Studying Scarlett the Grey

by Kelle Z Riley

  “But this is so much more fun.”

  “It would be more fun if we weren’t in the sweaty police department gym.” With one last, quick kiss, he moved and came to his feet. He offered her a hand up. “Where did you learn that move, anyway. Did he teach it to you?”

  “No.” She swatted his arm. “Don’t get jealous on me. I learned it from a self-defense course I took in graduate school. With hips like mine, you get some advantages.” The automatic self-depreciation for the curves her mother begged her to diet away slipped out almost as a force of habit.

  “There’s nothing wrong with your hips from my point of view,” James said as he pushed her in front of him, his hand lingering on the body part in question. “But you’re right. Women generally carry more strength in their legs, hips, and lower body than in their upper body.”

  He moved beside her and draped an arm over her shoulder. Bree took the opportunity to appreciate the way his wet PD tee shirt and shorts clung to his body, revealing the trim, tight muscles he usually hid under dress shirts and tailored slacks. “You know more about self-defense than I expected,” he admitted, a grin causing his eyes to crinkle at the edges. “I’m surprised, but very, very glad.”

  “I should complain about you being surprised, but I’m too tired to do so.”

  “Too tired to go a few more rounds and show me more of your techniques?”

  “Is that a challenge?”

  He steered them off the mat, past a rack of weights and toward the doors. “Not really. I just wondered if you are more interested in working out or dining out. I’m leaning toward food if you want to know.”

  “Food sounds good.” She ducked out from under his arm and sprinted to the locker room. “Meet you on the other side after a shower.”

  Forty-five minutes later, they sat across from one another at O’Malley’s. Bree forked up a bite of her Crab Louie salad. “Tonight was actually fun. I learned a few new moves from you.”

  “Not many. Be warned, I won’t underestimate you next time.” He grinned and tipped his bottle of ale in her direction before taking a long pull on it. “Seriously, I needed that workout. Today was long.”

  “Did you learn much from your questioning?”

  He considered her. “I’m not sure how to answer that. On the one hand, you’re part of the Homeland Security investigation. On the other hand, you’re not part of the police investigation.” His shoulders bunched and Bree sensed he’d lost some of his hard-gained relaxation.

  “Don’t make me take you back to the gym to get you loosened up again,” she said, softening the words with a smile. “I don’t want to have to do my hair for a third time today.”

  “Women. Half the female cops grumble about their hair after a workout. The other half cut it off.”

  Bree glanced around the pub, satisfied that their booth was isolated in the nearly empty space. She pulled a notebook from her bag and opened it. “You may not feel able to talk to me, but I’m perfectly able to talk to you.” She tapped a column on the table of suspects, motives, opportunities, and alibis in her notebook. “Margie Lewis.”

  “She didn’t ring any warning bells.”

  “Maybe not to you, but I learned she has a vindictive streak.” Bree filled him in on her conversations with Margie and ways to get even with cheating boyfriends.

  “Hmm. Mischief, but I don’t know if it’s criminal mischief. I’m more interested in whether or not you would have gone through with being locked in the trunk of a car.”

  “I think I would have. But I wasn’t looking forward to it. The thought of being stuck in there and everyone leaving me—” She broke off her words with a shudder.

  James captured her hand. “I would never leave you.” His blue eyes gazed into hers, inspiring confidence as he continued to speak. “There are classes in how to survive kidnapping. I’m not suggesting you enroll in one—although it might be a good idea if you’re going to keep up this spy nonsense.”

  “Nonsense?” She tugged, trying to pull her hand free but he tightened his grip.

  “Sorry. Bad word. I still don’t like you being involved, but after today, I’ve seen a new side of you. It unnerves me, but you are good at what you do. That doesn’t mean I won’t keep trying to tempt you away, but I won’t belittle your involvement either. Which brings me back to my point. Enrolling in a kidnap survival class, or at least letting me simulate portions of one for you, would be a good addition to your training.”

