Molly contemplated her potato. “You know I’ve seen R-rated movies before, don’t you?”
“Guess I hadn’t thought about it.” Nate bit his lip for a moment — and she could almost read his thoughts: what else had she done before she joined the Church?
He was as horrified as if she were covered in visible filth. She rubbed her arm, as if that could take away the stain, her heart shrinking a centimeter in her chest.
He seemed to shake off the thought, too terrible to contemplate. “But that doesn’t mean you should do it now, now that you know better.”
Nate wasn’t the only LDS man she’d dated, but she’d never been made to feel as though she came from a squalid past. Zach was far from her biggest cheerleader, but he was practically breaking out the pom-poms compared to how Nate just looked at her. They focused on the television, eating in silence — a silence that was less comfortable than sitting in the car by Zach.
She’d spent — enjoyed — hours one-on-one with Zach today. Was time alone with an ex-boyfriend like that fair to Nate? She was his girlfriend, and even if the Bureau had tasked her to work with Zach, today hadn’t been part of the assignment. She had to be careful.
Very careful.
Nate paused the movie and turned to Molly. “If you want to watch your show, I’m sure we can find one of those rental services where they clean it up for you.”
Not with their legal battles. “I should get some work done.” Molly folded her baked potato’s container. “Thank you for dinner.”
“See you tomorrow.”
Tomorrow, when she’d be pretending to be engaged to Zach all afternoon, possibly into the evening. “I’m workin’ late tomorrow. Sorry.”
Nate nodded, hesitant. “Okay.”
“But you can come by Saturday, and we’ll do somethin’ then.”
He relaxed, as if this suggestion had finally put him at ease, and kissed her. “See ya.”
Molly locked the door behind him. She needed to distract herself from that awkward situation. Work. She needed to work — to prepare for tomorrow. She fetched Grace’s stack of wedding magazines from her closet and spread them across the coffee table.
After a few minutes of studying, her mobile chimed with a text message. From Lucy. Sorry, babysitting. Z moved in June. What are you up to?
A cold chill crept across her shoulders. While she was at Quantico, frustrated because he never visited her — he’d transferred to her hometown?
Did that make a difference? He knew odds were a thousand to one the FBI would assign her here. Though he might’ve started the transfer before she’d got “The Call.”
Molly tried to shake off the chill. No, that made no difference. She texted Lucy back about dinner with Nate.
Have you told him about Z?
Of course not — but Lucy didn’t know the full reasons why. Molly just texted back a No.
Have you told Z about him yet?
Molly frowned at her phone. It’d only been two days since Lucy had told her to talk to Zach. Do I really have to?
You know the answer.
Her heart foundered. She did know.
Zach had dumped her. She should be happy to show him she’d moved on. Even throwing it in his face. Instead, she’d kept that from him and didn’t want to tell him the truth.
Now she’d have to tell him while they pretended to be engaged in front of terrorists.
Late Friday morning, Grace knelt at her battered coffee table with Pearse. With her appointment with Molly this afternoon, she’d almost not bothered to see what Pearse was so eager about, but he’d actually done a fair job this time. She made a final check of the design, from the little she knew, and helped replace the banker’s box lid. “That’ll do, Pearse.”
Pearse’s lips pressed into his version of a smile.
“When’s your demonstration?”
“Tomorrow night.” He ran a hand across the top of the box, his first solo squib.
The flat’s door swung open. Grace’s heart leapt. She shifted to hide the bomb, despite its camouflage.
Ed marched into the flat.
“Where have you been?” Grace demanded. “We’re meetin’ Molly in a few minutes.”
Ed ignored her. “What’s this, so?” He peered around her. “Not the squib, is it?”
“It is.” Pearse lifted his chin and his voice in defiance.
“Can’t go buildin’ it this early. It’ll go damp in seven days. Worthless.”
Pearse rounded the coffee table to confront his father. “You think I don’t know that? That I’m a total eejit?” He stuck his nose in the air. If he wanted the best way to draw his father’s ire, he’d found it. “I’ve a client.”
