Though Simon was her friend, he wouldn’t understand. No one could. Her stomach rolled at the prospect. She couldn’t let it happen. Not now. Not yet. She needed time. Her heart pounded at how many agency rules she would trash, but she had no choice. She had to persuade Simon to help her.
Once out on the sidewalk, she extracted the mini-detector and extended its antenna. The electronic eyes in the façade’s decor were obvious to her and probably to Simon, but hidden mics were another story.
At first, Simon peered at the device with surprise, but he caught on fast. “Well?”
The unit blinked its red-light warning. DARK protected the building’s exterior too. No surprise.
Turning her back on the building, she mouthed, “No.”
Yellow cabs crowded the street. Mid-afternoon and you’d think it was rush hour. The first three cabs Simon tried to flag down had passengers. The next raised his Off Duty sign as soon as Simon stepped into the street. Ten minutes and eight cabs later, an empty taxi pulled over to the curb.
“The hotel will have surveillance,” Simon said.
That had occurred to her too. They needed to talk. Now.
Janna consulted the Manhattan map on her phone. “There’s a park across the street from it. A little green square.”
Several minutes later, the cab let them out at the Delancey Hotel between the East Village and the Lower East Side. The U.S. government owned the small hotel and used it as a secure residence for transient personnel from various government entities. A brass plate below the hotel’s name on the door read Private.
The unassuming brick structure stood in a residential block on a cross street off Delancey Street. Along with other buildings — apartments, judging from the windows with plants and curtains — it fronted the green square that Janna pointed out. Little old ladies peeking through lace curtains probably puzzled over the function of their mysterious neighbor.
Simon surveyed the area as he waited for the cab to disappear around the corner. Good placement for security. The hotel had a clear view of all buildings and anyone arriving. Nobody on the street. Nobody in the park. Movement behind a second-floor hotel window.
Let ’em wait and wonder. If he had to endure another damn security check, they could sure as hell hold their horses.
He hoisted his duffel bag onto his free shoulder. The envelope containing the list of names in his courier bag weighed heavily on the other shoulder. Turning their backs on the hotel, they crossed to the handkerchief park — nothing more than dusty grass, a stone bench and a couple of skinny trees behind wire cages. April’s new green leaves fanned out on the branches.
He didn’t have to say a thing. Janna pulled out her magic pen and extended its slim antenna. “Park’s clear,” she said. “Hotel side of the street has ears. Keep your voice low.”
They sat facing away from the hotel.
He withdrew the manila envelope from his bag and pried open its clips. “It’s not a list. He gave us prints from the video with names handwritten on the back.”
Janna leaned so close he could inhale the almond fragrance of her hair, feel the warmth of her arm pressed against his. If only… Aw, hell.
“Look through them, quick.” Anxiety roughened her voice.
He shuffled the prints one by one. Roszca. Wharton. Roszca’s two Cleatian muscle. A couple of other arms buyers, no names on the back. And Gabriel Harris, with smug satisfaction on his pretty-boy profile.
“Nothing written on the back.”
Janna exhaled. “His picture was everywhere. Why didn’t they recognize him?”
Her naive question had to mean she was innocent. The knot inside him eased a fraction. “The dark hair and the camera angle. The New Yorkers don’t know him personally.”
“Thank God,” she said in a breathy voice. “In disguise. Dyed hair. Why?”
He hated to, but he had to ask — for himself as well as for the agency. “Do you know anything about this? Why Gabe was at that dinner?”
She shook her head, the movement swinging layers of hair. “Are you sure he wasn’t part of DARK’s undercover op to roll up Wharton? Or Roszca?”
He scrubbed knuckles over his chin. “If he was undercover for New York, Mascolo would’ve known him. Roszca’s our quarry. As far as I know, Ramsey sent nobody undercover.”
She slipped off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Eyes the color of a summer rain cloud looked to him for help. Big and wide, long-lashed and slightly tipped up at the outer corners. Eyes of feminine mystery. Eyes a man could get lost in.
