Until last week, Molly hadn’t known he was in Chicago, so hanging out with his sister again — who’d been her friend since before she’d known Zach for who he was — wasn’t awkward. She wouldn’t let him steal her best friend. Lucy had never brought him up, and Molly wasn’t about to violate their tacit agreement, especially not with Nate here. This assignment would only take a couple hours a week. No reason to make Lucy worry.
“Want your present now or later?” Molly asked.
“Might as well, while we’re waiting.”
Molly gave her the wrapped package, and Lucy tore into it. “Another — I mean, a book. Poetry That Sustains the Courage to Teach. Awesome; thank you!”
“You were worried she wouldn’t like it.” Nate slipped an arm around Molly’s waist.
“No, I love it.” A secret seemed to light Lucy’s smile. Or Molly had spent too much time interpreting and reanalyzing everything everyone said, from the Canavans to Zach to Lucy. “Have some cake, guys.”
On the coffee table, cupcakes had been frosted together to form a bulbous . . . heart? It seemed one cupcake was missing.
Nate grabbed a cupcake for each of them, and Molly sampled hers. Fortunately, it tasted better than it looked.
A knock came at the door. Molly jumped inwardly. No, that couldn’t be Zach. Lucy opened the door for Paul, and her boyfriend gave her a quick kiss. “Happy birthday, Lucy.”
“Thanks, babe.”
Paul handed Lucy a small box — a ring box. Molly’s stomach turned. She was not enduring this again this week.
Molly glanced at Nate. He simply grinned back at her, planting a kiss on her forehead, as if witnessing a proposal was only natural. As if watching someone else’s romantic moment was romantic because they’d follow in their footsteps eventually.
But she didn’t feel romanced. She felt sick. Did her nightmares from work have to chase her into real life?
Lucy opened the box — a ring. She gasped. “Wow, Paul. I can’t — I mean, it’s beautiful.”
An invisible grip tightened around Molly’s chest, but Paul was oblivious. He took the ring out of the box and slipped it onto Lucy’s finger. She admired it for a minute before smiling up at him. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He gave her a long kiss, leaving Molly and Nate to smile at one another awkwardly.
Was that it? At least Zach had asked something when he fake-proposed.
“Happy birthday,” Paul said again. “Let’s get cooking.” He helped Lucy with her coat.
Molly and Nate joined them at the door. “Let’s see it, so,” Molly said.
Lucy held out her hand — her right hand — to show off an amethyst in sculpted silver. Not an engagement ring, merely Molly’s overactive imagination after the week’s trauma. “Lovely,” she said. “Fair play to you, Paul.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“That is, well done. Very tasteful.” Unlike the ring Zach had given her — Molly caught a gasp in her throat and checked her left ring finger with her thumb.
No, she’d taken the tacky thing off as soon as she could Monday. That was a relief.
“What are we doing tonight?” Lucy asked.
Paul grinned. “Couples’ cooking class. Sushi.”
“No actual cooking? Whew.” Nate took Molly’s hand, and they headed for the car. That had been close. She’d had one too many engagements for one week.
Thursday morning, Grace took her handbag from its spot on the rickety bookshelf by the door. She retrieved her mobile and paged through the photos to find the parade float rental receipt. Grace turned to her grown son. “Pearse, the other mobile.” They might not need him at work when Precision Demolition was between jobs, but having the eejit around the flat was driving Grace mad. Pearse stayed glued to the telly while he tossed her the cheap, untraceable cell phone.
She caught it. “Turn it down.”
Ed grumbled from behind his newspaper, and Pearse rolled his eyes, but obeyed. With a deep breath, Grace wheeled away from the two skivers lounging in their ancient furniture and dialed the parade company. After giving the receptionist the order number, she was transferred to the sales manager handling the prestigious O’Connell Publishing parade float account. She introduced herself as Colleen O’Dea, a new secretary to the company, and the manager accepted that without question.
“How can I help you?”
“We’re hopin’ to have the chance to inspect the float before the parade this year.”