Ed half-scoffed, half-laughed. “A client, have you? And you’ve gone and built this yourself? Did you get your mix right?”
“Straight Semtex, Da. No mixin’ required. Personal target.”
Ed made that incredulous sound again. “Where were you gettin’ the Semtex?”
Pearse looked at Grace. The answer was too obvious — he’d used their supply. Ed had to be baiting him. “Cop on, Ed,” she snapped. “We need the money. Fundin’ for phase two.”
“You’re so worried about the next phase — won’t be a next phase if we don’t finish the first.”
“I’ll get more Semtex, Da,” Pearse said, his tone placating.
“Are you coddin’ me, boyo? You’ve nearly got caught how many times? Too risky. You’re bound to get sacked.”
“I won’t lose my job.”
Ed threw a hand in the air. “Sure, your brute strength’s far too valuable in this economy.” He whirled on Grace. “I didn’t like sellin’ off the bits and bobs before, but now you’re cuttin’ into our stash for your ‘fundraisin’.’”
The man was unbelievable. “We’re only usin’ a little.” Plus the finished squib for Pearse’s client. Grace declined to mention that. “We’ll have enough.”
“What if we don’t? Wait until next year?”
Grace planted her hands on her hips and her feet on the floor, drawing her line in the green shag carpeting. “Things have changed — Americans are still too scared after 9/11 to be helpin’ their oppressed brothers. This is the only way we’ll be gettin’ the money.”
Ed set his jaw and focused on the wall.
“He’s bringin’ me more C-4, Da,” Pearse added.
“Could you at least call it Semtex?”
“Da, it’s the same thing.”
“Nearly.” His father sighed. “‘Though now it seems impossible, and so all that you need is patience.’”
Again with useless poetry. Grace forced herself not to roll her eyes. Pearse furrowed his eyebrows at the Yeats quote and looked to his mother. Grace nodded. They’d won — as long as Pearse’s client delivered the money and plastic explosives.
“Grab your jacket, Ed,” she called. “We’ve an appointment to keep.”
Zach had never hated defense lawyers quite like today. He shifted on the bench and tried not to scratch at his wig. As the covert agent who’d brought Doyle Murphy down, he shouldn’t be here. His few turns at the witness stand in the past had been nothing like this.
Murphy’s lawyer spun on his heel for another attack on Molly. “But you had no problem living in the apartment Mr. Murphy provided?”
“I wasn’t aware he owned the apartment.” She kept her voice even, professional. “I was told the parish was providin’ it.”
“Uh huh.” Murphy’s lawyer was applying another Murphy’s law to the prosecution’s case. “But you did live in an apartment owned by someone you believed to be a criminal?”
“I wasn’t aware —” Molly began again, bordering on patronizing.
“And now you’re an FBI agent?” The lawyer wheeled toward the jury, and Zach glimpsed his practiced smirk.
As if the badge on the lapel of her blazer wasn’t evidence enough. “I am.”
“Does the FBI often hire people who’ve lived in apartments own
ed by ‘criminals’?”
AUSA Jill Hardt — no, wait, was it Jean? — spoke up. “Objection.”
The defense waved away his question like a cobweb. “No further questions.”
Jean stood. “Redirect.”
The rail-thin judge nodded. Zach checked the time on his phone. They were supposed to meet the Canavans ten minutes ago.
He couldn’t meet them by himself. His cover wouldn’t be a problem, but Molly not showing up to plan her own wedding? They’d never buy it.
Before the AUSA started, Zach’s phone vibrated in his palm. Paddy. He swallowed a groan and stood, shuffling past another spectator to reach the aisle. Just before he turned away, Zach caught Molly’s gaze. Despite the red wig and horn-rimmed glasses he wore, something flashed in her eyes: recognition — and anger.
Not good. But they couldn’t talk about it now. He barely reached the hall in time to answer. “Allen O’Kelly.”
“It’s ready.”
“The demonstration, right?”
“No, the Queen of England. What do you think? Tomorrow night.”
“I don’t have the stuff yet.” That was actually the truth.
