by Julie James
Grant continued to watch the replay on fast-forward, the senator pumping, Mandy bouncing, and the bed all a-shaking at comical speeds, until he got to the end. He slowed to watch approvingly as Mandy very cleverly maneuvered herself and Hodges in front of the camera as he paid her in cash before leaving. The last shot on the tape was Mandy turning off the camera.
When it was finished, Grant pulled out the tape and handed it over to Mandy. As they’d agreed, she would make a copy before showing it to Hodges. “Nice work,” he said.
Mandy smiled as she slid off the bed. “Thanks.” She grabbed her purse off the desk and put the tape inside. She leaned against the desk, taking him in.
“Sorry I was a bitch earlier.” She nodded at his hands. “The gloves, they threw me off for a second. But you were right, this is serious business and we need to be careful. I understand why you need to take your precautionary measures, and I know you’re going to understand why I need to take mine.”
There was a sudden gleam in her eyes that Grant didn’t trust. “Understand what, exactly?”
In answer, Mandy reached into one of the deep pockets of her bathrobe and instinctively Grant went for the gun in the shoulder harness he always wore. But she beat him to the punch as she pulled her hand out of the robe and Grant saw the flash of silver—
Of a small tape recorder.
He let out a deep breath in frustrated relief. “Jesus Christ, Mandy. What the hell is that?”
“I told you—my precautionary measures.” She hit play on the tape recorder, keeping the volume low, but high enough so Grant could hear well and clear.
“I’m sorry, Grant. I think I’m getting nervous about all this.”
“Don’t be nervous. All you need to do is turn the camera on when you hear Hodges knock—make sure you put the armoire doors back in the exact spot they’re in now, then turn the camera off when he leaves. The rest of it is no different than any other job. I’ll be watching in my car from the street below. Turn the lamp by the window on and off three times so I’ll know when you’re done. I’ll come up, check the tape to make sure everything’s okay, and then you’ll leave just like you would any other night.”
“Thanks, boss. Anything else?”
“Yes. Make it look good.”
Mandy shut off the tape with a smug grin. “That spy shop on Wells Street you sent me to was quite a find.” She held up the recorder. “It’s amazing how small they can make these things nowadays. The whole time you were here earlier, you never noticed I had it in my pocket.”
“I’ll have to remember to frisk you next time,” Grant said sarcastically. “What’s with the tape, Mandy?”
“I want to renegotiate the terms of our arrangement.”
“You think you should get more than half?”
“I think I should get it all.”
“Why the hell would I ever agree to that?”
“Because if you don’t, I’m going to Hodges with this tape and telling him this whole thing was your idea,” she said.
“As if he’d ever believe that.”
“Men believe a lot of things they shouldn’t when they’re thinking with their dicks.” Mandy gave the tape a little shake for his benefit. “Besides, he doesn’t have to believe me. I have it all right here. I love how this little clip makes it sound like it’s your idea—like you had to talk me into the whole scheme. And that, of course, will be exactly what I tell Hodges. And the police.”
Grant knew he should’ve been nervous. Panicking, even. But instead, he felt a cold blue flame of anger beginning to burn inside him. And he felt strangely calm.
“I’m not giving up my half,” he said.
Mandy laughed scornfully. “Half. As if you even deserve one-tenth of this money. I set this up. I did all the work. The only thing I’ve ever needed you for is to make sure Hodges doesn’t go to the cops. And that you will still do, unless you want to do twenty years in jail for blackmailing a federal official. Because if I go down in this, trust me—you will, too.” She flashed him a smile. “Sorry, Grant. But like we said, this is a one-shot deal. I have to make the most of it.”
She was so proud of herself right then. So smug and confident.
Too confident.
As Grant stood there, pointing his gun at her, he had one thought on his mind.
He would not be out-smarted by a fucking whore.
Mandy slipped the tape recorder back inside the pocket of her robe and eyed his hands unconcernedly. “You can put the gun away, Grant. We both know you’re not going to shoot me.” She turned her back on him and began heading toward the bathroom.
Grant reached under his blazer and tucked the gun back inside his shoulder harness. “You’re right. I’m not going to shoot you.” Without warning, he lunged for her—pleased she never saw it coming—and grabbed her by the throat and threw her onto the bed. She hit it with enough force to bang the bed loudly against the wall. Before she could scream, Grant was on top of her, and the bed slammed against the wall a second time as he pinned her. He slapped his hand over her mouth.
“You don’t know who you’re messing with. You need to understand who’s in control here, bitch,” he hissed.
Mandy’s eyes widened—his sudden burst of rage finally put some fear and respect into her—and she began to fight back. Grant grabbed one of the pillows next to her head and brought it down over her face. Her arms flailed, her hands clawed for his face, and she kicked out with her legs, trying to buck him off. Probably not the way she was used to being ridden in bed, Grant thought, using his elbows and chest to hold the pillow down while he grabbed for her wrists and pinned them under his knees.