“Um —”
Grace pressed on before he could continue hemming. “We’re mainly concerned our float will be too similar to others. How many floats is your company runnin’ this year?”
“Ma’am, I promise, we’re working on the exact float you designed — and it’s truly unique, different from everything else.”
She frowned. Talking her way into the warehouse should be the easy part; the hard part was supposed to be sneaking in Ed and Pearse to plant the bomb. Grace tried again. “We’d like to verify that ourselves.”
“Of course — isn’t that why Mr. O’Connell’s coming down next week?”
Grace floundered in silence. “We appreciate all you’ve done for us. I’ll see he gets there.” The words tumbled out on top of one another. She ended the call, hoping the manager hadn’t sensed something amiss. She found herself pacing in the narrow, outdated kitchen that forever smelled of mushrooms.
She wandered back to the parlor and scratched oak coffee table. Ed hadn’t looked up from his newspaper, but Pearse was staring at her.
“Not goin’ well, Mam?” Pearse asked.
She fixed him with a glare. If he were capable of doing his part, everything would be grand. “Not easy bein’ the entire brains of this outfit. How’s your end holdin’ up?”
“Slow.” He shifted under the heat of her laser gaze. The burnt orange sofa protested beneath him. “My supervisor’s real close with the Semtex. Maybe if I could find another source or a way to use det. cord —”
“Can’t use det. cord without a secondary explosive.” In the brown and orange lounger by the sofa, Ed still perused the paper.
“What if we added more fuel oil?”
Ed shook his head. “Have to switch to nitromethane to overcome the stability issue. Too easy to trace.”
“And my boss’s Semtex isn’t?”
Grace held up her hands. “Won’t do us any good if we can’t get to the floats in the first place.” If she had to listen to one more discussion on the exact composition of this bomb — as if that mattered —
“What’re we goin’ to do?”
“Which one of youse will see about gettin’ a job with a parade float company?”
Pearse and his father exchanged a sarcastic expression. “Isn’t it your turn for that, Grace?” Ed asked.
She pursed her lips. “I suppose I do want this done right.” She looked back at the DontRain Parades receipt. Maybe they could find another way in.
Zach headed down to the counterintel division Friday afternoon. X was busy meeting with the DOJ, so Zach was on his own for this status meeting with Molly. If this was anything like the debrief Monday, though, it wouldn’t be pretty. He steeled himself for the fight. Ten minutes and they’d both be free.
Seeing her used to be the best part of his day. Now?
Honestly, he still looked forward to seeing her. Pathetic.
He found Molly at her computer. “Ready to go over your objectives?” he asked.
She stopped typing to acknowledge him. “Just have to send this email.”
Zach waited another minute before a few final keystrokes concluded and sent her email. “Sorry. Here to brief me on the latest weddin’ fashions?”
“I understand ruffles and lace are hot, and white is always in.”
She smirked — maybe the closest she’d come to joking with him.
Zach shifted away from her. “Mostly the usual reminders: don’t seem too eager, be careful.”
“Appreciate your concern.
” Clearly, he was supposed to take that as a dismissal.
And clearly, Molly was forgetting she was new on the job. She might not like it, but Zach had to help her prep for tomorrow, especially since X wasn’t here.
Zach relaxed his stance like he was making himself comfortable. “I guess these places usually assign helpers — she’ll be an agent. Her name’s Claire. Her mom owns the store.” He gave Molly a paper with the address for Gail’s Gowns. She read it over and set it on her desk.
“Anythin’ else you wanted to remind me of?”
Zach ignored her sarcasm and ticked off the mission goals on his fingers. “Objectives: get a feel for her schedule so we can tell if they have a deadline soon, figure out if they have any partners in the area —” Especially any explosives experts named Patrick, but he didn’t need her help. “ — and leverage your relationship to build their trust.”
Molly’s expression seemed to ask if he could possibly be any more boring. “And you’ll be listenin’?”
“No. I’m backup on another case. Claire will be yours.”
Molly sighed, propping one elbow on her desk to rest her forehead on her hand. Exasperated or intimidated?
