by Julie James
“I assume you’ve already ordered your monogrammed Ralph Lauren wetsuit?” Vaughn quipped.
“I checked. They don’t make one,” Huxley said.
“What’s scary, Hux, is that I have no clue if you’re being funny or dead serious.” They rounded the corner and stopped at the desk outside the SAC’s office.
“You can head on in. He’s expecting you,” said Nick’s assistant.
As Vaughn headed to the door with Huxley, he saw that their boss was worked up about something. Nick paced in front of Jack Pallas, one of the agents from the Violent Crimes squad.
“The whole thing is outrageous,” Nick was saying. “They corner you and suck you in with all their slick talk before draining every last penny out of you. I should haul every single one of them in here for price gouging and profiteering.”
“He and Jordan went stroller shopping this weekend,” Jack explained as Vaughn and Huxley walked in and sat down in front of Nick’s desk.
“These things cost more than my first car,” Nick said.
“Babies are not cheap.” Jack cocked his head. “And remind me—how many are you having?”
Valuing his job—and not being quite as good friends with Nick as Jack—Vaughn held back a grin and carefully kept his face expressionless. A few weeks ago, Nick and his wife had discovered that she was pregnant with twins. For a couple days afterward, the agents of the Chicago FBI had watched with no small amount of amusement as their fearless leader had walked around the office in a daze, murmuring “There are two,” to anyone who offered his or her congratulations.
Now fully recovered from the news, Nick chuckled at the joke. “Just the two. Assuming nobody hits us with any more surprises at the next ultrasound.” He moved around his desk and took a seat.
He rested his arms on the desk. “All right, let’s get down to business. As I mentioned earlier, I have a new investigation for you two. One that will involve some undercover work,” he told Vaughn and Huxley. “On Friday afternoon, Jack received a call from one of his confidential informants, who relayed some information that certainly merits our attention.” He turned to Jack. “Why don’t you bring them up to speed?”
“The CI’s name is Hector Batista,” Jack began. “He works in an auto body shop on the South Side. I met him several years ago, while working undercover in the Martino case. He was a lower-level smuggler back then, mostly stolen cigarettes and slot machines, but that career came to a halt after the U.S. Attorney shut down Martino’s organization. Batista still keeps an ear to the ground, and he’s given us solid information in the past.”
“He’s a paid informant?” Vaughn asked.
“Yes. But he also owes me a favor,” Jack said, indicating that he believed Batista was particularly trustworthy. “He called me on Friday morning and we met shortly after that. Batista started the conversation by telling me that he’d sought out a Chicago cop who supposedly could make traffic tickets disappear. The cop’s name is Craig Pritchett. I’ve already looked him up; he’s in the Fifteenth District. According to Batista, after they discussed the traffic tickets, Pritchett made a comment to the effect that he’d heard Batista was ‘connected.’ Batista sensed something was up, and encouraged the cop to keep talking. So he did.
“Pritchett told him about a smuggling business he has going with some other police officers,” Jack continued. “He said he’d heard that Batista might know of people who would be interested in that kind of thing. Pritchett bragged that because he and his buddies are all cops, they could transport anything into the city without getting busted. He mentioned cigarettes, stolen merchandise—and guns.”
Vaughn raised an eyebrow at this last part. Chicago had some of the strictest gun-control laws in the United States, and law enforcement was constantly trying to stem the flood of illegal firearms transported in from states with more lax gun laws. As police officers, Pritchett and his friends were supposed to be helping in the war on crime—not bringing in more guns that would go straight into the hands of criminals.
“Sounds like Pritchett’s smuggling ring needs to be put out of business,” Vaughn said.
“We’ll send Batista back to Pritchett, and he can tell the cop that he does know of someone who would be interested in his services.” Nick turned to Vaughn. “How do you feel about being a gun dealer for the next couple months?”
Vaughn felt pretty damn good about that, if it meant taking down a few corrupt police officers. “I’ll start working up a legend this afternoon,” he told Nick, referring to the various information details—ID, phone number, etc.—that would support his undercover identity.