Paddy grunted. “What d’you mean? You’re the one wantin’ to meet tomorrow.”
“I’m meeting with a guy to get it Sunday.” Although what he was really waiting on was the paperwork for the FBI’s inert C-4.
And they’d told him Tuesday. Why hadn’t he said Tuesday?
“Monday, then,” Paddy said. “Squib’s ready, and these things lose potency over time.”
Zach checked the courtroom doors. Nothing. “I’m seeing my kid Monday, first time since her mom took her. Tuesday.”
“Don’t go soft on me.”
“No way. Tuesday night. I know just the place.” Zach rattled off the address and ended the call.
He turned back to the courtroom, but the spectators he’d sat beside were already streaming out. Great, he’d missed her redirect.
Zach ducked into a bathroom to change out of his disguise unnoticed. They had to hurry to catch up to the Canavans.
By the time Zach had tossed his wig and glasses, checked his real hair and made it out, Molly was already down the hall, waiting for the elevator. With the size of the lunchtime crowd between them, no way could he make it to her before the next elevator.
Shouldering through the flow of foot traffic, Zach tugged on his coat. Across the sea of people, the elevator arrived and Molly stepped on. He needed a faster way. Zach craned his neck, surveying the high-ceilinged hall until he found a stairwell door. He ducked through the door — and so did that Assistant US Attorney. Jean — right? — Hardt.
“Hey, Agent Saint.” The AUSA stayed close to him like they had to crowd together on the stairs. “Star prosecution witness in another case today?”
He didn’t make eye contact. “Nope, here to support a friend.” Something Jean hadn’t done for Molly very well.
“Thoughtful of you.”
“Thanks.” Zach reached the first landing and rounded the corner.
“Hey.” Jean kept up with him to touch his arm. Awkwardly. “The Murphy case is going good, thanks to you.”
“Were we in the same courtroom?”
Surprise flitted across her face, and Zach realized he hadn’t said what case he’d been watching — or who his friend was. Jean’s satisfied smile showed exactly who she thought he meant: her. Though he hadn’t exactly complimented her prosecution skills.
She seemed nice enough, but he couldn’t bring himself to date a lawyer — even if she was prosecution. Just . . . no.
“Tell me you brought up the priest’s rent payments on the apartment,” Zach said.
“Of course.”
They reached the ground floor and charged back into the hallway. Zach rushed more than he needed to, to put distance between him and Jean and catch up with Molly. A quick scan of the elevators and hall didn’t help. He pulled out his phone and dialed Molly.
Jean came even with him again. “The case is a slam dunk.” She placed a hand on his back. “Thanks to you.”
Zach pressed his phone to his ear. “Thanks. Again.” He hurried out of the courthouse doors, already inventing reasons Jason Tolliver might’ve made Molly Ryan this late without texting. Minor crisis with a supplier? Last-minute travel arrangements for an important client?
“Where are you?” Molly answered.
“Sorry, darlin’,” he replied in his Southern drawl. “I was just —”
“Sorry I’m late,” Molly said. “Are you with them?”
“No.” He dropped the accent. Obviously she hadn’t found the Canavans yet.
Half a beat of silence. “You’re not?”
Did she not believe him? He cleared the shadow of the awning overhang and stopped at the top of the stairs. “I’m on the courthouse steps.”
“Stay there.”
“Hey, Zach?” Jean called after him as soon as he tapped the button to end the call. “Why don’t we go grab lunch?”
Zach turned back to her. “Listen, Jean —”
She frowned. “Um, Jill?”
“Sorry, Jill, I —” A hard double poke to his arm cut him off, and he turned to find Molly. “There you are,” he said.
“Here I am?” Molly nailed him with a look of are you serious? She paused to acknowledge Jean — no, idiot, Jill Hardt. The women nodded to each other, wary.
“You did a good job,” Jill told Molly.
“Thank you.”
Was it Zach’s imagination, or were they sizing one another up like rivals? He decided not to clarify his relationship with Molly, stepping very close to her before addressing Jill. “Sorry, we have to go. But thanks.”
