by K. A. Tucker
To Luke, I smile. “Do you want me to lie to you or just not answer?”
I can’t tell anyone that Elmira’s the one who sent me detailed instructions on where to find the stolen black SUVs, heading for Durban—on the coast of South Africa—at first light this morning, right down to the name and location of the ship in the Seattle port. Or that it was her prompting that led us to set up surveillance on Gold Bond to watch Vlad stroll in a few hours later, at exactly nine a.m., only to walk back out after fifteen minutes with a duffel bag full of cash. Or that it was Elmira who told us which port official would be receiving a call from Jerry Rosenthal, to confirm that the cargo was loaded and that he should release the money to Vlad.
The port official answered the phone with a shaky “yes,” while Warner breathed down his neck. By that point, a fleet of customs officers had already been sifting through containers for hours. Thirty-six black SUVs were discovered. It’ll take time to confirm that they’re all stolen.
I can’t tell any of them because I don’t know why she’d sabotage her own husband’s deal.
It’ll take time to build a solid case. We already have Jerry Rosenthal on handling the payment of the stolen Porsche, so we’ll have to see how cooperative he’ll be. It helps that Vlad pulled a gun when he saw the two cops approaching him outside Gold Bond. That gave us the excuse we needed to ask him what he did to deserve so much cash. With all the road blocks and dead ends we’ve dealt with on this case, it was almost a miracle that Vlad would be that stupid.
Luke shakes his head, but then smirks.
“So? What are you going to do now?”
He peers upward, squinting against the sun, as if the answer is up there. “I don’t know. I guess I’ll be figuring out life.”
“That’s my excuse.”
He leans down to press his forehead against mine. “I don’t know what I’m doing. Where I’m going. But I’m going to miss you so much.”
The lump that’s been sitting in my throat grows, pulling tears from my eyes. “I’m going to miss you, too. And Rain.”
But Clara needs to move on with her life.
■ ■ ■
“Stanley!” I holler, dragging myself from my bedroom to brew a cup of coffee, my giant furry slippers sliding along the worn parquet floor.
He turns to glare at me from his perch on the windowsill, before continuing his incessant barking. I peer out at the window next door, perpendicular to us thanks to the L-shaped apartment building. Sure enough, the fat white cat is sitting there, glaring at Stanley, not amused. With the morning sun beaming down to warm its perch, I know it’s not moving anywhere for hours. Which means Stanley will be barking for hours. I’ve had plenty of noise complaints since I came back from Portland.
“It’s good we’re leaving soon or else we’d be getting evicted.” I shoo him off the windowsill with a pillow and then finish making my coffee and flop down onto the couch, eyeing all the boxes.
The moving truck will be here in a few hours to put my things into storage.
Stanley hops onto the couch and begins pawing at my chest. I know he needs to go for a run. “I’m going to miss you, buddy. You’ll be good for my parents, right? It’s only for five months.”
He snorts in response.
“Well, I’m sorry, but they’d probably use you as target practice.” I don’t know that pets are allowed at the FBI Academy anyway.
After seven months of interviews and tests and more tests and more tests, I’m starting the next chapter of my life. I feel like I should be more excited. I am excited. It’s just . . .
I grab my iPad and begin flipping through the pictures I loaded on there. My life on the West Coast. The case that taught me so much about myself—my strengths, my weaknesses—and about the good in people. I run my fingers along my greatest weakness, tracing the lines of Luke Boone’s handsome face.
I dove headfirst back into local police work when I returned to D.C., allowing my mind to be consumed, the ache in my chest dulled. But I still miss him terribly. I still think about him strolling around his condo when my eyes first crack open at dawn. I still picture his perfect body as his feet pound against the pavement, a drooling bulldog trying to keep up behind him. I still smile when I think of his cocky smirk and his self-assurance. I’ve found myself recording hours of stupid reality TV, just so I can mock it with Stanley. I still close my eyes at night and imagine the smell, and taste, and feel of him in bed beside me.
My heart still clenches when I think of how badly his life could have ended up. I could arrest a hundred dirty criminals and it won’t ever give me as much satisfaction as helping one genuinely good Luke.
A few months ago, the same day I received my conditional offer of employment from the FBI, after a few too many glasses of wine, I actually dialed his number. It’s out of service.
I cried myself to sleep that night.
Then I woke up the next morning and reminded myself that I’m doing something important. Something for me. And I can’t throw that away for anyone.
My phone starts ringing. I almost don’t get it, figuring it’s my parents asking for the sixth time when I’m bringing Stanley over. They seem to have taken a liking to him. I may have a hard time getting him back.
“Bertelli!” booms the loud Boston-accented voice.
“Why are you calling me this early?”
“I never sleep. You know that. So, are you ready for school?”
“You know, you’re so excited for me, I think you should just go.”
He chuckles. “No, thanks. I’m just here to laugh at you. Hope you survive.” Warner and I have kept in touch since the case so he could fill me in on the latest news, but also because we’ve become good friends. Much better than I ever expected.
“So, what’s new?”
“We nailed another low-level fence from the ring.”