Fear and grief swirled in their depths, and he felt helpless to comfort her. Hell, he shouldn’t even touch her. She didn’t want his hands on her. She’d made that obvious.
Every instinct told him she knew nothing of whatever Gabe had done, but if she suspected Simon was checking on her, she wouldn’t want him within a mile of her. Either way, she sure as hell wouldn’t want his sympathy.
So he sat in silence.
“If Gabe wasn’t there on DARK orders…” She swallowed, apparently unable to continue.
The sentence didn’t need finishing. Both knew the implications.
“Try to think back to when that transaction was recorded,” he said. “August, over a year ago. What was Gabe doing then? Was he away much?”
She slid the glasses back on. Shield in place, she pressed fingers to both temples and massaged them. “He made several trips that summer. I’d have to look in my planner to know when. It’s not in this phone.”
“What were the trips?”
She shook her head. “Agency business. He never told me more than that. He couldn’t talk about his assignments. You know that.”
Naturally, Mr. Perfect followed agency regs while he was off screwing the system. If only the man were alive so he could deck him. “I went along with keeping quiet earlier.” How the hell should he word this? “But we have to alert Ramsey.”
She gripped his arm as hard as she had when they’d seen Harris on the tape with Roszca. Her gaze was stark. “No, Simon, please. I beg you not to tell anyone.”
Chapter 4
IF THE WHOLE thing wasn’t a setup, it would be a hell of a twist — she wanted to break the rules, and Simon had to follow them. His orders said to play out the scenario, to see where she would lead. He covered her hand tentatively. Patted. Before he could savor her skin and relax his fingers over hers, she slid away and scooted to the far end of the stone bench. “Look, I know you loved the guy. This must be painful as hell. But his meeting with Roszca is bound to come out. New York could find out and call Ramsey. Or the director. Maybe—”
“I know it will come out eventually, but not yet.”
He shoved the envelope into her hands and stood. “You’re not seeing the ramifications. If we don’t level with the agency from the start, our careers will be on the line. Concealing damaging information like this definitely violates agency rules — due diligence, failure to disclose, among others.”
He was under orders, but hell, she could face criminal charges of conspiracy and obstruction of justice. That the object of the concealment was dead would make no difference to DARK, even if Janna hadn’t participated in whatever Gabe did.
Hands tight around the incriminating picture of her dead husband, she said, “I know. I understand the risks. But the mere rumor that Gabe might have been selling arms would destroy his memory and disillusion everyone. Gabe is a national hero. I have his medals as proof. I’m asking you to help me find out the truth before we tell anyone.”
He paced in front of the small bench. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“But I do. I’m willing to risk my career, and I’m asking you to risk yours. If we learn that Gabe was dirty, I’ll be the first to tell Ramsey. But would you want to destroy a hero’s memory if there’s some other reason he’s on that tape? What if there’s a legitimate reason?”
Finding a legitimate reason had as much chan
ce as Simon bringing in Roszca single-handedly. He gazed into her pleading eyes. If she wanted him to help cover up Gabe’s crimes to protect herself, she was a damn good actress. Hell, the real reason she wanted to protect Harris’s memory was that she still loved him. Shit. A good bet that Ramsey knew all about the recordings and that Gabe was guilty.
Simon’s only consolation was his hope that investigating along with her would prove her innocence. He owed her that much for old times’ sake. For his negligence in Gabe’s death. “I’ll agree to secrecy for now.” Her features softened as his words sank in. “I’ll see what I can find out while we’re here. Maybe Wharton or the two local Cleatian muscle know something.”
“Thank you. You’re doing the right thing. I’m sure of it.” She sprang to her feet. If he expected her to give him a thank-you hug, he was a damn fool. She hoisted her laptop case and grasped the handle of her rolling bag.
He shouldered his bags and turned toward the hotel. “Two or three days of interviews. After that, we’ll see. That’s as far as I’ll go.”
She beamed a heart-stumbling smile at him. “Agreed. Now let’s go register at the hotel. I need a shower.”
