Caught

by Tessa Vidal

  She couldn't avoid looking into my face but, somehow, her eyes flicked away from mine.

  “I'm sorry, Clary. Let's not do this right now.”

  “Do what?”

  She shrugged again. “You know what. You really don't have the right to poke around in my private life.”

  “So I'm correct. The script was just a bullshit excuse. You know that woman. That so-called messenger.”

  “I know you need to eat. We had a long day today, and we'll have another one tomorrow.”

  “Don't feel like eating. I think I got overheated today.” I was escalating, which probably wasn't a great idea, but who wouldn't in that situation?

  “Well, I need to eat. Come sit with me.”

  “Get your friend to sit with you.”

  “Not my friend.”

  I dropped the folder back on the bed hard enough to make it bounce. “My not-friends drive eight hundred miles all the fucking time to hand-deliver my packages.”

  Ronnie's eyes flicked toward the mattress. The double mattress of the double bed. Which was the only bed in the room besides Yukon's doggy bed.

  “I didn't think.” I felt my face get hot. This whole scene was supposed to put her off-balance, but somehow I was the one floundering. “I'll go tell the lady we need another cabin.”

  “No need. I've already got one.”

  A cabin with Bailey Fucking Flowers. I'd bet cash money on it.

  My mouth opened and then closed.

  I was supposed to be One-date Clary. Time to live up to the name. Time to refuse to give one teeny, tiny flying fuck about where Ronnie was sleeping tonight.

  But I wasn't the only one refusing to give one teeny, tiny flying...

  Before I could force out a cheerfully fake, “Sleep tight,” the cabin door had already slammed shut behind her.

  The double bed was cold and empty.

  She'd even remembered to pick up the folder.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ronnie

  The candle in the green tin looked lonely where it flickered on the table. I popped open an Orange Fanta and picked at the sad appetizer I'd improvised from the junk food we'd picked up along the way. The blue taco chips were meant to be dipped in cheap salsa.

  I didn't bother to dip, because it felt like too much hassle to open the jar.

  Coyotes sang in the distance. Once I caught the hoot of an owl.

  The soda got warm before I reached the bottom of the can.

  Bailey must be on the interstate by now. I-10 West if she had any sense, but probably I-10 East so she could beat us out to New Orleans.

  I picked up my phone. It was earlier out there in LA. Hell, he might even still be at the office, “What the hell, Matt?”

  “What?” He was trying too hard to sound bland.

  “You sent Bailey after me?”

  “I can't send Lieutenant Flowers anywhere. She's LAPD.”

  Sigh. “You told her where she could find me.”

  He cleared his throat. “Is there a problem? You do know she's still listed as your emergency contact, right?”

  I should have fixed that weeks ago, but I hadn't known who to add once she was gone. A sad reason to last so long― me not having anybody else in my back pocket.

  Somehow, I'd turned into the classic FBI agent whose life was all about work. Bailey was easy, Bailey was always there.

  I'd taken her for granted as much as she'd taken me for granted.

  “Besides, you're both professionals.” He was still talking. Over-explaining. “I would expect you to be able to work together from time to time.”

  “Fine. So why are we working together this time so far outside Lieutenant Flowers's jurisdiction?”

  “Sims is making more noise than I thought. And Bailey came to me, just so you know that. It was her idea.”

  “So she informed me. She wants LAPD in on the Stanton bust.” Which he already knew. “As far as Sims, he can make all the noise he wants. The Easton case is solid.”

  Matt blew out a puff of air loud enough for me to hear.

  “I'm not a mind-reader,” I said. “If you have something to tell me, you're going to have to tell me.”

  “He wants the counterfeit and the real stone side by side in front of the jury, and the judge is inclined to grant the request.”

  That was the last thing I expected. “But we don't have the counterfeit. We've never had it. You know that, Matt.”

  “Sims asserts that we do. That's the exculpatory evidence we're supposedly concealing.”

