He forced himself to speak calmly, as if he were unconcerned. “What kind of situation?”
“Looks like someone at the insurance company caught on to the epidemic of, uh, Jewish lightning.”
Leave it to Peaches to denigrate some other ethnic group with his own behavior. Why not refer to arson for profit as Italian lightning? Whatever. He shoved the musings out of his mind and focused on the problem at hand.
“Don’t we have someone inside?”
“Two someones. But the chick who’s the problem is in the wind. Those amateurs scared her off with a death threat scratched in her car door.”
“What kind of morons are they?”
“Listen, kid, I’m not talking about this on the phone. Give the freaking plants to Father Mike and get your ass back here. Now.”
“On it.”
“Good. Oh, but stop at the bakery and get me a biscotti, eh?”
“Sure thing, Peaches.” Nino ended the call. Leave it to Peaches to be worrying about his bedtime cookie in the middle of a situation.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Nino turned up his jacket collar against the late December chill and ducked his head to avoid the wind as he ran across the Whole Foods Market parking lot, dodging enraged one-percenters jockeying for the handful of spots. He noted the bicycle parking that lined the entrance as he hurried inside, but, then, he guessed the rich and powerful weren’t much for bipedal transportation. He’d have to remember to ask Charlotte her views on the issue.
The thought of Assistant United States Attorney Charlotte Cashion hiking up her couture skirt and mounting a bicycle amused him so much that he snorted aloud, earning a sideways glance from the team member arranging a fresh display of rosemary holiday trees.
“Sorry,” he mumbled as he let the tide of patchouli-scented humans sweep him up and carry him to the bakery station.
“Hi,” chirped a tall, pretty brunette with a colorful neck tattoo. “Can I help you?”
He glanced at the shoppers surrounding him. “Am I next?”
“Cop perk. You get to go first.” She winked.
His heart skipped. “Uh, I’m not a cop. You must have me confused with someone else,” he said, way too loudly. He cleared his throat and jammed his hands in his pockets.
“Oh, weird. Sorry, you just give off that cop vibe, you know? But, hey, I’ll take your order now, anyway—to make it up to you.” Another broad smile and a wink.
She’s just flirting with you, he told himself. Keep it together. Your cover’s not blown.
“Cool, thanks. I just need one of those vegan chocolate cupcakes and, um, a regular biscotti.”
“You a vegan?”
“Nah, my wife,” he lied.
Her face fell and she packaged up his order without further personal chitchat. He took the white bakery bag with a nod of his head and hustled to the front of the store and queued up in the far left express lane. He kept his head down, eyes glued to the floor to avoid conversation while he waited for the interminable line to move. As he waited, the bakery girl’s words echoed in his mind. You just give off that cop vibe. He couldn’t shake them. If she was right, it would get him killed. He’d been working for Peaches for seventeen weeks now. Surely if he gave off even a whiff of law enforcement, he’d already be dead, his corpse twisted and bent to fit in an oil drum before rigor mortis set in, and left to decompose at the abandoned oil refinery that Peaches favored as a final resting place for his former friends and enemies. That line of thinking wasn’t helping him relax.
“Sir?”
He glanced up. The cashier was waiting for him to hand over the bag. He’d shuffled all the way to the front of the line while imagining the various unpleasant ways Peaches would have him killed.
“Here you go. Sorry, man. Daydreaming.” He passed the kid the bag and dug out some bills.
He pocketed his change and hurried back outside, second guessing his plan. Maybe it was too dangerous to risk being seen with Jamie. But, what the hell else was he going to do with a vegan cupcake? He almost smiled to himself and started to jog, cutting a diagonal path across the lot and the dark street, aiming for the insanely confusing traffic circle and East Liberty’s burgeoning gentrification district.
As he neared the hotel, his troubles started to fade and his spirits lifted. He hadn’t talked to Jamie in months. Being cut off from his partner had turned out to be the most disconcerting part of going deep undercover. He and Jamie had met as cadets at the academy in Quantico and had bonded instantly over their steadfast support for the Pirates, despite the baseball team’s abysmal record at the time. After graduation, they’d been assigned to different posts but stayed in touch. Two years ago, both of their longstanding transfer requests had come through and they landed back in the ‘Burgh within months of each other.
They made an excellent team. Not like one of those dumb, oversimplified, cop movies where one partner was brash and reckless and the other one was careful, smart, and risk averse. Nino liked to think they shared a lot of the same important traits—commitment, grit, street smarts, and the ability to pick up cute girls at bars with ease. Jamie Brenner was almost as skilled a wingman as he was a marksman.
Nino slipped through a gap in a construction fence that ringed the lot next to the hotel and skulked across the frozen ground. Despite the darkness and the uneven earth, his footing was sure. He’d have made an excellent cat burglar if his career path had taken a different turn. He neared the back of the hotel and slowed his pace.
Where would Jamie set up?
Lots of guys would position themselves right outside the witness’s door, camp out in the hallway. Not Jamie. For one thing, that would be about as subtle as hanging a sign around the chick’s neck. For another, if bad guys came crashing out of the elevator, guns blazing, what are you going to do slouching against the wall reading the sports section? You’d be caught with your pants down. No, Jamie would be outside. Moving between the front and rear entrances, trying to stay alert and warm on a crap night like this.