  “I promise to think about it.” Bree pulled her hand free and attacked her salad once again. After a few bites, she returned to her notebook. “I already told you I was worried about Liza.”

  “Liza’s a tough nut to crack,” James admitted, opening up about his investigation. “She seems nice on the outside, but there is a core of steel I can’t access. She definitely has secrets she’s not willing to admit.”

  Bree nodded. “The real question is whether those secrets prove her guilt or her innocence.”

  “That about sums it up. I still need to interview Billy’s son and wife. It should have happened today but…” his lips tightened into a frown, “everything took longer than it should have. In any case, I can probably tell you the kids working in shipping seem clean, as does Mrs. Telligio. Of course, most people seem innocent at first glance. Except Gordon Reed.”

  “Gordon? He idolized Billy from what the guys who worked for him told me. I don’t see him as a suspect.”

  “Maybe not a suspect,” James agreed, “but a troublemaker. He spent half of our interview complaining about you. It seems you took a car from the garage without authorization. Let me guess. The Crown Vic.”

  “Got it in one.” She sobered, all interest in the remainder of her dinner gone. “There’s a rental scheduled for tomorrow. It may or may not be related to the…the Homeland Security job. In either case, it seemed appropriate to remove the cash from the trunk before anyone else got their hands on the car.”

  James swore under his breath. “I hate this,” he muttered. For a heartbeat or two, he looked like he wanted to say more, but he held his tongue. Instead he paid the bill and ushered her out of the pub. “If you’re determined to do this, you need to get a good night’s sleep."

  Sleep eluded her. Even Sherlock’s big warm body snuggled against her rumbling with purrs didn’t settle Bree enough to drift off to sleep. After a restless hour in bed, she gave up.

  “Sorry, buddy,” she said, stroking the orange tabby’s fur. “You sleep. I’m getting up for a while.” The cat stirred, but didn’t wake as she left the bed, wrapped herself in a robe, and slid her feet into slippers. She padded to the kitchen, thoughts of tomorrow tumbling through her brain like restless autumn leaves in a windstorm.

  A man dead. A trunkful of cash. A double—or triple—agent on the loose. And a possible connection to a terrorist cell’s money gathering attempts headed her way. What else could go wrong?

  As she thought, she pulled out ingredients for her grandmother’s sugar cookies. Typically, when Bree baked, she experimented with the recipes, using her knowledge of science and chemistry to adjust and personalize them. The adage that cooking was an art and baking a science never stopped her from changing or inventing recipes. What good was a chemistry PhD if you couldn’t experiment in your own home?

  Maybe one day soon, she’d expand and start home distilling. She thought about the brandy she kept tucked away in the pantry for Christmas baking. A drink might settle her nerves. And it might lead down a path she didn’t want to take. She shook her head, aware that a year ago—before she began working undercover—such a thought wouldn’t have entered her mind.

  Better to stay with tried-and-true means of settling her nerves, she thought as she measured flour, leavening, and salt into a bowl. In another bowl, she attacked the butter, glad it hadn’t softened yet. Pummeling it lessened her anxiety.

  Once she’d smoothed the butter and added sugar, she quickly finished the recipe, moving t
he prepared dough to the refrigerator to chill while she whipped up a batch of icing for the cookies.

  In the morning, she’d bake and cool the cookies while she planned her day. After donning her Cat Holmes makeup, she’d frost them and head for Trader Jack’s Emporium. In her experience, cookies and coffee led to gossip and information.

  Calmer now, she headed back to the bed, shivering as she slid between the cool sheets. Thank goodness for the warm twenty-pound ball of comfort called Sherlock. Snuggled next to him, she finally slept.

  “You didn’t have to do that, miss. You really didn’t.” Gordon reached for another cookie and Bree bit back a smile at how well her ploy to sweeten him up worked.

  “I wanted to apologize for yesterday,” she said. “I shouldn’t have taken the car for gas without your permission. Next time I’ll ask first. I just wanted to help.”