  “Oh, for fuck's sake. That's ridiculous. Even if we did have it, how the hell is the existence of the counterfeit supposed to be exculpatory? It's the fucking opposite! It proves she planned the fucking crime from the get-go.”

  He exhaled even louder this time. “He figures if we're hiding it, then it must prove something.”

  “And Bailey had something to share about this?”

  “There were some leads in the LAPD files that you originally dismissed as irrelevant.”

  “Clarissa Stanton is not a lead in the Patsee Easton case. Clarissa Stanton's movie script is even less of a lead.”

  Matt stayed quiet. There was something I was missing.

  “Let's go back,” I said. “Why does Sims think we're hiding the fake?”

  More quiet on the line. Too much quiet. He was letting me work things out in my own head. Which was both annoying and a sign of his faith in my intelligence.

  After some thought, I got it. “You devious son of a bitch.” Of course. Matt had leaked the fake rumors about the FBI concealing the exculpatory evidence. The missing fake gem was also the missing evidence. “Your leak is the reason Sims thinks we have the fake alexandrite. He's gone further with it than you expected, but you're the one who gave him the fatal push.”

  “Brains and beauty, Ronnie. You're the whole package.”

  “So you've got him chasing his tail. Which is what you wanted. So where's the problem?”

  “There's no problem. I just want you to be aware he's going to make a big deal about it if we can't produce the fake.”

  “Fine. Let him flail. He's got a guilty client, so he's going to fling the crap around to see what sticks. The jury will see right through that so-called strategy.”

  Another pause. He cleared his voice. And then his tone changed just that fast. “Look, these days, the FBI has a lot to prove. There's a lot riding on this, more than you know. Including your career and mine. Our next move will either be the DC or the North Alaska field office, and I'm going to tell you right now I'm not a fan of igloos.”

  Wow. No pressure or anything. “Heard and understood,” I said carefully. “DC is on the table.” He knew I'd been angling for a transfer to headquarters. He knew what it meant to me. Living in a cheap motel wasn't getting me away from Bailey. Moving across the country to begin a new life at the top of my game at headquarters...

  That's what would get me away from Bailey.

  “It's the perfect time for you,” he said. “You haven't bought a house in LA yet, and I'd recommend holding off because we've got a real chance of grabbing this next rung up on the ladder.”

  “Oh, I'm definitely holding off on the house. I'm still in the Super 8.”

  “So, this is the natural next step on your quest for world domination.” Matt's tone was easy again. “When I'm the director of the FBI, I'll need top people under me. People with a history of good judgment in dealing with high-profile offenders.”

  I was being tested. And not just with Patsee Easton. Clarissa Stanton, Oscar-nominated movie star, was a way higher profile offender than anything a wanna-be model/girlfriend could ever dream about.

  “Are you there in DC right now?”

  “I am.” He didn't spell out the rest, because he gave me credit for being able to figure it out. Matt wasn't just making the final arrangements with the Museum of Natural History to swap out the stone. He was doing the rounds at headquarters, meeting with the director if possible, and the
deputy director if not. Office politics at its finest.

  “Don't we need someone in LA to coordinate the search for the fake? That's a job we both know I can do― find the fake, turn it over to the judge and jury, and let Sims find out for himself how much it hurts, not helps, her case. I can head back right now. Just say the word.”

  “No, no, you keep going with Stanton,” he said. “Running down the fake alexandrite is basic shoe leather. There's nothing there that requires your special touch― a lot of sales transactions searches for that gemstone profile, a lot of knocking on the doors of various jewelers and pawn shops. Plenty of guys can do that. I won't need to call you back until we actually have both stones in hand.”

  I swallowed a sigh. Was that relief? Fuck. It was. I wanted to stay out here with Clary.

  Of course, you do. The real action is going to be on that movie set. That's your ticket to DC right there.

  As if any of this was about my ticket to DC.

  As if none of this was about the way her red hair bounced in the sunlight.

  “Did you take a look at that script?” he asked. “It isn't the latest version, but it's enough to give you the basic idea.”

