered this new angle. “I see.”

  “This is born out by the conversation O’Connor had with him last night, which we do have on tape. Maybe he talked about money, but his fists said something different. I believe, as does Agent di Guzman, that O’Connor is next on Villanueva’s hit list.”

  Bernard turned back to the window, and Liz felt the sweat collect between her shoulder blades as she watched him, waited for his verdict.

  “I’m leaving the case in your hands,” he said finally. “For now. But bring in that counterfeiter, Brynn, and figure out how the hell he’s connected to Villanueva.” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Dismissed.”

  PATRICK GLANCED in his rearview mirror and sighed. Damn. After last night, he should have known Liz would put a tail on him. He knew it was her job to mistrust him, but the blatant evidence of it stung nonetheless. He pulled into Grief Creek’s wretched excuse for a shopping mall and parked.

  Twenty minutes later, he emerged. His own clothes were, regrettably, stuffed into a Gap bag and he was wearing a cheap pair of jeans, a tasteless polo shirt, a new pair of dark sunglasses and a Twins ball cap. He stepped into the cab he’d called on his cell and pulled away from the mall entrance while his tail stayed parked in the lot, binoculars trained on the car he’d left behind.

  He shook his head. Either Grief Creek’s law enforcement left a great deal to be desired, or Liz had purposely selected the most inept tail ever. He liked to think it was the latter but wasn’t counting on it.

  “Grief Creek Community Bank,” he told the cabbie.

  THIRTY MINUTES later, Patrick was in a cab speeding back toward Grief Creek’s Haven for the Sartorially Disabled, a safe-deposit box’s worth of cash nestled among his clothes in the Gap bag. Since his first score, he’d been squirreling away a small percentage of every take in safe-deposit boxes around the country as a sort of insurance policy. For bond, bail, an amazing defense attorney or just a rainy day.

  He probably should have eased the funds into legitimate, interest-bearing accounts now that he was reformed, but he liked having access to wads of untraceable cash. It allowed him a certain freedom he found appealing. The freedom to make a large purchase without consulting his financial manager, for example. Or the freedom to apply monetary solutions to old, sticky problems.

  Solutions of which the FBI would not approve. Solutions that would make Liz blow a gasket when she found out he’d applied them without her go-ahead. He sighed. No help for that one. Liz wasn’t going to understand, so he’d just have to make sure she didn’t find out.

  His cell phone rang, and he frowned at the unfamiliar number.

  “Hello?”

  “O’Connor,” Oz said. “You still interested?”

  “Depends,” Patrick said. “Do you have anybody else lined up to jump out of a dark hallway and kick my ass?”

  Oz chuckled. “Sorry, man. Dude said you owed him, and you were trying to fuck me over. Check that wire shit, and we’ll deal.”

  Patrick paused. “Fine.”

  “You screw me, and I’ll know. You don’t want that kind of pain.”

  Patrick pushed his tongue into his sore jaw. “No, I don’t.”

  “Cargo, tonight, ten o’clock.”

  He sighed. “I’m starting to dislike that place. Don’t you ever go anywhere else?”

  “Ask for me at the DJ station.” He disconnected before Patrick could agree or object. Cocky bastard. Still, he smiled. The kid reminded him of himself at that age. Ambitious enough to dream big, smart enough to back it up, reckless enough to enjoy it. Patrick was starting to like him. Enough to want to keep his ass out of juvie, anyway.

  He paid the cabbie and stepped into the mall to change back into his own clothes. In minutes, he was back out in the sweltering heat—Minnesota was not a habitable climate, he’d decided—where he got back into his car, cranked up the AC and called Liz.

  “Thanks for the police escort,” he said when she answered. “I feel so much safer.”

  “I was hoping you would,” she said sweetly. “Please don’t lose them. My boss would be pissed.”

  He watched them in his rearview mirror. “They haven’t lost sight of my car for an instant,” he said.

  “Your car?” she asked, her voice instantly wary. He smiled into the phone.

  “Oz called. He’s ready to show me the ropes. What are you doing tonight?”

  Chapter 18

  EIGHT HOURS later the whole team assembled in the dimly lit office of the abandoned brewery that adjoined Cargo.

  “No wires this time, as requested,” Goose said. She handed Patrick a cell phone containing a miniature recording device and a black leather holster to attach it to his belt.

  He eyed the holster with distaste. “Do I really have to wear that?”

  Goose blinked. “You could just point the phone at the guy the whole time, but that would be a little obvious, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose so.” He leaned back against the dented metal desk and frowned at the holster in his hand. The bass thumped in the club next door, vibrated through the desk under him. “It just seems so . . . desperate.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, yeah.” Patrick unfastened his belt and threaded it through the holster, securing the phone to his hip. “You only wear your phone on your hip if you’re truly unimportant and desperate to appear otherwise.” He glanced down at the phone on his belt, gave a delicate shudder. “This is lowering.”

  Liz dropped out of the ceiling’s exposed ductwork onto the desk, missing Patrick by maybe a foot. Her hair was disheveled and a smear of dirt decorated one smooth, golden cheek. She smirked at him.

  Patrick gave her booted feet a significant look. “You could give some warning before you drop out of the sky, you know. Or at least let us turn on the lights so we can see you coming.”

  Liz gave him a bland stare. “No lights tonight. Whoever owns this place does so through an ungodly tangle of holding companies. Until I can figure out who else besides us might have a key, we’re low profile.”

  He gave her a winsome smile. “Then perhaps you could just clear your throat or something the next time you plan to leap out of the ceiling.”

  “Poor Patrick. Did I scare you?”

  “Bad manners always scare me. It’s the hallmark of a civilization in decline.”

  Liz rolled her eyes. “The decline of civilization isn’t o
ur big problem tonight, Patrick. We’re more interested in shutting down a little counterfeiting operation, and thereby pulling in the guy who tried to dislocate your jaw last night. Remember him?”

  He nodded slowly. “Um, yeah. Hard to forget.”

  “And if Oz stands you up again, I’m sweating the DJ whether you like it or not. That guy gets grilled like a rotisserie chicken, got it?”

  “Yes, sir.” Patrick gave her a lazy salute. She glared at him.

  Goose cleared her throat. “So, are all the receivers in place in the ductwork?”

  Liz hopped off the desk with an efficient agility that Patrick appreciated with an automatic eye. God, he wished he could stop noticing the way she moved her body now that he’d never get the chance to explore it.

  “Yep,” she said. “We should be all set to monitor his location at all times. Unless Oz’s supersecret evil lair is hidden in a lead-lined bomb shelter or something.”

  “Or right in front of a twenty-foot speaker,” Patrick muttered, his ears already ringing in anticipation.

  “Fine,” Goose said. She patted Patrick’s arm. “You’re only enabled for recording—audio and visual, though we don’t expect much from the visual. We won’t have a live feed this time, but I’m going to monitor your location. There’s a tracking device embedded in the phone that’ll talk to the receivers Liz just placed.” She turned to Liz. “I’m going to the van. It’s in the alley behind the fire exit. I’m on the two-way if you need me.”

  Then she was gone, and Patrick was exquisitely aware that he and Liz were alone in a room that had been the scene of a few of their better kisses. Not that she’d ever given him an average one.

  “You should go,” Liz said, her voice suspiciously neutral, her gaze determinedly elsewhere.

  Looked like he wasn’t the only one taking a hot, sweaty little trip down memory lane.