Nino vaulted the low fence one-handed and circled around to the hotel’s service entrance. Charlotte loved putting people up at this joint. As a result, the FBI agents assigned to the Organized Crime Task Force knew the hotel, inside and out, intimately.
Thanks to a structural load problem that none of the pencil necks noticed until the building was nearly complete, the hotel had been forced to scrap its plan for an attached garage. But management had recognized the fact that even tourists weren’t going to leave their cars unattended, outside, in East Liberty, despite the pace of gentrification. So, a hastily constructed parking garage squatted in the hotel’s shadow. It was a long, low concrete rectangle. Unattractive but serviceable.
And a boon to federal law enforcement. Its roof was an excellent spot to stash a sniper if, say, a head of state visited the city. And while travelers moaned and grumbled about having to haul their suitcases outside and along the short covered path from the garage to the hotel lobby, those few minutes of exposure were security gold: nobody was going to explode a car bomb in the garage and kill the guests in the hotel. Any evildoers planning to assault a hotel guest would have to trek right through the lobby on foot—there was no direct access to any of the hotel floors with a key card, unlike most modern, urban hotels.
Nino neared the Dumpster that sat between the back of the garage and the hotel’s service door and stopped in its shadow, shielded from the halogen security lights mounted on the back of the hotel. He squinted and scanned the visible area, searching for Jamie’s broad-shouldered silhouette. There. Just to the left of the walkway leading from the garage. His thick neck peeked out from behind a high hedge, his head swiveled from left to right, sweeping the pie-shaped slice of territory in a constant motion. Every ten minutes or so, he’d get up, walk the perimeter, and then return to his station. That was Jamie’s routine.
Nino considered waiting until Jamie started his next circuit to jump him, but it was cold and wet, and he had p
laces to be. So he pressed himself against the side of the building and crept toward his old partner. He made no sound. He snuck closer. Near enough to make out the stubble growing under Jamie’s hairline along his neck. Jamie continued to scan the space between the garage and the hotel entrance. Nino lowered himself, almost crouching, and duck walked closer.
“I can smell you, you know, you big, dumb garlic-eater,” Jamie said without turning.
Nino nearly collapsed with laughter. “Damn, I gotta quit eating that sauce Peaches’s wife makes.”
Jamie cracked a smile. “I thought you called it gravy. And, yeah, unless you’re trying to stave off a vampire attack.” He stood, stretching his back until it gave a satisfying crack. “What are you doing here?”
Nino grinned and held up the bakery bag. “Sissypants dessert delivery.” He pulled out the cupcake and tossed it toward Jamie, who snagged it out of the air.
“Hey, thanks, man.”
He tore into the pastry like he was starving, which, Nino figured, was probably the case. Jamie’s vegan, slow-food diet didn’t really mesh with stakeouts or security details. Most guys would drive through Wendy’s for a burger and fries to tide them over, but not his partner. Jamie would bring along some raw almonds to nibble on like he was a freaking squirrel or something.
Jamie swallowed the last bite then crumpled the wrapper into a ball, jammed it into his pocket, and belched loudly.
“I see the sorority girl still hasn’t managed to teach you manners.”
“Man, I broke up with Lisette weeks ago. Where’ve you been?”
“Let’s see? Oh, I know, I’ve been driving some piece of crap gangster around to strip clubs and lawn bowling matches.”
“Bocce’s not the same thing as lawn bowling, Carlucci. How dumb are you?”
Nino laughed. He’d missed this ribbing more than he’d realized. Being cut off from his family and friends kind of sucked, but not being able to jaw with Jamie was easily the worst of it.
His eyes must have given him away or something because Jamie got serious. “I’ve missed you, man. It’s weird not being able to talk to you.”
“You’re telling me.”
Neither of them spoke for a moment. Then the silence grew awkward and heavy. Nino cleared his throat. “Anyway. I heard from the Double C that you caught a big fish.”
Jamie nodded. “Yeah man. Cashion’s got her panties in a twist over this one. Apparently this Asian broad knows enough to bring down the whole family.”
“She’s Asian?”
“Yeah. Yim. She seems pretty cool. Scared to death and in way over her head. But she’s a straight shooter. I’m gonna take her back home early Sunday morning, once we get a team in place in Jersey. Cashion sent her to the ballet tonight to take her mind off things.”
“The ballet?” Cashion was such a weirdo. “Who wants to go to the ballet?”
“Chicks dig it, Carlucci. Maybe if you ever got close to a lady you’d know that.”
“Whatever. So why aren’t you all cleaned up in a monkey suit watching dudes jump around in leotards?”
“Because the Double C thought Yim would be more comfortable with another woman, so I tagged Romaneski to go with her.”
“Huh. When you off?”
“I took the overnight. Fat Paul relieves me at six.”
It was going to be a long, chilly night for Jamie. Nino wished he’d thought to bring some of that disgusting chicory coffee substitute Jamie drank.
Jamie must have read his mind because he patted his jacket pocket. “I’ll be fine. I have a thermos of green tea and some almonds.”