  “Briefly, but honestly I don't see what I have to learn from a made-up movie script.”

  “Something's going down on that set, and it speaks to the credibility of the FBI if we do, or do not, stop a major gem heist on a big-deal major motion picture set.”

  “The jury is not supposed to follow the news until after the trial. Our credibility will be the same as it ever was.”

  “Agreed. The Easton jury's fine. We've contained the adverse publicity from that case when we arranged for Clarissa Stanton to adopt that damned dog.”

  “So...?”

  There was a long pause.

  “Oh, God,” I said. “Really?”

  “It's possible.”

  “Malory Maine and Claus Keller? Working together? That's what you're thinking?”

  “Hear me out, Ronnie.” Something popped. A cap on a bottle of beer, maybe. My boss was kicking back and ready to bullshit by the hour. “Keller thinks it's a publicity stunt. But Maine intends to double-cross him and actually get away with the real stone. How is that not a possible scenario?”

  “Are you serious? I need some of what you're drinking.”

  “Everybody on Twitter has an opinion about the credibility of federal investigators right about now. A slam-dunk against an A-list Hollywood actress and a top international director is publicity for team FBI you can't buy at any price.”

  And when exactly had I been transferred from gem fraud specialist to a member of the publicity staff?

  “No, no, no, no, Matt. That's way too far off the map for me. Has it ever crossed your mind that all these people want to do is make a movie?”

  Long after the call ended, I remained seated at the picnic table. The air was fresh, and the song of the coyotes far off in the mountains added a little atmosphere. The window unit must have chilled my tiny cabin by now, but the room would still be cramped and musty.

  Matt was spitballing. Nothing wrong with that. You didn't solve crimes committed by smart criminals if you were afraid to look at all the possibilities.

  Still. Malory Maine and Claus Keller. The more I thought about it, the more ridiculous it seemed. My SAC didn't know Clary the way I was coming to know her. Sometimes, I found it hard to believe she was even much of a criminal at all.

  Flipping through the script folder, I could see all the white spaces in the dialogue. An easy read with the help of my phone's flashlight app. Standard crime movie crap.

  Who's telling the truth, and who's a liar? That one's easy, I thought. Everybody's lying.

  What's real, and what's fake? And who can you trust when the ultimate prize is worth fifty million dollars?

  That wasn't too tough, either.

  Nobody. Trust nobody.

  I put down the folder and closed my eyes.

  The script was an excuse for Bailey to come out here. I knew what Bailey wanted.

  What did Matt want? He gave her my location for a reason, and he respected me enough not to spell out that reason. He knew I'd get it in the end.

  I recalled Clary's eyes when she stepped out of the shadows to confront the two of us. She'd choked it down, but she recognized Bailey― as Matt knew damn good and well she would. He wasn't pressuring me. He was pressuring Clary.

  He wanted her to remember Malory Maine's arrest.

  The feel of the handcuffs. The sound of the arresting officer's cold voice.

  He wanted her to panic. Criminals who panic make mistakes. If her mistakes allowed her to implicate somebody else, great. If that somebody else was a big name director like Claus Keller, better than great.

  Maybe it wasn't such bad psychology, but it still annoyed me. I should have been consulted. And, of course, if I had, I would've said fuck no. The last thing I needed right now was more contact with Bailey.

  My phone vibrated. A follow-up text from Matt.

  Dauphin: Malory Maine has made a fool of the FBI for over a decade. You have two weeks and four days to shut her down.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Clary

  “I can find the fake, turn it over to the judge and jury, and let Sims find out for himself how it hurts, not helps, her case.” An excited Ronnie was talking louder than she intended to. Her voice rang like a bell in the chilly night air.

  She wasn't in her cabin. She was out by the picnic table.

  Where was Flowers? I didn't hear a second voice.

  I paused in mid-stride. This was a bad idea. I should have stayed in my own damn cabin. What did I even think I was going to do anyway? Apologize? For what? I wasn't the one who invited a third wheel from LAPD to join our little road trip.