Their real relationship hadn’t ended well — wasn’t exactly going great now — but he wouldn’t abandon her if she needed him. “I can come, if you want.”
She straightened in her chair. “Thank you, no. Believe it or not, I can handle myself.”
“I know,” he said quickly. Obviously she’d think that. But looking at those deep blue eyes again took him back to when he was undercover, protecting her. Not enough had changed.
Everything had changed. Molly was ticking off the goals on her imaginary, interminable “To Do Before I Get Married” list, and here he was, still sadly single.
He pulled himself back to the present, but Molly’s gaze had shifted to the middle distance too. When she focused on him, her lips twisted and her eyes held dread.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“Are we goin’ through with this fake weddin’ — fake marriage?”
The question landed like a slap. Just pretending to be married to him made her visibly nauseated. Zach fought for a blank expression. “We’ll push the wedding back. You know how these things can drag out. The place you want is booked, the caterer’s too busy.” He shrugged.
“An expert on plannin’ a weddin’, are we?”
“You forget.” He slipped into Jason’s drawl. “I logisticate.”
Molly smiled, the fear gone. Zach handed her the folder and headed out.
If he’d wondered if she would’ve said yes if he’d proposed, despite her endless to-do list, he didn’t have to now.
An hour, a change of clothes and a drive to the Northwest Side later, Zach tried to brush off the afternoon. He checked his slicked-back hair in the rearview mirror. Undercover. No distractions. He had to be desperate, with his sanity on its last legs.
He rubbed his hand over his five o’clock stubble. Should he have skipped shaving this morning?
Nah, this would do. He hurried through the cold into the bar. A quick recon while he took off his coat showed his target nursing a beer at the bar. Even if he hadn’t seen pictures, Zach would’ve spotted Patrick, quintessentially Irish with dark hair and small, deep-set eyes. He could’ve passed for a younger Pierce Brosnan who’d lost a boxing match or two.
With a nod in the other man’s direction, Zach took the stool two seats down and ordered a tonic and lime in an undertone. He subtly mimicked Patrick’s posture, elbows on the polished oak bar, one thumb pressed against the bridge of his nose instead of two.
The bartender placed his glass in front of him. Zach took a sip and cringed. He’d forgotten how bitter that was. He loosened his tie and undid his collar button, activating the tiny recorder hidden in his shirt collar.
In his peripheral vision, Zach caught Patrick glancing at him. Zach’s ribs constricted. What would he have to do to attract this guy’s attention without raising his suspicions?
After twenty minutes of mirroring his movements without being too obvious, Zach was ready to take the lead for an unwitting Patrick. He reached for the bowl of nuts on the far side of the bar, away from Patrick. He dragged the bowl closer and started cracking them open.
His stomach seemed to hover like a basketball circling the rim. Had he made the shot?
Half a minute later, Patrick reached over and grabbed a handful of nuts.
Bingo. Groundwork he could build on. Zach downed the rest of his tumbler and accepted the bartender’s offer of a refill. He took one sip, then plunked the new glass back on the bar with a low groan.
“Rough day, mate?” Patrick asked.
“Rough life.” Zach took another drink, but Patrick didn’t take the bait from his statement. “Got laid off today,” he volunteered.
“Brutal.” Patrick shook his head in sympathy.
“No, what’s brutal is I got a kid, two months old. That’s why I’ve been late — that’s why they fired me.”
“Go ’way outta that.” Patrick leaned closer. “Hate to be buttin’ in, but you should be at home, shouldn’t you?”
Zach snorted, sliding his glass from one hand to the other. “Why? Christy moved into her mom’s place yesterday.”
Patrick grimaced at his plight. “Desperate. This should be illegal.”
“Tell me about it.” Zach huddled over his drink, but instantly straightened. “And you know they won’t give me a good recommendation. If I can even get an interview.”
“You could switch careers.”
“To what? I don’t have a degree — lucky to get this job.”
Patrick shrugged one shoulder. “Construction. Myself, I work in demolition.”
