The Thing About Love

by Julie James

  “Whose idea was it to give Ashley an MBA from Stanford?” Jessica asked, as the Jax agents led the way to a small conference room. “That was a nice touch.”

  “I thought you might appreciate that. Although, being a Duke man myself, a little part of me died inside putting that in,” Leavitt joked.

  John glanced at his watch. Impressive. Three minutes in, and the guy had already managed to sneak in a comment about his alma mater. Now all they needed to complete the white-collar package was the pseudo-self-deprecating reference to his postgrad degree.

  “Did you go to Duke for business school?” Jessica asked.

  “Actually, I did the joint MBA/JD program there,” Leavitt said. “Because, apparently, three years of grad school student loans just wasn’t enough.”

  Bingo.

  After the four of them settled in at the conference table, Leavitt started off the meeting by thanking Jessica and John for their assistance, then gave them a brief overview of the investigation—most of which Jessica and John already knew from the case files. Once that was out of the way, they dove right into the details of tomorrow’s sting operation.

  “What’s the plan for backup?” John asked.

  Because the mayor was considered a low-risk target, everyone agreed that the security detail could be kept to a minimum. No SWAT team or special operations group, just Leavitt and Todd in a car parked a few blocks from the restaurant, using radio channels to listen in via the minuscule microphones John and Jessica would be wearing.

  “I assume neither of you will be carrying tomorrow?” Todd asked Jessica and John.

  Jessica looked at John. “I don’t see any reason to take the risk that Blair would notice.”

  Typically, John was armed during his undercover assignments—one of the “perks” of playing organized crime thugs. But Dave the Value Creator was hardly the type to bring a pistol to a business dinner. “I agree. Any issues with the restaurant we need to be aware of?” he asked Leavitt.

  “You’ll be dining at Bistro Aix,” Leavitt said, pronouncing it “X.” “It’s one of the mayor’s favorite places. He gets the same table every time, a booth in the back of the restaurant that affords him some privacy. The acoustics are lousy but no worse than any other restaurant. The upside is that Blair should feel comfortable speaking openly, without worrying about being overheard.”

  They spent the next twenty minutes covering other logistics, until Agent Todd got a phone call.

  “That’s Morano,” he said, referring to the lobbyist who’d been flipped by the FBI. “I told him to call when he arrived.”

  After Todd stepped out, Jessica looked at Leavitt. “Morano’s been prepped on the cover story?” she confirmed.

  Leavitt nodded. “We went over it so many times he could tell it in his sleep.”

  The plan, if Mayor Blair asked how Morano knew Ashley and Dave, was to say that the three of them had a mutual acquaintance, Morano’s old college friend who now lived in Chicago. When that friend heard that Ashley and Dave were looking to invest in restaurants in Jacksonville, he told them to reach out to Morano, who knew “everyone and anyone” in northeast Florida.

  “He did seem a little revved up when Todd and I met with him yesterday,” Leavitt continued. “I’m sure it’s just pregame jitters. Morano’s been very cooperative throughout the investigation.”

  John refrained from commenting, but the cynic in him noted that if Morano had not been cooperative, he’d be looking at ten to twenty behind bars for his role in a major political corruption scandal.

  Funny how people tended to play nice with the FBI under those circumstances.

  He’d read the report on Morano, which painted a picture of a down-on-his-luck man who’d made the foolish decision to find an easy—meaning illegal—way out of his problems. After making a series of bad investments and subsequently going through a contentious divorce, Morano was emotionally and financially “in a bad place” four years ago, when a local restaurant developer approached him about a problem with a liquor license that had been held up by the city council. In a panic with the restaurant’s opening scheduled for the following week, the developer suggested to Morano—who’d been a close advisor to Mayor Blair for several years—that perhaps they could find some “mutually beneficial arrangement” if the mayor would be willing to use his clout to lean on the city council and push the liquor license through.

  And thus the seeds of bribery and political corruption were planted.

  While publicly viewed as a charming, charismatic golden boy, Jacksonville’s mayor was quite a different man behind closed doors: a man who was greedy, power-hungry, and narcissistic. After agreeing to push that first liquor license through the city council—and scoring a quick ten grand in the process—Blair realized there was an opportunity to make some real money just by schmoozing and making a few phone calls. If these people had money they wanted to throw his way, he rationalized, who did that hurt, really?

  He and Morano agreed they had to be careful. They worked out a scheme: Morano, using all the right buzzwords and subtle innuendos, would suss out other deep-pocket types who also might be interested in a “mutually beneficial arrangement” that would make certain bureaucratic problems go away. Once an interest had been established, they would agree upon a price, and after the cash had changed hands, the lucky deep-pocket would suddenly find himself free of that pesky red tape in which he’d been so annoyingly enmeshed. Morano took twenty percent of the cut—his “finder’s fee,” as he called it—and within three years, both he and Blair had amassed healthy little nest eggs.

  It all seemed so easy. That is, until Agents Leavitt and Todd showed up on Morano’s doorstep one evening with an arrest warrant.

  According to the agents’ report, Morano literally sobbed when they confronted him about the corruption scheme, and instantly confessed—much to the dismay of his lawyer. Fortunately for Morano, however, the FBI had its eye on the bigger fish.