“Is that all?” Between all the information we gathered, plus additional surveillance and Rix’s undercover work, they’re slowly picking away at the ranks, issuing arrest warrants. They’ve seen a significant decline in car thefts over the last six months, proving that we’ve made a big difference.
But Warner’s calls usually come when there are bigger breaks. Like, a few months ago, when they handed a search warrant to Vlad Bragin’s wife and she in turn handed them a pair of Vlad’s pants and black gloves that, upon testing, revealed gun residue and Rust’s blood. When asked why she was willing to cooperate, she told us it was because she married an asshole.
Sometimes all it takes is a bitter wife.
While it’s not a smoking gun, it’s another piece of the puzzle. Several others have fallen into place, including GPS tracking on Vlad’s Suburban that proves where he was and when, such as at the location where Rust’s body was found on the night of the murder, as well as street camera surveillance that captures him driving that night.
They’re closing in on him for the murder. As for the stolen cars, the corrupt jeweler documented and recorded much more than he likely was supposed to. Perhaps for the day he got caught and needed big-ticket leverage.
Warner snorts. “Actually, no, smart-ass. Have you looked at the news today?”
“No . . .?”
“Check out CNN. International news.” He goes quiet, and I know he’s waiting for me to tune in.
I open the browser on my iPad, following his instructions. “Holy shit!”
I quickly read the news article, with the picture of the wealthy, attractive man in the inset, my eyes zeroing in on the scar bisecting his lip that I’ve seen in person before. “Human trafficking?”
“It’s disgusting. Do you know how many children they found in one of those ships?”
Though there’s not a lot of information, and I always question the accuracy of anything I read produced by a reporter, according to the article, a complex investigation has b
een running for seven years, with evidence of human trafficking surfacing from many countries. Aref Hamidi was arrested and charged while visiting China.
“This is going to create a huge, international mess. China will give him the death penalty.”
Which is exactly what he would deserve. It almost seems too good to be true. Like perhaps it was orchestrated. Otherwise how would Aref be stupid enough to get caught?
There’s only one person I can think of capable of coordinating such a takedown.
“Makes you not so bitter about the asshole getting away on our case, right? I mean, it would have been a slap on the wrist compared to what’s coming his way.”
“It does,” I murmur softly, my mind spinning with absurd, improbable speculation. “I wish there was more information. Can you find anything out?”
“I’ll just wave my magic wand . . .”
I roll my eyes. “Seriously, Warner, don’t we have any pull on getting dirt?”
“ ‘We.’ You’re cute. You know as well as I do that there’s shit going on over on that side of the world that the FBI will never catch wind of.”
“Is his wife involved?”
“I don’t see her mentioned, and they would have mentioned something like that. She has ties to Iranian royalty, after all. I hope she kept some money, because I’ll bet everything gets seized.” An entire empire . . . lost, for no reason other than greed.
Thoughts of the mysterious Elmira Zamani fade to the background as someone more important to me comes to mind with Warner’s words. “Speaking of seizing assets . . .” I pause, waiting for Warner to fill in the blanks. He knows who I’m asking about. He’s just been reluctant to tell me anything about Luke.
“Everything’s been released. The kid hired good lawyers and, since we have no proof beyond hearsay that 24 was involved, we couldn’t hold his assets anymore.”
I take a deep breath. I’m not sure if I’m happy about this or not. That means Luke has a ton of money at his disposal now. All money earned through dirty dealings. And he fought the Feds to get it. What does that mean? Seven months later, where is his head at?
“Anything else . . . interesting?”
There’s a long silence. “Yes.” Warner hesitates. “Betty-Jo Billings received a check made out to cash by an anonymous donor last week. She called the police, because it was a lot of money, and she thought it was fraudulent.”
“How much money?”
“Like, if you were to sell a million-dollar condo and your Porsche 911 . . . that much money.”
My heart skips a few beats. “He . . .”
“He’s renting a small place downtown. He’s in the garage, from morning until night. Goes home, jogs with his dog. Spends a lot of time at the Japanese Gardens. At first I thought he was getting into something again, but he just goes to sit on a bench. Alone.”
“You’re still doing surveillance on him?” God, please tell me they don’t suspect him of something else. “Did Sinclair tell you to do that?”
“Nope. It’s unofficial.”
I swallow. “Then why?”
Warner sighs. “Because I know you too well.”
I smile. “Thanks, Warner.”
I stare at the picture of Aref on my iPad long after I hang up the phone, rereading the article several times, Googling Elmira’s name, looking for more news on her, finding only socialite-type posts and pictures about the beautiful wife of the heir to Hamidi Enterprises.
My gut tells me that Elmira suspected what I really was—the stunt involving Luke’s car had to be her way of outing me. The hows and whys have remained a mystery to me.
But now . . . I frown, staring at her face, remembering her ageless beauty, her cool disposition, her shrewd gaze. She knew just what to say, what to do . . .
They always say a good undercover can spot another.
I’d like to say that I’ll track her down one day and ask her who she really is, but my guess is that I will not cross paths with Elmira—or whatever her name is—ever again.