  Gordon shrugged off her apology. “You’re young. Young people make mistakes. It’s all a part of learning. You’ll catch on soon enough.” He indicated Juan and Magnus who lounged nearby with coffee and cookies. “These boys had to learn the ropes too. Everybody does. Right Juan? Magnus?” He didn’t wait for acknowledgement. “Even Bill Jr. had to learn how we handle things at Trader Jack’s.”

  “I would have thought his dad taught him everything he knows,” Bree said, sitting at the table next to Gordon. “Like father, like son?”

  “You’d think, miss. You’d think. Bill Jr. knew a thing or two about maintaining cars, but he didn’t know the business. You can’t just hand a car to one customer after another. People do bad things to rental cars. Really bad things. There’s a procedure to check them out. To make sure there’s not damage, you see?”

  “So, there’s a checklist?”

  Gordon shook his head, a hangdog expression on his face. “No. No, nothing like that. It was in Billy’s head. And mine. There was no need to put it onto paper once you learned it. You’ve got to learn to use your memory. Like we used to when I was a kid.”

  “But if I wanted to learn the rental business—”

  Gordon cut her off before she could pose her question. “Why would you want to do that, miss? The young men can handle it. You’re better off working in the showroom.”

  “So, you’ll step into Billy’s position?”

  “Who else is there?” A mournful shake of his head punctuated the words. “Billy was so good at his job. Everyone loved him. You can’t replace a man like that. He gave everything for this company. In early. Stayed late. Kept the garage in order. No one appreciated everything he did for Trader Jack’s. But I’ll just have to do my best, won’t I?” He heaved a sigh. “It’s not like anyone can fill his shoes.”

  Across the room, Magnus wore a mutinous look. Juan scowled in Gordon’s direction. The discontent brewing in the kitchenette neared the boiling point.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Bree mumbled, wondering if she should stay or go. Before she could decide, Bill Jr. walked into the room.

  “So, this is where everyone is,” he remarked as he filled his coffee mug. “Dad’s not even cold in his grave and you’re already wasting the day away.”

  “Seems like I was in here long before you clocked in,” Magnus challenged.

  “Doing what?”

  “Oh, you think the magical fairies came in to clean up your workspace and take care of your tools you left in the middle of a job yesterday without warning.” Magnus took a step forward.

  “Well, excuse me, but my father had just died.” Bill Jr. slammed his coffee mug down and rolled up his sleeves, revealing wiry, muscular forearms covered in a patchwork of bruises and scars. “And by the way, when I left, I was working on a car. You moved it before I finished, which could have caused irreparable damage.”

  “I moved it.” Juan stepped between the two men, angling his body to keep them apart. “After I finished the inspection and repairs. You’re not the only licensed mechanic on the premises.”

  “I am now that dad’s gone. At least as far as Trader Jack’s is concerned.”

  Juan raised an eyebrow. “Sure about that, are you?”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Gordon chided getting to his feet. “Is all of this fuss necessary? Let’s just get back to work. You know we have cars rented today. The cars are all ready. Washed up. Gassed up. Inspected by both Juan and me. Bill, you can check them again if you want.”

  Gordon rattled off a list of local renters scheduled to pick up cars. “And someone needs to head to the airport to pick up the family that’s renting the Crown Vic. That’s the last rental special from the airport business. They should have arrived yesterday, but I got word the flight was delayed.”

  Bree jerked, jarring the coffee cup that was halfway between the table and her mouth. Coffee sloshed over the edge. Damn! The flight manifests for the family renting the Crown Vic. She’d completely forgotten to follow up.

  She mopped up the mess and slipped out the back door, hoping for a bit of privacy outside. A lingering scent of smoke indicated Margie had been there recently, but otherwise, the space was empty.

  Bree shivered, wishing she had her jacket to ward off the October cold. She texted Matthew a screenshot she’d taken of the rental agreement with flight numbers, then pulled up his number.

  “I screwed up,” she said immediately when he picked up the call. “Too little sleep, too much caffeine, too—”

  “Whoa, there, Agent Watson. The ifs and whys can wait. What happened?” His matter-of-fact tone calmed her, and she explained how she’d thought cross referencing the flight numbers, passenger manifests, rental agreement, and known terrorist names could help them.