“You and those damn nuts.”
“Yeah. Whatever. So, uh, what are you doing here for real? Cashion’s pretty sure this is the real deal. You gotta be extra careful now, man. If Riggo finds out who you are …” Jamie trailed off like he couldn’t stand to finish the sentence.
“I know. I just needed a reality check. I’ve been surrounded by dumb garlic-eaters too long. When Cashion told me you were leading the security detail, I figured I’d find you out here. Just swung by to say hi. I gotta go pick up Peaches and take him to his poker game.”
Jamie stared at him, stone-faced and serious. “It was good to see you, man. But don’t do this again. The next time I see you, I don’t want it to be in a body bag.”
Nino let the words hang on the air for a few seconds. Then he stepped back into the shadows and melted back into the night.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sasha juggled her armload of grocery bags and fished her keys out of her purse. Connelly must have heard her from inside the condo because the door swung open.
“Ah, thanks.” She squeezed past him and dropped the bags on the kitchen island. Java immediately leapt up and stuck his head inside a bag to investigate its contents.
“What is all this?” Connelly asked, as he eased her coat off her shoulders. He gestured to the pile of groceries.
She picked up the cat and deposited him on the floor. Java took a moment to glare at her before stalking off, no doubt to take out his mood on the dog.
“These are the ingredients to make my nana’s Russian tea cakes,” she said.
“You’re going to bake?”
“We’re going to bake,” she corrected him. “Six dozen, for Christmas dinner. I called my mom and told her we’d take care of them.”
“I thought you were swamped with the insurance coverage thing. When are we going to make seventy-two cookies?”
She walked to the sink and started washing her hands. “No time like the present. Are you going to stand there and ask questions or help?”
“Okay, then, I guess I’m going to help,” he said with a grin and joined her in the kitchen.
Within minutes, eggs were being whisked, butter was melting, and a light dusting of flour coated most surfaces. Connelly even voluntarily turned on her holiday music playlist without grumbling.
“It’s a Christmas miracle,” she cracked.
He shook the rolling pin at her and she laughed again.
“So what happened today? You’re more relaxed than you’ve been in weeks.”
She blew a stray tendril of hair out of her eyes and considered the question. “Mainly I’m relieved that the deposition went as well as it did. The Maravaches have a solid case.”
“You think their insurer will see the light?”
“Eventually.” She might need to file summary judgment papers, but she doubted the case would go much further than that briefing.
“That’s great news.”
“It is. But the even better news is the corporate representative did what I hoped she’d do and connected the dots. She caught on to the pattern of approvals right away.”
“She did? Her attorney didn’t shut you down?”
She shook her head. It was a good, but misguided, question. It assumed Phil Chadwick, Esquire, had paid sufficient attention to the case to grasp the significance of the data. She highly doubted that was the case. He was an insurance defense lawyer. He paid attention to notice provisions and exemptions from coverage. He wouldn’t have noticed or cared that the same group of people routinely put through fire claims that were uniformly paid. “No. He didn’t. But she was careful about what she said in front of him. She’s no dummy. She got it—she understands that he represents her employer, not her. She hung around in Jake’s after the deposition to talk to me.”
“Lucky that you ended up in Jake’s,” he said knowingly.
“It was, wasn’t it?”
“Did you take her to see your friend in the prosecutor’s office?”
“I did. They’ve assigned her a protective detail, and I’m sure Charlotte’s going to convene a grand jury as quickly as she can.”
“So that’s what’s putting the bounce in your step—and inspiring this odd domestic behavior?”
She flapped her dishtowel at him. “Oh, stop it. You act like I never set foot in the kitchen. I make dinner at least once a season. But I’m just so
glad that I was able to take Laura Yim and the evidence of an arson-for-profit ring to the authorities and trust them to handle it. All the hands on crime-stopping stuff was getting old.” She was nearly floating on air at the prospect of someone else bringing the bad guys to justice for a change.
He gave her a look as if he might contest the claim about her cooking but said, “Whatever the reason, I like the result.”
“You should,” she said, sliding the first tray of cookies into the oven. She turned and beamed at him. “My work load is in great shape for me to jet off for a tropical paradise. Everything’s coming together.”
He crossed the kitchen and slipped his arms around her waist, nuzzling her neck for a moment before murmuring in her ear, “One week from today, we’ll be on a plane toasting to our anniversary.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Laura almost didn’t hear the knocking over the hairdryer. She flipped the switch to turn it off and listened for a moment.
Rap, rap, rap. There it was—a soft but insistent knocking on the door to her room. She glanced at the digital clock as she walked through the room: 4:16. She frowned. Agent Brenner had said to be ready to leave for the airport by five o’clock. She was on the first flight back to Jersey City, but it didn’t depart until almost seven a.m. So why was someone knocking on her door this early?
She paused in front of the door. Her thick hair, still wet from the shower, dripped down her back. She peered through the peephole. A clean-shaven, dark-haired man dressed in a dark suit and tan overcoat stood erect and alert, far enough away for her to get a good look at him. He sure looked like an FBI agent, but she didn’t recognize him.
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