Nick nodded. “Good. As a former police officer, I take allegations like this very seriously. Let’s show these assholes what happens to dirty cops who smuggle guns into this city.”
Ready to rock and roll, Vaughn answered for both Huxley and himself.
“Got it covered, boss.”
• • •
AFTER THE MEETING adjourned, Jack followed Huxley and Vaughn down to the seventh floor, where the white-collar crime squad was located, and gave them more detailed background information on Batista.
“I’ll set up a meet-and-greet between you and Batista for later this week,” Jack told Vaughn before leaving.
“Sounds good.” Settled in at his cubicle, Vaughn was about to begin working on his undercover legend when his cell phone rang. He checked and saw that it was Simon.
“I know it’s short notice, but I was wondering if you’re free Saturday night?” Simon asked.
Actually, Vaughn had a date scheduled that night, with an investigative reporter from the Tribune he’d met a few months ago. She was twenty-six, focused on her career, and had zero interest in a steady relationship at this point in her life. They got together occasionally for drinks, dinner, and good times.
“I had plans, but nothing too important,” Vaughn said. “What’s up?”
“Apparently Isabelle’s father and stepmother are throwing their annual summer party on Saturday, and they’ve decided to ‘announce’ the engagement there.”
“Sounds very upper-crusty.”
“Oh, it’ll definitely be upper-crusty. Isabelle’s dad runs a hedge fund and has some big house on the North Shore. So break out your seersucker suit because they’ve extended an invitation to you, as well.”
Seersucker suit? Sure, Vaughn had three of them stashed in his closet, for all the croquet tournaments and garden parties he got invited to. “On second thought, I really shouldn’t cancel my Saturday plans. Because those plans involve me getting laid, while this party sounds . . . really boring.”
Simon chuckled. “So I’ll see you there at seven o’clock?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Vaughn already had a pen out to write down the address.
“Hey, at least you know Sidney now,” Simon said. “That’s one person you can talk to.”
Sure.
Because that was always such a hoot.
Five
VAUGHN STEPPED OUT onto the terrace that overlooked the grounds behind Ross Sinclair’s Tudor-style mansion and saw immediately that Simon hadn’t been joking about this being an upper-crust affair. Milling about the impeccably manicured lawn and sculpted gardens were what he guessed to be nearly two hundred guests in cocktail attire. Waiters in tuxedos carried trays of hors d’oeuvres, wine, and champagne as a string quartet played from the second-floor balcony of the house.
Safe to say this was a bit different from the “summer parties” he and Simon had attended while growing up in Apple Canyon, Wisconsin—population 3,468 at last count.
Vaughn spotted Simon and Isabelle on the opposite end of the terrace, chatting with several couples who appeared to be in their forties. He smiled at the sight of his brother—a graphic designer who typically wore T-shirts and jeans everywhere he could get away with it—wearing tailored tan pants and a pressed linen
shirt, thinking how proud their mother would be to see her younger son so spiffed up.
Simon caught sight of Vaughn heading over and grinned. “There he is—we were just talking about you.”
“Simon was telling everyone how he’d decided to move to Chicago after living with you the summer after he graduated college,” Isabelle added.
“Actually, I was saying how I’d decided to move to Chicago despite the fact that you and I lived together for a summer,” Simon deadpanned, as he clasped Vaughn’s hand in greeting.
“My brother, always the comedian,” Vaughn said to the group. He shook hands as introductions were made. Apparently the couples were friends of Isabelle’s stepmother, Jenny. A few minutes into the conversation, another couple came over—a tall man in his sixties with salt-and-pepper hair and sharp blue-green eyes, and an attractive brunette probably twenty years his junior.
“Dad, Jenny, this is Simon’s brother, Vaughn,” Isabelle said. “Vaughn, this is my father, Ross Sinclair, and his wife, Jenny.”