  “That’s a good call,” Matthew agreed. “Yes, having the data last night would have gotten us any information sooner, but I’m confident Grant can dredge it up in an hour or so."

  “I feel so bad about forgetting—”

  “Watson. Stop it. You’re on the job now and I need your brain, your instincts, and your head in the game.”

  “Right.”

  “Hey,” his voice softened “do you think you’re the only one ever to miss something? We’ve all done it. What is important is to move forward. One mistake won’t necessarily sink a mission, but a string of them will. Guilt or negative thinking leads to bad decisions. Got it?”

  She took a breath and released it in a sigh. “Got it, boss. Don’t worry, I’ll refocus.”

  “Good woman. Now, let’s get the coms set up for today. We’ll need all hands-on deck.” He gave her instructions for the day’s private com channel and one last word of encouragement before clicking off the call.

  Liza looked up from her paperwork as Bill Jr. stomped through the showroom. “Of all the colossal wastes of time. My father just died and that damn cop grills me for over an hour. Why isn’t he off looking for the real killer? Privileged yokel a-hole.” He looked at his watch. “Now I’m going to have to break every speed rule between here and the airport to pick up our customers on time.”

  “You could have sent one of the others,” Liza offered.

  Bill threw her a dark look, barely breaking stride as he headed to the garage. “Not likely.” Ten minutes later, he zoomed past the plate glass windows in the Trader Jack’s van.

  “Wait for it,” said Liza, holding up her hand and ticking off the fingers. “Three, two, one…” The phone rang cutting off her count. She gave Bree a wink and punched the speaker phone button.

  “Billy—I mean Bill Jr.’s gone to the airport to pick up that family renting the car.” Gordon’s disembodied voice filled the showroom. Bree could imagine him frowning and fidgeting as he spoke. “They are waiting at baggage claim. They called asking for a child’s safety seat. I need the paperwork amended before I can get the seat in place. It won’t take long for Bill to return.” He continued in the same vein while Liza pulled up a computer file.

  “I’ll send Cat down with the paperwork when it’s ready.”

  “Hurry, ma’am.
You know it won’t take long for them to get here.” He cut off the call.

  “Even with no traffic and Bill breaking the speed limits, I estimate forty-five minutes before they’re here. Gordon is such a worry wart.” Liza shook her head. The tinkle of the bell above the door alerted them to customers and Bree went to assist them while Liza modified the paperwork on the rental car.

  Twenty minutes later, the phone rang again. Liza took the call. “Bill Jr. is on his way back,” she told Bree. The printer under the counter whirred and spit out a sheet of paper. “Take this paperwork to Gordon and help him in any way he needs.”

  A shiver washed down Bree’s spine, sending every one of her senses on full alert. Her training snapped to the foreground of her mind. “I’m on my way,” she said, taking the paperwork and keys from Liza. She headed to the door and the corridor leading to the staging garage.

  In the hallway, she stopped for a breath, steadying her nerves, and focusing her concentration. “This is it,” she said softly. “Did your guys load the marked money into the car?”

  “They did. You’ve got this, Watson,” Matthew said, approval in his voice. “For a reward, I’ll lock you in the trunk of my car and teach you how to get out.”

  “You will not.”

  His answer was a chuckle. “I should. It’s a good training exercise. For now, get moving. You’ve got this,” he repeated. “I’m calling O’Neil to loop him in. Be back soon.”

  The com went dead.

  Bree took advantage of the dead com to make a quick restroom stop before hustling to the garage. “Here’s your paperwork,” she said to Gordon. “Do many customers ask for child seats?”

  “It can happen, miss. Businessmen are people too. They like to take their families with them on trips. Especially to places like the Chicago area. Don’t you think?” He snatched the papers from her and turned to his small, glassed-in office.

  “I’ll help the guys put the seat in, if you like,” she offered to Gordon’s retreating back.