She fought really hard at that.
Grant let it go on for a nice long moment, finding her panic and the power he held over her to be strangely thrilling. Intoxicating. He was about to pull the pillow away, ready to see the submission in her eyes, when it hit him that she was such a dumb-ass scheming bitch that she would never really submit, and he knew then that he never should’ve trusted her in the first place and in that moment, he hated himself for being so naive. He knew that, no matter what she might say, no matter what she might promise right then, he’d never be able to believe anything that came out of her lying mouth. For all their plotting, he wasn’t going to get a fucking dime because of her, and worse, now she had him. Sure, he could take the tape away from her, but he could never, ever trust her to keep her mouth shut, she’d always have this thing she could hold over him, that he’d planned to blackmail the senator. And even if he could convince her to walk away, he’d always be wondering when the day would come when she’d be back, wanting something.
He knew this for certain: he did not want to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder. He didn’t want her to have that kind of power over him. They were supposed to be partners, but now it seemed to be every man and woman for him or herself. And he didn’t see any other option.
So he kept the pillow right where it was.
It took longer than he expected. Her struggles grew weaker, feeble, but still she persisted, and it wasn’t until a good two minutes or so had gone by without any movement that Grant dared to lift the pillow with his gloved hands.
Her eyes were open and empty. Staring down at her lifeless body, Grant’s first thought was that he was surprised he didn’t feel more. No remorse, just . . . nothing. Though he’d been in the Marines, he’d never actually killed anyone and he’d always assumed it would be kind of a big deal.
Hmm. Apparently not.
Grant sat up and smoothed back a lock of hair that had fallen into his eyes. He climbed off Mandy’s body, thinking he’d better get out of that hotel room. Fast. His mind raced, the adrenaline kicked in, and it took him a second or two to clear his thoughts. He needed a plan and was impressed by how quickly one came to him.
The senator.
Hodges’s fingerprints were all over the room. The escort service would have a record that he was the one who’d been with Mandy th
at night. And if he left behind the videotape of the senator and Mandy having sex, that would give the authorities enough of a potential motive. A crime of passion, they’d guess. She’d tried to blackmail the senator and when he found out, he’d panicked and killed her.
It would be enough, Grant told himself. It had to be. It wasn’t like he had a lot of options. There were only so many scenarios one could explore when unexpectedly finding oneself in a hotel room with a dead hooker. Plan A: get the fuck out. Bonus plan B: pin it on someone else.
Grant reached into the pocket of Mandy’s robe and found the tape recorder. He slipped it into the back pocket of his jeans, making sure it was hidden by his blazer. He put the videotape and recorder back behind the television, then hurried to the door. He flipped up the hood on his T-shirt.
After all, one never knew who might be watching.
AND NOW HE needed to finish what he’d started.
Grant set his empty beer bottle off to the side and took out his wallet to add a few bucks to the cash Driscoll had thrown down earlier. As he left the bar and stepped outside, he flipped up the collar of his coat to guard against the crisp fall wind that came rolling in off the lake. An L train roared by on unseen tracks somewhere in the near distance.
Grant thought back to Driscoll’s orders.
Find out what the FBI knows.
He had every intention of doing just that.
It wasn’t going to be easy getting the information, he knew, but his mind was already working. Jack Pallas could potentially be a problem—if the stories going around about him were even partially true—but Pallas had made enemies with some people that no one should make enemies with, and Grant had a feeling he could use that to his advantage.
The FBI obviously had something. Although not enough to point them in his direction—yet—he didn’t like having any loose ends lying around. And as soon as he found out what the loose end was, he planned to take care of it. For nearly fifteen years he’d been covering up other people’s secrets and lies. He would handle this with the same objective precision. No more being played the fool. No more mistakes. From now on, he was in control.
And he would do whatever it took to keep it that way.
Nine
BY WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, as Cameron headed off to court for a preliminary hearing, she could almost convince herself that her life was getting back to normal. Almost.
Fortunately, the police surveillance had turned out to be less intrusive than she’d feared. She barely saw the officers assigned to the day shift—they started duty outside her house at 6:00 A.M. while she was sleeping, nodded to her as she pulled her car out of the alley on her way to work, followed her downtown to her office, then had virtually nothing to do until they ceded all responsibility to the night shift at 6:00 P.M. She’d had several court appearances that week, but because the courtrooms for both the Northern District of Illinois and the Seventh Circuit Court of Appeals were located in the same building as the U.S. attorney’s offices, there’d been no need for the officers to accompany her. Not a bad gig for them, Cameron supposed, to be assigned to protect someone who worked in one of the most secure, heavily guarded buildings in the city. Maybe tomorrow she’d get crazy and make a run to Starbucks just so they could see a little action.