  Mayor Blair.

  And so a deal was struck. Eager to make amends, Morano told Leavitt and Todd everything he knew about Blair and agreed to wear a wire. Over the course of the next year, the FBI quietly built its case, gathering evidence of a corruption ring that involved not just the mayor but several of the city’s most successful businessmen and women. All that was left now was the coup de grace, this last sting operation, and the FBI would move in and make the arrests.

  Obviously, John had nowhere near the time and effort invested in the case that Leavitt and Todd did. But nevertheless, this was an important assignment for him, too. If he made HRT, he’d be in Quantico by September—and this stint with Jessica in Jacksonville would be his last job as an undercover agent.

  And he had zero intention of going out on a loss.

  • • •

  When Morano arrived, escorted to the conference room by Agent Todd, John’s first impression was that the lobbyist seemed wired and jittery, like he’d had too much coffee. A short, stocky man in his late forties with thinning brown hair, he had beads of perspiration scattered across his forehead as Todd made the introductions.

  “Anthony Morano, semiprofessional snitch at your service,” he said to Jessica. His voice booming through the room, he spoke with a Southern drawl. “We’ve got a big day ahead of us tomorrow, huh?” He chuckled, then turned to shake John’s hand. Eyes widening, he took in the ten-inch height difference between them. “Damn. Glad I’m on your side.”

  When the five of them were seated around the conference table, Leavitt began to walk through tomorrow’s plan. Morano had made arrangements to meet Mayor Blair at his office, and the two of them would drive together. John and Jessica would get to the restaurant early, giving them time to confirm that everything was working properly with their microphones.

  Morano interrupted Leavitt here. “I’m glad y’all are taking care of the mics this time,” he said to Jessica
and John. “Every time I had to wear one of those things to a dinner, I’d worry that I’d rub my shirt the wrong way and—plop—the damn thing would fall onto my steak. Try explaining that one, right?” He slapped Agent Todd on the back, laughing, and then leaned in. “By the way, I’ve been thinking: Maybe we need a code phrase. You know, just in case something goes wrong tomorrow. Something innocuous that Blair would never pick up on. Like”—he paused dramatically—“‘cherries jubilee.’”

  John caught Jessica’s eye as they both fought back a smile.

  Ah . . . civilians.

  For the next half hour, Morano continued to interject with questions and ideas, obviously both nervous and really, really excited to be working with undercover agents. Referring to himself, Jessica, and John as “the A-Team,” he wanted to know everything from who would sit where in the booth (didn’t matter), to whether a backup squad should establish “a perimeter” around the restaurant (somebody clearly had seen too many episodes of 24 ), to how to react if someone recognized him or the mayor and came over to the table to say hello (just say hello back).

  Leavitt looked embarrassed by all the interruptions, Todd seemed annoyed, but Jessica never so much as batted an eye. Patiently answering all of Morano’s questions, she was polite and professional and managed to diplomatically steer the conversation away from his numerous suggestions without ever causing offense.

  Watching from the sidelines as she did her Jessica Harlow thing, John found himself reluctantly impressed.

  “I see you’re still working that good-cop routine,” he said, walking to their car after he and Jessica had finished the meeting with Morano. The next item on their agenda was to check out the property Dave and Ashley supposedly wanted to buy.

  Jessica’s smile was both coy and confident. “When the occasion calls for it.” Sunglasses on, she held out her hand as they approached their rented Mercedes.

  John dug into his pants pocket for the keys. “We’re really going to do this? Alternate driving every time?”

  Her fingers brushed against his as she took the keys. “If you prefer, Agent Shepherd, I’m happy to take all the times.” She turned and walked around to the driver’s side of the car.

  John’s eyes lingered, taking in her high heels and the way that slim-fit skirt hugged her hips.

  Get your mind out of the gutter, asshole. She’s your partner. And do you really need a reminder of what happened the last time you thought—

  Oh no, indeed, he did not need a reminder. The disdainful look on Jessica’s face when he’d touched her that day at the shooting range was a memory that remained quite clear in his head. Because of that, he planned to pay no attention whatsoever to the way she looked in her Ashley attire.

  She climbed into the car, giving him a glimpse of several more inches of sleek, bare leg.

  Starting now.

  The drive was short, less than fifteen minutes, taking them over the St. Johns River and into the historic Riverside neighborhood. From the passenger seat of the Mercedes, John checked out the scene, an eclectic mix of funky coffee shops, trendy boutiques, antiques stores, and nightclubs. Jessica headed to King Street, the center of the restaurant and bar scene, and found street parking a couple doors down from the vacant brick building that Ashley and Dave were hoping to make the future home of their wine bar and pizzeria.

  Unbeknownst to anyone outside the Bureau, in actuality the FBI owned the building via a dummy corporation, having snagged it for the sting operation for a very reasonable price given its zoning and permitting issues. Since they obviously didn’t want to deal with the hassle of faking that the property was on the market, the story was that Ashley and Dave had heard through a developer friend that the owner of the building wanted to sell and would cut them a deal if they could work it out among themselves and save the real estate agent commissions. Frankly, John doubted Mayor Blair would even ask about the specifics, but as with all aspects of an undercover investigation, the FBI was exceedingly thorough in making sure that everything appeared legit.