  Confront her? Again, for what? We'd had a one-night thing. Ronnie didn't owe me a damn thing.

  Fuck.

  How did everything between us blow up so fast? We'd spent one perfect night together, and she was starting to let down her guard. It was all going according to plan. Well, to be honest with myself, not entirely according to plan. Me letting down my guard too... that wasn't according to plan.

  I should have had everything under control by now. I should have had some answers.

  Why did I think a one-night fling would break the tension and clear the air? How could the feeling be so strong between us?

  Even now, I felt a deep tug in my belly. A longing to touch. To caress.

  Now here I was, hanging back in the darkness between cabins like a fucking creeper. From here, I couldn't quite see into the picnic area, only the dancing shadows from a single candle flame.

  Intervals of silence were followed by intervals of rapid-fire speech. Ronnie was talking on her phone. Now that she'd lowered her voice to a more conversational level, I couldn't make out the words. This was getting me nowhere fast.

  Still no sign of Bailey Flowers. I didn't relish the thought of the LAPD cop sneaking up on me while I was eavesdropping on Ronnie. That would be hard to explain. I backed away from the picnic area to check out the front parking lot.

  The Lexus had vanished.

  Huh. That was a quickie.

  Could I be sure Flowers was gone for good? Maybe she'd headed out on a beer run. The motel office only sold ice, soft drinks, and stale sandwich crackers.

  “I can find the fake.”

  The words came back to me. Ronnie worked on a lot of cases that involved fakes, including Malory Maine's. Still, from the limited context I had, I'd bet good money she was talking to her SAC Matt Dauphin about Patsee Easton.

  About the missing counterfeit once destined for Yukon's collar.

  That particular fake might be the key to breaking open Patsee's case. There was no doubt it once existed. The cutter who copied it from the original stone testified under oath, and he didn't have any compelling motive to lie.

  Somebody swapped the fake for the real deal, and everyone agreed that somebody had to be Patsee
, because who else would mess with a dog that size? That was the FBI case in a nutshell.

  But Yukon was a friendly dog. He intimidated because he was large, not because he was ferocious. The person who made the swap could be anyone who was used to being around large dogs.

  Damn it all, the signs still pointed to Veronica Rales.

  Ronnie's FBI training made her very comfortable in physical situations, even with big animals. She might have adopted Yukon herself, except her current living situation didn't allow her to keep a pet.

  If she was the one who swapped out the stone, she'd know exactly where the fake was. She'd be able to produce it at the perfect moment for the big reveal.

  Patsee and I had never been close, but she wasn't a hard person to figure out. Making a Mom-and-me copy of a valuable stone for a dog was exactly the kind of cutesy-wootsy thing Patsee would do. It didn't mean she had any criminal intent. The trouble was, you couldn't expect a jury to understand.

  Why did Sims want both stones? He'd never put them together in front of that jury. He must be running a bluff― demanding the fake for the plain and simple reason the FBI was hiding it. I knew how he operated. A criminal attorney has to work with what he has.

  If the prosecution couldn't or wouldn't produce the fake, Sims would use that fact to introduce doubt. If anybody could sell doubt, he could.

  Right now, nobody had more doubts than I did.

  My fingernails dug into the palms of my hands as I stood staring at the empty spot where the Lexus had parked. Why Bailey? Why any of it? Patsee had been set up. Maybe Bailey and Ronnie were planning to set up Clarissa Stanton too.

  Maybe I could find the fake for Sims. If the FBI had it...

  If a certain FBI agent had it...

  Up close, Ronnie always seemed so real. Those devious hands made it so easy to forget she was playing me. And this was a game I couldn't lose again. I tiptoed back to my cabin.

  ON THE ROAD AGAIN. A part of me wanted to barrel on to New Orleans, just to get the awkwardness over with, but it was a fifteen-hour drive even without the regular stops to walk Yukon. Besides, my people had already fixed us up with a dog-friendly place on the Riverwalk in San Antonio.