He almost groaned at the image that triggered. The sooner he made it to a room alone, the calmer he’d be. He needed a shower too. A cold one.
After undergoing a security check, they entered the lobby of the Delancey Hotel. The exterior was plain brick, but the interior exploded with intense green-and-yellow carpeting and draperies with geometric designs. He wished he’d brought sunglasses.
“Oh, it’s so New York.” Janna was gazing at an abstract wall sconce. “Art deco, like Radio City Music Hall.”
He mumbled agreement. Maybe he should’ve paid more attention in art appreciation. All he could think was that the hotel had turned loose a Picasso wanna-be to decorate it.
The bored-looking clerk at the reception desk signed them in with brisk efficiency. “Here you are. Room 1215. Two key cards.” He extended an envelope.
“But that’s only one room,” Janna said.
“Reservations were for separate rooms.” Simon slapped the envelope back on the desk. The day had gone to hell enough already.
The clerk recoiled at the ferocity in his voice. He tapped at some computer keys and studied the screen. He smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, sir, ma’am. The reservation is for a suite.”
***
Janna explored the suite as she listened to Simon’s phone conversation with the agency’s travel desk in Washington. She could tell a woman was on the other end of the line because in spite of his anger, Simon was kidding and cajoling.
“If anybody can fix this, Lissa, honey, it’s you,” he said. “It’s too long after April Fools’ Day for a joke.”
Before they came upstairs, Janna knew they were stuck with the suite. There was no room at the inn. Both the clerk and the manager had informed them that the hotel was full. The manager apologized three times during a ramble about extra bookings because of Earth Day demonstrations at the United Nations. She stowed her faux pen in her pocket. The tiny detector picked up no bugs in the shared bathroom, the sitting room or the bedroom. Apparently, once they passed security checks, government officers were allowed privacy.
The suite itself cheered her up a bit. The muted blues and greens on the walls and on the spreads covering the two double beds toned down the art deco.
Two beds, she assured herself. And a sitting room with a couch. She wouldn’t trust her future to another person again, but she’d trust Simon in this situation. He’d be a gentleman. Of course, she’d trust him not to jump her bones. He made his feelings about her clear enough — he had none.
Her feelings — and secrets — were the problem. Sharing a suite might mean détente. Resuming friendship would lower barriers she needed to protect herself. Maybe Lissa-honey could twist some arms here at the Delancey to find another room. Doubtful. She sat on the couch and waited.
Simon slammed down the receiver. “No luck.” He shoved hair off his forehead. It fell back down.
She thought better of mentioning that she’d expected no results. “Why did headquarters reserve a suite?”
He tore off his leather jacket. He tossed it and his duffel bag on the other bed. “Ramsey’s aide had the travel desk reserve a suite. Cheaper than two rooms. He figured we’d work it out, be professional.” He threw up his hands.
“I see. Well, we can manage for a couple of days.” And nights. But she wouldn’t think about that. “We have two beds. No one has to sleep on the couch. I can be as professional as the next person.”
From the scowl on his face, he didn’t like the situation any more than she did.
She carried her suitcase into the bedroom, tossed it on one bed and unzipped it. She lifted her folded peach silk nightie and underwear and dug out her toiletries. “Do you want to shower first or shall I?”
He gaped at her from the doorway between the bedroom and the sitting room. His Adam’s apple rose and fell faster than an express elevator. He snatched up his jacket and strode to the door. “You go ahead. I’ll be in the bar. Come down when you’re ready to go out to dinner.”
He closed the door behind him before she could open her mouth to speak.
Now he wasn’t merely ignoring her. He was angry. Angry about Gabe. Angry about the suite. Angry at her. He was so different, so much the rebel. Before she met Gabe, she’d resisted acting on her attraction to Simon. Until that wedding reception. An affair with him would’ve been a walk on the wild side. Renewing their friendship was impossible, but so was hostility if they had to work together. She had to loosen up without treading into sensitive areas.
She carried her cosmetic kit and a clean blouse into the black-and-white-tiled bathroom. After covering her hair with the hotel’s shower cap, she stepped into the shower. Maybe the steamy water would infuse her with the strength she needed.