So instead, I’ll have to thank her silently. That’s fairly easy; all I have to do it is think of Luke Boone.
Epilogue
■ ■ ■
LUKE
The office walls rattle as someone—probably Tabbs—tests out a broken muffler by revving the engine in the bay.
“Fuck,” I mutter, my ears ringing. I’m going to be deaf by forty if I have to listen to that every day. I glance up at the clock with a sigh. Already five. I was planning on ducking out early today and taking Licks for a jog along my usual trail. It’s much nicer in daylight, especially right now, when the Japanese cherry blossom trees are in full bloom.
But the day has turned to dusk while I’ve been slaving away. The garage is a lot of work for one guy to run—especially when that one guy never saw himself spending six days a week in a tiny office, listening to broken mufflers and smelling engine oil. But I think I’ve got the place running smoother than Miller ever did.
It’s for the best that he “disappeared” with his wife and daughters. I could never have kept him working here, but I would have felt guilty firing him because of his family. And because, out of all of us, he’s the only one who had a truly redeeming reason for being involved in that world. A world that feels increasingly farther away.
I pick up the newspaper to read the ad I ran for a part-time office manager. It’s been four days and, though I’ve had a lot of applicants, none of them are what I’m looking for. I guess I’m picky. I even tried to get Jesse to come and work for me. He laughed in my face.
A sudden and loud roar of pain has me running toward the bays, hoping to all hell that my employer insurance premiums are paid up.
“Son of a bitch. He bit me!” Tabbs roars. “Get that ugly mutt out of here!”
I round the corner in time to see a little dog square off against Tabbs like a bull, his giant ears turning back and forth like satellites.
My heart stops. If Stanley’s here . . .
“I swear, he never bites.” Rain stands in the bay door, her short black leather jacket zipped up to her chin to ward off the early evening chill.
Her hair’s a few inches shorter than the last time I saw her, a year ago, but otherwise she looks exactly the same.
Beautiful.
And smiling broadly.
I don’t waste a second. I take quick steps toward her and pull her into my arms. She comes willingly, her hands finding their way around my waist. She smells like roses, just like I remember. “What are you doing here?”
She points over her shoulder with her thumb. “I’m having a problem with my clutch. I thought I’d bring it here.”
“Right.” I chuckle and play along, throwing an arm over her shoulder. “Let’s see this car.”
“It’s not so much a car as a Jeep.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” I murmur with awe, circling the matte black beauty. “Solid grill guard, four-inch lift kit . . . what are those, thirty-eights?” Definitely trail tires.
“Would you like some time alone with it?”
I chuckle. Passing the front, I notice the plates are from Oregon. “You rented this?”
“No.”
I frown. “I’d like to think you know better than to steal.”
“Funny.” She pauses. “I bought it.”
My heartbeat speeds up. “Does that mean . . .”
Maybe she sees the excitement in my eyes because she breaks out in a smile. “Portland was my first choice for assignments, and Sinclair pulled some strings to make sure it happened.”
So many thoughts and emotions are racing through me that I’m left with my mouth hanging open, unable to speak. Just staring at her.
“So . . . are you seeing anyone?” She cringes as she says it, offering a very rare and brief glimpse of what Rain looks like when she’s
nervous. “I mean . . . what are you doing tonight?”
I can’t help scanning her top-to-bottom—she’s even more fit than she was before. It’s been so freaking long. I’ve gone out on a couple of dates since she left, but none of them came close to holding my interest. And I never knew how to talk about myself, how to let anyone in.
“I thought this couldn’t happen. I mean . . .” I’m nervous too. Or excited. Or petrified that she’s only here to say “hi” because she’s in town.
But, then, why would she ask to be located here?
“How is this happening?”
She reaches out, beckoning my hand. I take it, and then yank her into me, earning her slight gasp. She runs her knuckles against the light stubble along my jaw. “You look different.”
“Yeah . . .” I gaze down at my dark jeans and T-shirt. I’ve kept the Rolex, but only because it’s one of the few things, besides the garage, that I have left from Rust. “I’m living a more simple life.”
“I like it.” Her palm slides along my chest and stomach. My nightly workout routine has only gotten more obsessive since she left.
“Seriously . . . how is this happening? I thought you couldn’t get involved with someone like me.”
“Someone with a beautiful heart? Someone who paid a price for his mistakes?” Her face grows serious. “I know what you did for the Billings family.”
I duck my head, my cheeks burning. “How’d you find out?”
“Because I’m an FBI agent. You can’t hide anything from me. Remember that.” She winks, taking my hands and walking backward, pulling me to the passenger side. “Hey Tabbs! Can you lock up?” she hollers.
“Sure thing, Boss Lady!”
I climb into the passenger seat, Stanley perched on my lap. “I guess I’ll just leave my car here until tomorrow?” I say, hopeful.
She glances at the silver ’74 Porsche 911 that I paid Jesse to fix up for me. I actually love it more than the last one. Probably because I feel like I earned it. “I can drive you, on my way into the office.”