Jill backed off a step with a nod of understanding — showing enough grace to make Zach feel bad for not quite telling the truth.
Almost. Zach slid his arm around Molly’s shoulders and leaned closer to whisper, “Thanks. You saved me from an uncomfortable situation.”
“Did I?” Stress strained her syllables. She retrieved her phone from her purse. “Four missed calls,” she muttered. “And they texted.” She shrugged off his arm and started down the street, tapping on her screen.
Zach kept in step with her. “Can we catch up with them?”
“They had trouble parkin’ and then gettin’ a table. They’re still waitin’ to be seated.” She kept her pace and her tone brisk.
Was she mad? What had he done? They walked a block in silence, and not the comfortable quiet of yesterday. Finally, Zach ventured to speak. “Do you have your ring?”
“Naturally.” She held up her left hand, sparkly as ever.
“Where are you parked?”
Molly glanced over her shoulder. “At work.”
“Then where are we going?”
She pointed down Michigan Avenue. “Said we’d meet them at the restaurant once we found a spot.” She stopped abruptly — red light.
Zach leaned in front of her to catch her gaze. “How are you doing?”
“Fantastic.” Her voice came out totally flat. “You?”
“Great.” But his tone didn’t match his response either. Something was definitely up. With the case or with him? “The Canavans will see you’re mad at me.”
“Fine.” She stopped and whirled on him. “Why did you leave the courtroom?”
“Phone call for another case.”
The fire in Molly’s glare died down. “You weren’t leavin’ to get to the Canavans?”
“Not without you.”
She looked him up and down, like she was calculating how much he meant that. Whatever her verdict, she turned and started walking again. The uneasy silence still hung over them.
“How much farther?” Zach asked.
“Two more blocks.”
“Perfect.” He jogged a couple feet ahead to spin around and face her, walking backward. “Just enough time to tell me what’s bothering you.”
“Nothin’s botherin’ me.”
�
�Yeah, right.” They might be physically closer today walking down the street, but he’d have to be pretty dense not to notice the frigid gulf between them — one that wasn’t there yesterday.
He waited another block before trying again. “Come on, this will throw us both off with them.”
She didn’t slow down, but she bit her lip and looked away for a few seconds. “Fine.” She stopped. “I need to tell you somethin’.”
“There you are!” Grace Canavan crowed, not ten feet away.
“Sorry ’bout that,” Zach drawled. Obviously the real Molly didn’t want him cuddling up, but they had to sell this to the Canavans. He slid an arm around Molly’s waist and rotated her toward Grace. “You know how crazy it is ’round here Friday afternoons. Had to park halfway to Detroit.”
Grace nodded sympathetically. “Apparently there’s some big event, so parkin’s terrible all over city center. The place is heavin’, but Ed’s got a table.”
“Fantastic.” Molly smiled — but Zach could still see the remnants of whatever was bothering her lurking behind her eyes.
Whatever she had to tell him wasn’t good, and he’d get to spend the rest of the day wondering what that might be.
Like Grace said, the restaurant was packed. Once they joined Ed in their booth, Grace gave the menu a perfunctory glance. “I hear their fish ’n’ chips are the best in Chicago.”
“Not sayin’ much,” Ed grumbled. “Better have brown sauce.”
“We’ll have to see, won’t we?” She shot Ed a scowl to squelch any further criticisms before turning to Zach. “Do you like fish ’n’ chips, Jason?”
“I’m Southern, ma’am — I’ll eat just about anythang battered ’n’ fried.”
“Fittin’ in with the family already.”
Zach checked on Molly, absorbed in studying the menu. “You ain’t gon’ get the fish ’n’ chips, Moll?”
“I am.”
Ed dropped the lunch menu for the miniature booklet of alcoholic beverages. “What d’ya drink, Jason?”
Oh boy. “Water.”
Ed stared at him like he said he’d prefer gasoline. “What kind of man drinks water?”
“If I’m eatin’ somethang double battered and deep fried, I gotta make up for it somewhere.”
Saints & Suspects Page 13