“The FBI agent,” Ross said, looking Vaughn over as he shook his hand. “Were you one of the guys who arrested that nineteen-year-old who was planning to plant a bomb outside Wrigley Field?” he asked, referring to a case that had recently been in all the local media.
“No, sir. That credit goes to the agents on the terrorism squad.”
“Oh.” Ross suddenly looked bored with the conversation. “What squad are you on?”
“White-collar crime.”
Ross raised an eyebrow. “Ever arrest any hedge fund managers?” he quipped, getting a chuckle from the crowd.
“Only the criminal ones.”
Ross looked at Vaughn again—seemingly still sizing him up—and then left to greet some people who’d just walked in.
Simon leaned in so only Vaughn could hear. “Yep, that went about as well as my first conversation with him. And basically every conversation thereafter. The guy’s a tough nut to crack.”
Like father, like daughter, Vaughn thought.
A waiter stopped to offer him a glass of champagne, which he declined. But while turned in that direction, his eyes landed on someone talking in a group out on the lawn.
Sidney.
Since she wasn’t looking, Vaughn let his eyes linger for a moment. Admittedly, he didn’t know a lot about women’s fashion, but he assumed that her pink dress sported some sort of fancy designer label. And whatever she’d spent, it was worth every penny. The dress cut asymmetrically across her legs, and one ruffled sleeve draped teasingly off her right shoulder. Combined with the high heels she had on, the look was both classy and sexy as hell.
She had one hand on her hip as she chatted with a couple who appeared to be roughly her father’s age. As if sensing Vaughn’s gaze, she looked over and caught his eye.
Her eyes briefly took in his tie-less suit and open-necked shirt. Then, with a deliberately disinterested air, she turned away from him and focused once again on her conversation.
Ah . . . the cold shoulder. So that was how they were going to play this tonight. That was just fine with him.
• • •
FOR THE NEXT half hour, he did the rounds with Simon and Isabelle, making polite conversation about the wedding and entertaining the group with funny anecdotes about Simon, as was his duty as best man and older brother. Then there was a clinking of glasses as Ross Sinclair moved to the center of the terrace to make a toast. The people who’d been mingling out on the lawn gathered closer.
“Jenny and I want to thank all of you for coming tonight,” Ross began, with the confident air of a man used to speaking in front of others. “It’s wonderful that so many of you could join us on this happy occasion.” He looked over at his younger daughter and future son-in-law. “As all of you may or may not know, Isabelle and Simon began dating not too long ago. So when she brought him over for dinner last weekend, and he pulled me aside to ask for my permission to marry her, my first question was”—he cocked his head in mock confusion—“What’s your name again?”
The crowd broke out in laughter.
“Simon,” called out Simon good-naturedly.
The crowd laughed more.
“Simon—right,” Ross said, hamming it up. He continued when the crowd quieted. “But after getting that out of the way, my second question was to Isabelle. And that was, simply: ‘Does he make you happy?’” He smiled at his daughter. “And without hesitation, she said yes.”
He paused as the crowd aw-ed, and Simon and Isabelle exchanged an affectionate look.
“That was all I needed to hear.” Ross lifted his glass. “So with that, I’d like you to raise your glasses in toast to the happy couple as they continue on their journey together. To Isabelle and . . .” He trailed off, making an oops face as though he’d forgotten again.
“Simon,” the crowd responded in unison, laughing.
“I’ll get it one day!” Ross said, over the din.
Everyone clapped at the toast and took a sip of champagne.
The crowd broke off into various groups, chatting and mingling. Simon and Isabelle were across the terrace, engaged in conversation. Seeing that he had no one else to talk to, Vaughn decided to check out the gardens.
He headed for the stairs. As luck would have it, he and Sidney met at the top.
“Vaughn, hello,” she said, with a pleasant smile.
“Sidney . . . good to see you again,” Vaughn replied ever-so-politely.
They walked down the steps together.
Leaning in, Sidney spoke so only he could hear. “We part ways at the bottom of the steps?”
