by Tessa Vidal
“Look, Clarissa... Can I call you Clarissa?”
I felt like saying no just to be an asshole. “Sure, fine.”
Her smile was growing. “Or maybe you would prefer me to call you Malory. Would you like that? Would you like me to call you Malory?”
The spoon I'd been stirring around in my coffee flipped out of the cup of its own accord. I stared, horrified, as it skittered across the table.
“You seem surprised, Malory. Did you really think LAPD would never have a reason to run your fingerprints?”
“I haven't done anything wrong.”
“You changed your name and lied about your past.”
“Like every other actor in Hollywood.”
“But every other actor in Hollywood isn't suspected of being involved in a major gemstone heist. And you know what else?”
“Sure.” Yukon started to sit up, and I touched my hand to his head. “I guess I do know what else. You told her. You told Ronnie who I was. That's why you drove all the way out to Texas. To let her know to her face that she was road-tripping with a criminal.”
She laughed a short bark of a laugh. “Close, but no cigar. I drove all the way out to Texas to talk to you, Malory. Special Agent Rales has been lying to you from the beginning. She's known exactly who you are from the day you showed up to adopt that over-sized ball of fluff.”
The over-sized ball of fluff sat still but tense. Me, I was speechless.
“I can tell you that for a fact, because I was the liaison from LAPD responsible for sharing the fingerprint information with the FBI.”
Ronnie had known who I was all along, and she hadn't said a thing. Hadn't even dropped a hint.
Her ability to deceive was terrifying.
An enormous sinkhole opened up in front of me. I adjusted my dark glasses, but they weren't much protection against Flowers's knowing smirk.
“So this is what you're telling me,” I finally said. “She knew all along that I used to be Malory Maine. Her boss assigned her to the FBI consulting gig so she could get closer to me. Investigate me. Find out who I'm working with and if we had any designs on the Ademar Emerald.”
“She's been playing you like a fish on a hook every step of the way. You thought you had her on the line, but she had you.”
“You drove a long way to sit me down and tell me this. Why?”
“Why do you think?” She adjusted her smirk into a softer look. Pity.
“Because you don't think I'm going to steal the emerald. That's what your fancy-pants data analysis is telling you. You think she's going to steal it and blame it on me.”
Flowers nodded. “Just like she did in 2007.”
“And I'll be easier to convict this time. Because I have a history.”
Chapter Seventeen
Ronnie
In San Antonio, there was a scheduled appearance at a club on the Riverwalk. “Funny,” I said. “I don't remember anyone mentioning anything about any clubbing.”
“You don't have to come.” Clary pouted in the mirror, then added a dot of fresh gloss to the center of her lower lip. Her voice was perfectly neutral, telling me nothing about whether she wanted me there or not. “The photo op is for me and Yukon. It's a paid appearance. Something arranged by my agent.”
I didn't know how to respond. It wasn't the words so much as the tone. She was talking at me like we were strangers. Was that passionate night in the Catalina Foothills only two days in the past? It felt like a thousand years and a million miles ago.
We'd arrived at her fancy hotel to find her club dress and matching shoes already waiting in the three-bedroom suite. The third bedroom, I soon realized, was for Yukon. He liked being brushed, and― judging from her near-orgasmic coos― the fancy-pants dog groomer supplied by the hotel liked brushing.
Clary's stylist used a lot of gel to slick Clary's hair down to the ears, then let it flow in waves from there. You needed a beautiful face to pull off the look― perfect skin, perfect wide green eyes.
Now Clary studied her reflection in the mirror, her face unreadable.
“You're beautiful,” I said.
“Is that what you really think.” Her voice was hard, and there was no question in the question.
Something happened in Fort Stockton. Something on that unplanned walk she took with Yukon. After that, the ride to San Antonio had been as exquisitely awkward as anything between us had ever been. We hardly exchanged a word for the rest of the drive.
Something happened? Who was I kidding?
I knew exactly what happened― that fucking phone call from Bailey. That time-wasting series of texts. I should have gone with Clary to help her with her silly roadrunner Instagram.
Instead, I'd put my ex-girlfriend first. Again.
I was the one who'd fucked up. I was the only one who could fix it.
“Hey,” I said. “You know what? I'd like to go to the club. It sounds like fun.”
“No, it doesn't. And you don't have to pretend it does. I'm working. Putting in an appearance.”
“It does, though. Watching a movie star make a grand entrance sounds like all kinds of fun.”
She looked at me, but there was still no expression in those beautiful eyes.
“I mean, if you don't want me to tag along, I don't have to, but...” I felt ridiculous. Why was I stammering? I was an FBI agent. She was the ridiculous one. Imagine being paid to walk past a line of people waiting to get into a club.
Still, my face felt hot, and her eyes looked cool. At last, she shrugged. “You're right. You should come. It'll give us a good opportunity to sit down and talk without any distractions.”
That was ominous. Since nobody had provided me with a designer wardrobe, I paired my best black jeans with a silk button-down. A swipe of Rosebud on my lips was all I needed to finish the look.