“What kind of demolition?”
“Explosives, det. cord, bringin’ down buildin’s.”
Zach turned back to his glass. “I know one building I’d like to bring down,” he muttered.
Patrick studied him a moment, then shifted a seat closer and offered his hand. “Pádraig.”
Zach picked up on the throaty consonants of the Irish version of Patrick in the split second before he shook his hand. “Allen O’Kelly.”
“You’re Irish? Or Irish-American?”
“My grandparents were from Sligo.” Zach was careful to say the name properly to sell the role. Also, at least one little old lady in County Mayo would throttle him if he didn’t.
“Fair play to you.” Pádraig raised his drink. “But heaven help the company what hires the likes of you — you’ve a head on ya like a bag of spuds.”
The man was slagging a guy who lost his wife and his job in the same day. Of course, the national sport of Ireland was giving people a hard time, good-naturedly, so this might be a good sign.
“Aw, go ask my granny,” Zach replied.
Pádraig laughed out loud. And the hook was set — almost.
After an hour of bemoaning his unfair life and exchanging friendly barbs, Zach set his third empty glass on the bar. He’d made sure his anger at his former employer carried some dark overtones, but that was as far as he’d go in their first meeting. “Well,” Zach said, “I gotta eat, and nothing here sounds good. Good to meet you, though, Pádraig.”
“You as well, Allen.”
Zach tossed some bills on the bar and started for the door. If Pádraig didn’t take the bait and follow him, the whole night would be wasted. If “Allen” came moping back again, Pádraig’s sympathy might not hold.
Nobody called for Allen. Zach gritted his teeth as he pulled on his coat, taking as long as he could without making it obvious he was stalling. He stretched out the tension in his neck. A glance back at the bar would be too telling, so he kept his back to Pádraig.
When a hand fell on his shoulder, he startled a little more than necessary. If this was his target, he had to act like he wasn’t expecting this.
“Sorry,” Pádraig said.
“That’s okay.” Zach turned back to him. “W
hat’s up? You hungry?”
“I amn’t.” Pádraig held out a piece of paper. Zach took it — a napkin with a phone number scrawled in blue ink. “On the chance you’re serious about bringin’ a certain buildin’ down.”
Inside, Zach celebrated like he’d sunk the tourney-winning shot. Outside, he simply looked from the napkin to Pádraig and back, walking the fine line between stunned and intrigued. But if he pounced on this, he’d seem like too much of a liability to work with. “I’ll let you know.” He held up the napkin. “Thanks, Pádraig.”
Pádraig’s lips thinned, almost like he was trying to smile. “Call me Paddy.”
Now the hook was set, and this really was groundwork he could build on.
If only his other partnerships worked this smoothly.
Friday night, Molly tried to put her conversation with Zach and her appointment with Grace out of her mind tofocus on Nate. He flashed her a grin and pulled into a parking space in front of Lucy’s. He switched off the car, but made no move to get out. “Molly?”
“Hm?”
“Have you thought about what we discussed last week?”
Heat pressed in on her lungs. Molly fought off the panic and took a deep breath. “Gettin’ married?”
“Yeah.”
She’d been trying to avoid thinking of weddings since the minute the waitress dropped off a ring box at lunch Monday — but she couldn’t tell Nate that.
“I’ve had a busy week,” she managed. It was partially true. Aside from the Canavans’ case, she’d barely been able to keep up with Kent’s requests for help. The man had nailed the desperate, helpless puppy look.
With gown shopping with Grace tomorrow, her work week was far from over, as was the wedding hysteria.
Nate patted her arm. “It’s okay. I was just thinking.” He winked, then got out and opened her door for her. If she were looking to marry, she could certainly do worse than Nate. Didn’t Zach prove that every time they spoke?
Paul answered Lucy’s door. His frown seemed more worried than Molly had seen him in years. He silently admitted them into Lucy’s flat. Lucy bore a similarly troubled expression, but offered a forced smile that did nothing to dispel the lingering tension.
Saints & Suspects Page 7