“I’ll go right, you go left.”
Some woman passed them on the wide staircase, heading in the opposite direction. She grinned, seeing them side-by-side. “Well, won’t you two look lovely walking down the aisle together?”
Vaughn’s eye twitched. “Wrong siblings,” he told the woman.
“She meant for the recessional,” Sidney explained, as they hit the bottom of the stairs.
“Oh.” That definitely made a lot more sense.
“You know, sometime in the next three months, you might want to Google what the best man actually does at a wedding. Just a suggestion,” she said in parting, still with the feigned smile for the sake of anyone who might be watching.
Vaughn stopped her as she turned to leave. “Did you say three months?”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine. I guess it’s technically eleven weeks now.”
That wasn’t what he’d meant. “My brother and your sister are getting married in eleven weeks?” Admittedly, he wasn’t exactly an expert on weddings, but that seemed incredibly fast. Like . . . oddly fast.
Sidney paused. “I’d assumed they’d told you the date already. It’s the Saturday before Labor Day.”
“I hadn’t heard.”
“Oh.” She shifted, as if uncertain what to say in response to that. “Well . . . now you have.” She strode off, following the walkway that cut a path across the lawn to her left.
Eleven weeks.
Still chewing on that piece of information, Vaughn followed the walkway in the opposite direction from Sidney, wondering if, perhaps, there was some particular reason Isabelle and Simon wanted to get married so quickly. Having no one to talk to at the moment, he decided to do some light reconnaissance. While pretending to admire the gardens, he found a vantage point that allowed him to watch Isabelle and Simon, who stood on the terrace, talking with others.
A waiter came by, offering the group more champagne. Isabelle declined, and as the waiter moved on to the guests next to them, Simon gave his fiancée a subtle wink.
Interesting.
• • •
BY NINE O’CLOCK, Vaughn was ready to call it a night.
He was warm in his jacket—which, for logistical reasons, he couldn’t take off—and
he’d pretty much exhausted his ability to make polite chitchat with a bunch of people he didn’t know.
Parched from all the conversation, he decided to grab something to drink before getting on the road for the forty-minute drive back to the city. He made his way to the bar that had been set up on one end of the terrace and ordered a club soda.
Drink in hand, he leaned against the terrace while people watching. Over the last hour, he’d continued his surveillance of his brother and future sister-in-law, noting that the latter hadn’t drunk anything alcoholic all evening. Possibly, this meant nothing. Perhaps Isabelle was the designated driver for her and Simon tonight. Perhaps she simply didn’t feel like drinking.
Or perhaps she was pregnant.
Having begun to suspect this, Vaughn had “offhandedly” mentioned to Simon and Isabelle that he’d heard he needed to mark his calendar for the Saturday before Labor Day. They’d both squirmed, their speech patterns a bit rushed as they told some long-winded story about the gorgeous view from the terrace at her father’s country club, and how Isabelle had always wanted to have a partial outdoor wedding there, but this was the only available date before April, and everyone knew how the weather in Chicago was just so unpredictable in April, and besides, they didn’t want to wait that long, because Isabelle was thinking about expanding her social work practice next year and combining that with a wedding simply would be too much to deal with.
Uh-huh.
Vaughn had nodded along with the whole speech, as if buying every word. But having interrogated many people over the last eight years, he could tell when a story was too perfectly thought out, too detailed. It was one of the more common mistakes people made when trying to cover up a lie.
What he couldn’t figure out, however, was why Simon felt the need to lie to him about Isabelle’s pregnancy.
Their mother? That, he understood. Kathleen Roberts came from a devout Irish Catholic family and had conservative views about the order in which marriage and sex were supposed to take place. Vaughn had no doubt that his mother would be upset if she learned that one of her sons had gotten a woman pregnant out of wedlock. Not angry, just . . . disappointed. And being good Irish boys—with a healthy dose of Catholic guilt complex—Vaughn and Simon hated to disappoint their mother.