  Using the key Leavitt had given them, Jessica unlocked the front door and John followed behind. The space looked, not unexpectedly, like a vacated bank—empty teller windows were framed by bulletproof glass, and along one wall was a row of abandoned cubicles, some of which still had desks.

  “Doesn’t exactly scream ‘trendy wine bar and pizzeria,’ does it?” Jessica asked.

  “Depends how you look at it.” John walked through the place. “Here’s what I’m thinking: You put a big open bar in the center, with lots of seating. On this side of the restaurant, we’ll have banquettes along retractable windows, which can open in nice weather, and four or five highboys here that’ll be an extension of the bar area. Then on this side”—he crossed the space—“we do a row of half booths along the wall and create a section of tables here, behind the bar, that could be used for private events.” He pointed toward the back. “Open kitchen, with a massive stone pizza oven as the focal point, restrooms over there, and in this corner we build a glass-enclosed wine cellar. Designwise, I’m thinking arches and lots of oak to give it a Tuscan-wine-cellar feel, but with red leather on the banquettes and bar stools for a touch of sexiness.”

  Jessica stared at him. For once, she appeared to be speechless.

  “I’ll take that as a sign you agree,” he teased.

  “How the heck did you come up with all that?” she demanded.

  He shrugged, feigning innocence. “Just doing my job, Ashley. I am the design guy on the team, remember?”

  Raising an eyebrow, she waited.

  All right, fine, he’d spill his secrets. “There was a blueprint of the building in the case file. I showed it to my brother, who works in restaurant management, and asked him what he would do with the space.”

  “Oh.” She shifted her weight, her tone begrudging. “That was actually quite resourceful.”

  He winked. “Not my first rodeo.”

  After checking out the “courtyard,” presently just a paved lot the bank had used for parking, they locked up and walked around the neighborhood to get a better feel for it. By the time they got back into the car, it was nearly six o’clock. Dying in the ninety-six-degree heat, John took off his jacket as he walked to the driver’s side of the Mercedes. After hanging the jacket in the backseat, he climbed into the car and caught Jessica watching as he rolled up his sleeves.

  Assuming her look was one of disapproval, he cut her off at the pass. “I realize this probably breaks Section 2, Clause C of the special white-collar dress code, but let’s see you try wearing long sleeves and a jacket in Florida in July.”

  “It’s Clause D, actually. Clause C says that all our suits must meet the required level of snazziness.”

  Cute. He started the car and headed back toward the hotel. “Any thoughts, now that you’ve seen the neighborhood?” he asked, turning back to business.

  “I think the question we most need to be prepared for with Blair is ‘Why Jacksonville?’” Jessica said. “Meaning, why does a lucrative private equity firm from Chicago want to invest in this particular area? And, oh my God, I’m going to melt if this air-conditioning doesn’t kick in.” She cranked up the fan full throttle and adjusted the passenger-side vents so they were all pointed straight at her. “Ah . . . much better,” she sighed.

  With her eyes closed and a blissful look on her face, she looked more relaxed than John had ever seen her.

  Aware that he was staring, he turned his attention back to the road. “You don’t think we can sell our cover story? That the neighborhood has a booming culinary scene and we want in on the action?”

  “I think we can sell it, but a few of the details Leavitt and Todd came up with feel a little . . . thin.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, supposedly, Ashley and Dave want to invest in several restaurant projects in Jacksonville, not just this one. I get
that—we want Blair to think we’re willing to sink a lot of money into his city if this first project goes well. According to the story Leavitt and Todd came up with, if Blair asks what other restaurant concepts we’re interested in—which I think is likely—we’re supposed to say that we’re also thinking about opening a gastropub in the area.”

  John looked over. “And that’s a problem?”

  “Don’t get me wrong, I like a quality burger and glass of wine as much as the next girl. But I counted while we were walking around, and there are already three gastropubs within a six-block radius. If I’m a successful investor looking to break into a hot culinary scene, I’m looking for fresh, new concepts to bring to the market—not something’s that been done several times over.”

  He considered this. “All right. What restaurant concept would you suggest instead?”

  “That I don’t know. Yet,” she was quick to add. “I’ll do some research this evening into the newest restaurant trends and cross-check that against what Jacksonville doesn’t have a lot of right now. Maybe vegan, or farm-to-table . . .” she mused. “Anyway, I’ll dig around and e-mail you my thoughts on a better concept by the end of the night.”

  Not his way of doing things. “If there’s research that needs to be done, count me in. I’m not going to chill at the hotel bar drinking a beer while you get stuck with all the work.”

  “Aw, that’s nice of you. Although I feel like I should mention that this falls within Ashley’s territory. She is the big-picture girl, after all.”

  “We’re partners now, Jessica. We work as a team,” he said in no uncertain terms.

  Her lips curved in amusement. “Oh, I was just pointing out that I should probably be in charge tonight since this is my character’s side of the business.” She paused cheekily. “Partner.”