Gabe hadn’t wanted her to further her career beyond the lab, but after his death, she jumped at the chance. Here was her first assignment as a tech officer, and she felt more like a track runner facing ever-higher hurdles. Interpreting and doing security sweeps rolled out an easy path. But Ramsey paired her with her first hurdle, Simon. Working with him revived feelings that violated her personal rule against men.
Seeing Gabe on that videotape had raised the bar. Searching for the truth meant working together with a shared secret. Everyone, including Simon, believed she practically kept a shrine to Saint Gabriel. They had to communicate enough to work together, and that was all she ought to want. Closeness might set her up for more pain. Closeness would complicate feelings she’d buried long ago. Closeness might lead to confidences.
And sharing a hotel room raised the bar to another, insurmountable height. Intimacy to an extent she never would’ve imagined. Toothbrushes on the same sink. The sound of a shower sluicing down a naked body. Beds side by side. Soft good-nights in the darkened room.
As if to eradicate the enticing images, she scrubbed her body until the skin turned pink.
***
The glowing red numerals on the nightstand clock read three o’clock.
Simon sighed his sleepless frustration into the darkness and rolled onto his back. His sweatpants were giving him a wedgie. He usually slept in the buff and hadn’t planned on a damn roommate. Seeing Janna bop around in that silky whatchamallit made matters worse. An icy shower had temporarily doused the fire down below, but didn’t wash away his problems.
Any of them.
Problem number one slept like a baby in the other bed. Too close for comfort. Did her soft, even breathing mean her conscience was clear? Or was she simply exhausted?
The day’s stresses and strains should’ve exhausted him too. Instead, his brain wouldn’t shut down.
When she came downstairs earlier, he’d looked up from his beer to see her all freshly scrubbed and looking too damned appetizing in a knit top that clung in all the right places. The w
orry and strain in her eyes slammed him in the belly. But she remained cool and professional, armed with a list of neighborhood eateries on her phone.
A few blocks south took them into Little Italy, where they found Mama Maria’s Trattoria. He wolfed down pasta and meatballs while she picked at spinach ravioli. Was she now a vegetarian? Not asking. Personal questions were a bad idea. And now the meatballs and garlic churned in his stomach while the widow Harris lay temptingly within reach.
He stacked the two thick pillows beneath his head and stared at the blinking smoke-detector light on the ceiling. What in hell had Gabriel Harris intended by meeting with Viktor Roszca? Harris had been with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms before joining DARK. Did the ATF link mean anything? Did a case lead him to Roszca? Janna might know, whether the bastard had involved her or not.
Insisting they keep the recorded evidence secret sure as hell made her look involved. Simon didn’t believe she’d committed any crime — even sampling at the supermarket salad bar — but his gut said she was keeping something from him.
If not guilt, then what?
Following his orders from the AD bound him to Janna. Hadn’t he hoped for open communication? He got his wish, but it was a hell of an icebreaker.
Some space from her would go a long way toward restoring his equilibrium. Toward quelling his libido. Toward clearing his head so he could sort out this puzzle.
He didn’t need her to translate or scan security when he interrogated Wharton. Yeah, that was it. He’d go to the DARK office alone to see Wharton in the morning.
Satisfied at his decision, Simon turned over and buried himself in the covers.
***
Janna couldn’t imagine a starker setting than the DARK interrogation room. Painted battleship-gray, the walls had no decorations of any kind, not even a calendar. The ceiling and floor were gray. Even the one-way glass that separated her from Simon and Wharton had a steely cast. An ex-Navy painter nostalgic for his ship must’ve designed the space.
In the wee hours, when she’d detected her roommate’s light snoring, she opened her eyes. Out of necessity, she’d learned to feign sleep. The old habit died hard. Simon wasn’t Gabe, she told herself as she let her eyelids drift. That small comfort should’ve relaxed her, but she and a good night’s sleep hadn’t found each other in months.
Dark Rules (The DARK Files Book 3) Page 3