The guys on the night shift were a different story. They’d taken the time to introduce themselves the first night of their surveillance, and Cameron found herself warming quickly to Officers Kamin and Phelps despite the oddity of the situation. They’d established something of a routine over the course of the last three nights: they followed her home from work, checked inside her house to make sure all was secure, waited outside in their unmarked car while she changed into her workout clothes, then walked her back and forth the three blocks to the gym. Sure, it was a little strange, looking up from the treadmill and seeing two police officers watching her from the juice bar, but then she recalled that the alternative was getting herself murdered, and that pretty much got her past the awkwardness of the situation.
Countless times in her head she had replayed that moment when she saw the killer through the peephole as he left room 1308. And the more she thought about it, the more she was convinced there was no way he could possibly know she had been watching. He didn’t look once in the direction of the door, and nothing about his actions suggested he suspected she was there.
That being said, this certainly wasn’t a point on which she had any desire to be proven wrong. Generally speaking, when it came to any possible connection between her and a killer who smothered women with pillows, she firmly believed that an overabundance of caution was best. And until they caught the guy, she was more than happy to have the FBI and CPD watching out for her.
As expected, the preliminary hearing Cameron had scheduled that afternoon went smoothly. It was her first court appearance since her trial victory the prior week. It felt good to be back in court, although not necessarily for this particular case. The defendant was a cop from the Cook County Sheriff’s Office who had been charged with “freelancing” his security services in twelve purported drug transactions staged by the FBI.
It gave Cameron absolutely no pleasure to have to prosecute a police officer. Yet she’d insisted on taking the case nevertheless—if there was anything that offended her more than a regular criminal thug, it was a criminal thug who wore a uniform. The defendant was a dishonor to her father’s profession, and because of that Cameron had absolutely no sympathy for him. The case certainly wasn’t going to make her popular with the Sheriff’s Office, but she would have to live with that. If she took cases just to be popular, well, then she’d be no better than Silas.
“Any redirect, Counselor?”
Cameron stood up to address the judge. “Yes, your honor—just a few questions.” She walked over to the witness stand where Agent Trask waited. He was her final witness that afternoon and she sensed the judge was eager to wrap things up for the day.
“Agent Trask, during cross-examination, the defendant’s attorney asked you several questions about the arrangement you had with the defendant while you were working undercover. In your conversations with the defendant, did you have specific discussions that he would be providing you with security for drug deals?”
The FBI agent nodded. “Our arrangement was crystal clear. I paid the defendant five thousand dollars. In exchange, he agreed to serve as a lookout and to be ready to intervene in the event other police officers attempted to interfere with the drug transfer.”
“Is there any possibility the defendant was not aware that you were purportedly transferring narcotics?” Cameron asked.
Agent Trask shook his head. “None. Before each transaction, I confirmed that the defendant was carrying his firearm, then I would discuss with him the specific amount of cocaine or heroin involved. My partner would then arrive at the scene pretending to be the buyer, and the defendant would assist me in carrying the duffel bags of narcotics to the car. One time, he even joked with me and my partner that we were stupid to be doing the exchanges in fast food parking lots in the middle of the night—he said that would be the first place he and his fellow police officers would look for trouble. He informed us that if we wanted to deal drugs, the better location to do that was the train station.”
The defense attorney rose from his chair. “Objection, hearsay. Move to strike.”
Cameron turned to the judge. “It’s a preliminary hearing, your honor.”
“Overruled.”
Cameron wrapped up her redirect and took her seat at the prosecutor’s table. Because her office was swamped and understaffed, and because it was a preliminary hearing for what she considered to be a virtually open-and-shut case, she sat alone.
The judge glanced over at the defense attorney. “Any recross?”
“No, your honor.”
Agent Trask stepped down from the witness stand. Then, as he passed by Cameron’s table, the strangest thing happened.
He gave her a polite nod.
“Counselor?” the judge asked her.
She stood. “I have no further witnesses, your honor.”
The judge issued his ruling. “In light of the testimony I’ve heard today, along with the detailed FBI affidavit the government submitted with its complaint, I find there is probable cause to bind this matter over for trial. Trial is set for December fifteenth at ten A.M.”
They wrapped up the few remaining housekeeping items, then everyone rose as the judge exited the courtroom. The defense attorney whispered something to the defendant before making his way over to Cameron’s table.
“We’d like to talk about a plea bargain,” the attorney said.
Cameron was not surprised, but also not interested. “Sorry, Dan. It’s not going to happen.”
“There were several other Cook County Sheriff’s officers doing the exact same thing. My client can give you names.”
“I’ve already got names from Alvarez,” she said, referring to another man the FBI had arrested, a civilian, who had provided additional backup “security” for several of the fake drug deals.
“But Alvarez wasn’t at the meeting on June fourth,” Dan argued.
Cameron packed up her briefcase. “If I cared that much about the meeting on June fourth, I would’ve come to you with the deal instead of Alvarez’s lawyers.”
Dan lowered his voice. “Come on, Cameron—give me something I can tell my client. Anything.”
“Okay. Tell him I don’t make deals with dirty cops.”
Dan called her a bitch and walked off, taking his client with him.