The club's limo came complete with its own security team. One of the guys took me in through the back, while two others escorted Clary and Yukon past the line at the front. I smiled a tiny smile. The unknown was going in the VIP entrance, while the movie star and her fluffy dog were being paraded past a long line of clubbers clutching their phones in their eager hands.
Clint Kasparov would kill to be sitting where I was now, alone in a private VIP room in a wide midnight-blue leather booth. The stone tabletop sparkled with mica inclusions. A five-hundred-dollar bottle of champagne waited in a silver ice bucket. The only pop of strong light was a pink spot aimed at a raised platform with a stripper's pole in the middle.
At least there wasn't a stripper on it.
Clary shimmied through the secret door, the two tall security escorts hovering at her back. “I guess they have a lot of bachelor's parties here.”
“Where's Yukon?” Not my most urgent question, but it was a start.
“Sitting outside the door on guard. He feels very important. I introduced him to all the staff that's allowed to come in and out.”
The escorts faded away. We settled into our wide booth. I'd known we'd be in a private room, but I hadn't expected it to be quite this private.
“Do big stars automatically get a secret hide-out?”
“No, you have to request it.” Her voice was strangely impersonal. “And I made a point of requesting it.”
“I was wrong today. Sitting back and texting when I should have been keeping an eye on you. And I'm sorry.”
“You really think I'm pouting because you answered your phone? I'm aware you're a big important FBI agent. And nobody hired you to be my bodyguard.”
I could play it off that way. She didn't know Bailey was the one who'd called. But it felt wrong to take the easy way out. “Look. We haven't done such a great job of establishing boundaries...”
“Oh, I'd say you've done a terrific job of establishing boundaries, Special Agent Rales.” Her voice was as cool as ever. “Did you think I'd never find out you knew all along I was Malory Maine?”
CLARISSA HAD TALKED to Bailey in Fort Stockton. No wonder Bailey sounded so roboti
c in those texts. It wasn't even her. She'd set up some stupid bot to keep me occupied while she whisked Clary away to that fucking diner.
“This is crazy,” I said. “Bailey's way out of her jurisdiction. No way she should be meeting with the subject of an investigation.”
“So you admit I'm under investigation. You lied to me when you said I wasn't.”
“I said you weren't under investigation for Easton. But when LAPD comes to us with fingerprint evidence that you were a suspect in a previous similar crime...” How did undercover officers do this? I'd lied to Clary, pure and simple, if only by omission. It felt wrong, even if it was my job. “It isn't like I deliberately tried to insinuate my way into your life. You came to us.”
Unable to deny it, she drummed her pink polished nails on the glittering stone tabletop.
“Both of us could have been more straightforward,” I said. “But, for the record, Matt knew when he handed me this assignment that I wasn't an undercover agent. I'm just as happy we got things out in the open. It never felt right for me to be so close to you when I couldn't admit I already knew who you were.”
“You could have admitted it. You could have told me straight up.” Her chin lifted, the clean contours as hard as Italian marble.
“Just like you could have told me straight up you were Malory Maine.”
She glared at me. I glared back at her. We were both in the wrong, and a staring contest wasn't going to change that. Maybe she reached the same conclusion because a sudden snort of laughter escaped her pretty nose.
Then I was laughing too. “It's a miracle this shit show of a masquerade kept going for as long as it did.”
“Yeah, it should have blown up in the first half hour.” Her green eyes crinkled with the only hint of warmth I'd seen in hours. “To be honest, we were both pretty ridiculous, weren't we?”
“We were both trying to be a little too smart for our own good.”
“Hell. I thought I would find out what the FBI knew, find a way to clear my name.”
I turned serious again. “There's nothing in the FBI files that clears your name. I'd tell you if there was. I don't set people up, Clarissa. My job is finding the truth.”
“Shit. What are we going to do?” She looked around the private room as if to verify we were alone. “Flowers claimed she was investigating you, and it would be obstruction of justice if I talked to you about our conversation. She said I couldn't even tell my lawyer.”
“Oh for fuck's sake. This is still...”
“I know. This is still America. But I had to think. Get my head clear.”
We both needed to get our heads clear. Bailey's approach to Clary was far beyond anything Matt would have authorized to pressure a suspect.
“Maybe it's a trap she's setting for me,” Clary said, “but she claims the investigation is now turned on you. There's something not-right about that. The LAPD doesn't have the best reputation, but even they have better sense than to send an ex to investigate somebody.”
“This isn't about any investigation,” I said. “It's about how Bailey can never let go.”
She touched a finger to my lower lip. A brush as light as the whisper of eyelashes against a cheek, and yet I felt that touch burn all the way down to my core. “We have to be crystal clear with each other from now on,” she said. “No more lies, no more games. We've got a real problem here, and it's possible both of us are in real trouble.”
“Bailey isn't dangerous. She just doesn't like to admit anything's ever over. She likes to keep her women in her back pocket.”
“She drove a long way for somebody who just wants to make sure you stay in her back pocket.”
“We have a long history.”
“But you're not one of her women. Not anymore.” Clary sat back suddenly. “Or do I have it wrong? Are you still one of her women? Is that what I'm missing here?”
It was a fair question. Fuck. Bailey couldn't keep hooking me if I didn't keep taking the bait.
“I've struggled with it, sure,” I said. “I came up in the foster care system and, well, it's been an issue. I pretty much stuck by the first woman I latched onto when I was twenty.”
“Bailey Flowers.”
“It wasn't ever good. We were always on-again, off-again. And she was a relentless cheater. Some of those late nights, I wouldn't know if she was on the job or at a club.”
“You don't deserve to be treated like that.”
“I know that now. I've grown up.” I leaned into Clary and took her hand. “It's over. This time, it really is over. And she knows it. I've moved out, I'm making plans to transfer to headquarters in DC. She hates to lose, and she hates it that I'm the one who's walking away.”
“But you are walking away.”
“I promise you.” I studied her lovely face. “I've found a reason to walk away and to stay away. I finally know there's something out there better for me.”
Someone out there better for me. But it was way too soon to say so.
“I'm not so sure she intends to let you walk away. What if the real reason she's stalking you is to make sure you're the one who ends up in the frame when the emerald disappears?” Clary poured more champagne into our flutes, but neither of us drank.
“What are you saying?” Although I knew perfectly well. “That Bailey's a dirty cop? There's no fucking way.”
“She lives pretty high on the hog for a town where a cop's salary isn't all that.”
“She's got tons of inherited money. She can do whatever she wants. It just so happens she likes being a cop. She feeds on the drama.”
“You honestly believe that. The uncle― or was it a cousin― with the Vegas sports book.”
Ouch. I'd half-forgotten she'd investigated me and Bailey, if only with a private team.
“I don't have to believe fuck-all. I can see it with my own eyes. There's no way she's buying a house with a pool and a view of the Hollywood sign in Katy Perry's old neighborhood if she doesn't have money.”
Bailey dazzled me back when we were new. She was actual LAPD, actual law enforcement. She was the one who encouraged me to try for the FBI when DeWitte closed shop. Chasing another big salary with another celebrity gemstone broker hadn't been a necessity. Bailey was already rich and willing to support me whatever I decided, and she urged me to follow my dream. Sure, I'd been dazzled.
Clary snorted, which didn't make me feel less foolish.
“Why is that so incredible?” I asked. “People inherit money every day.”
“Sure, they do.” She looked directly into my eyes again. “You don't want to hear this, but Bailey Flowers is the missing puzzle piece. Now that she's put herself in the picture, I'm pretty sure I've figured out how the DeWitte Beryl was switched.”
A movie star could not have solved a crime that baffled the FBI and LAPD Robbery-Homicide for years. “No,” I said. Then: “How?”
“The lab guy who tested the stone that night was in on it. The one who said he'd run it through twice.”
“He'd have to fake the electron microscope read-outs. Johannes himself checked his results.”
“Well, he'd know how to do that. You could create fake charts yourself if you wanted to, am I right? Anybody could who knew what a faked stone would look like on the read-out. They've been teaching Photoshop classes in high school for fifteen years.”
Holy fuck.
“You think the stone wasn't switched. You think you brought back the same necklace you wore to the showing.” I tasted the words carefully. “In other words, you think you were arrested for stealing a stone that hadn't been stolen.”
“That hadn't been stolen yet.”
Chain of custody, I thought. Sims would have kittens if he ever caught wind of this hypothesis. “Let me see if I'm hearing you right. This is your theory. The lab guy says the stone is coming up as fake. Johannes doesn't want to believe it, but he sees the fake scan, and he has to accept it. He calls in LAPD, and you're placed under arrest. Of course, as a matter of routine,
the cops seize the so-called fake to hold in the evidence locker until after the case is resolved.”
“Can't you see? It's fucking perfect!” She was so excited she almost sounded happy. “Later, when nobody's looking too hard, somebody who has access waltzes into the evidence locker and swaps the stones for real.”
I'd never had the opportunity to re-test the beryl after the showing. Once the cops were called in, an employee of the crime victim wasn't considered an objective witness. LAPD seized the stone while they made arrangements to ship it off to an independent lab― a process which took weeks. Holy hell. There really was time for this swap to happen.
“With a cop on the inside, you've got the perfect crime,” Clary said.
So much that didn't make sense in my life suddenly made all too much sense.
Bailey liked to play around, she didn't have a monogamous nature, but she never wanted to let me go. She always did just enough to keep me close to her and living in her house. That wasn't love, that was being used.
All this time, I suspected I was being used for convenience. But then I'd tell myself I was being silly. She owned a place with a pool and a view of the Hollywood sign. Bailey could have found a million other women ready to move in if all she wanted was in-house sex.
She wanted me. She couldn't ever let me go.
I was special.
Wasn't I?
Yeah, you were special, all right. Any little hint of insider gossip from the gemstone industry you dropped could be pure gold to a team putting together high-dollar robberies.
And then, once I was in the FBI...
I tried not to bring work home. No secure laptops, no case files. But she'd overhear things. Pick up on the tiniest of dropped clues. A good cop sometimes needed very little solid intelligence to start putting a case together.
Or, in her case, to put a crime together.
All this time. All those years. Everything I thought was true flipped upside-down.