Max. Oh, Max! Desi’s vision blurred. You can’t be a dirty, rotten crook. You just can’t be. I don’t want you to be!
She laid her forehead on the soggy papers and got them wetter.
Crane’s eyes blazed at Tony. “The ASAC signed off on my transfer order? So what? How’d you wangle a look at my personnel file?”
Tony drove toward their next stop. The afternoon had already been a barrel of laughs cleaning up other agents’ urgent business. He and Stevo needed to get on the same page pretty quick instead of barking at each other.
He shrugged. “One of the rotor clerks owed me a favor. And I didn’t go through your file. Jen just took a peek and told me whose name was on the paperwork.”
“A woman! Figures. You’ve got everything with long lashes and high heels wrapped around your finger.”
Tony bit back a sharp reply. “I like Cooke as our mole. He’s acting way too strange over this case.”
“No way. Gotta be Balzac. Word has it she asked for me when your squad came up one short. She’s the one who stuck us together as primaries on this case. Probably figured we’d get along like a couple of gangsters eyeing the same territory. The joke’s on her that we bonded.”
Stevo calls this rocky toleration “bonding”? Man, that’s a sad statement.
This whole mess was going to turn out sad if they didn’t figure out which agent was dirty. Prospects for tonight’s trap succeeding were bleak to nil, with no form of authorized backup.
Who besides wild-man Crane would be willing to step outside the chain of command to expose one of their own? Not a soul, that’s who. Plus they were all busy with the JTTF thing.
Maybe he and Stevo could tap another agency for help. Federal Marshals’ office. City cops. The FBI worked with these people all the time.
Yeah, and they were all on the task force, too. Busting their rears to catch a terrorist while keeping the lid on the rest of their workload. They’d jump for joy to have a couple of rogue agents show up on their doorstep with an off-the-wall story about a theft ring and a mole in the Bureau.
Besides, every one of them would report right back to the people Tony and Steve suspected. Nope, no way around it.
They were on their own.
Desi locked the doors of HJ Securities and climbed into her car. She sat with it running and stared at the building that had been at the hub of her working world for so long. Will this place still be here tomorrow? Life didn’t offer guarantees that things wouldn’t change—sometimes drastically and in the blink of an eye. Whatever was in motion would lead to some kind of new territory. She’d either like it, or she wouldn’t. But she’d adjust. She didn’t have a choice. Her plans were set.
After she hung up with Tony. “Myra” had headed over to the pier, where she supervised the packing of the storage container’s contents into a wooden crate. Then she arranged for a delivery company to respond to last-minute instructions for delivering the package.
She’d done what she could. Then why did she feel like she hadn’t accomplished anything today?
Because the hardest part is yet to come. Tonight at Max’s, pretending to relax and enjoy herself, while Tony risked his life to end the madness.
Desiree started her car and drove toward home. She looked at her watch. Dead weight compressed her lungs. Within the hour, she would receive delivery instructions. Some nasty surprise that would blindside her, no doubt.
Her stomach hurt. She needed to eat something. Just a bite. On impulse, she darted into a fast-food drive-through. Someone honked behind her, and Desi checked her rearview mirror.
They weren’t honking at her. A Ford was cutting between a Chevy and a Cadillac to gain a place in the right turn lane.
Busted! You won’t blindside me now.
Not FBI. Or terrorists. Those guys would be better trained.
A shiver coursed through her middle. She never wanted to find out how well terrorists were trained. Thieves were one thing—she pitted herself against them all the time. Greed she could understand. Old-fashioned selfishness. But fanatical hatred that demanded murder and suicide without mercy or compunction? Who even wanted to understand that?
Desi rolled down her window and pulled up in front of the microphone. The speaker crackled as an attendant greeted her. Desi didn’t respond. She watched in her rearview mirror. The midsize Ford pull into a parking spot near the front door of the restaurant, and the driver got out. The car shielded all but his head, covered by a trendy fedora and sunglasses. A short, wiry man in a suit.
Not much of a description, but parts of it matched what the taxi driver had said about the guy who gave him that bus token.
An electric jolt shot through her. Had she just seen the Chief?
Or was she reading sinister intentions into innocent actions?
A little logic flushed her Chief theory down the tubes. Why would her contact for drop-off instructions go inside the restaurant when he could see that she planned to pick up an order and drive on? She shook her head. Let it go, girl. You’re driving yourself bonkers.
The attendant greeted her again.
Desi leaned toward the speaker box. “Grilled chicken sandwich, regular fries, and a large orange soda, please.” Good old comfort food.
Ten minutes later, she picked up her bag and pulled away. The scent of hot fries drew her fingers. She kept her eyes on the road and groped in the sack. Plastic crackled. What now? She glanced at the item. An action figure in plastic wrap? Whoever had filled her order must’ve thrown in a kid’s meal toy by mistake. No problem. She’d give it to Max’s children.
Some compensation for arresting their mom!
Munching her supper, Desi watched her rearview mirror, but the Ford never showed. False alarm for sure. Should I be glad or sad? Let’s get this over with.
Desi turned into her driveway, licking the last bit of grease from her fingers. Extra gym time for a week, but hey, a girl needed to indulge once in a while. Today she had plenty of good excuses. She carried the fast-food bag, her purse, and her briefcase into her apartment. In the kitchen, she discarded the greasy garbage and kept the toy.
Strange. The toy wrapper was open. And that cardboard backing didn’t belong in there.
Desi pulled out a glossy Boston postcard.
She flopped onto a chair, staring at it. The creepazoid in the fedora must have bribed the attendant to put this in her bag. Terrible as a tail, but off the charts inventive as a messenger. She’d written him off too soon.
The picture on the front of the postcard featured the white tower of the Dorchester Heights Monument, a Revolutionary War memorial. She turned the card over. Someone had drawn a map of the park, where the tower was located. Thomas Park. A big X marked a spot on the east side near G Street. A single word was scrawled: Dumpster.
Very funny. Har-de-har-har! Oh, and aren’t we the budding artist? The jerk had drawn a winking smiley face in the upper corner where the stamp should be. Well, Mr. Friendly, let’s see how jolly you are by the end of the evening.
If only she could be on the stakeout with Tony She’d annihilate the cocky grin in a single slap.
Walk in the fruit of the Spirit, girl. Remember? Love, joy, peace, patience, longsuffering … Oh, just shoot the louse!
She grabbed her purse and took out the high-tech cell phone Tony had sent her this afternoon by special messenger. The phone contained an encryption device that would keep their conversation private. It was marked as FBI property, so it wasn’t intended for an undercover operation, just privacy. She’d keep this baby tucked out of sight when she went to Max the Traitor’s house. Clutching the phone, she went downstairs and stepped out into her fenced backyard. No good having a household bug pick up her conversation.
Tony answered on the second ring. “Lucano.”
“Hi, it’s me.”
“Hey, hon. What’s up? You doing all right?”
“Better now that I hear your voice. I got the instructions, and you’ll never in a gazillion year
s guess how.”
“Shoot me with it.”
Desi relayed her near brush with the stranger in the fedora and the terse postcard message. She paced back and forth across the lawn. “If this guy hadn’t already gotten on my last nerve, he’d be on it now.”
“I’m with you there. Now let me do my job. Hang tight at the Webbs’ house until you hear from me.”
“I hate waiting!”
Tony laughed. “Is that a whine I hear?”
“Not with you out there confronting a killer. I can’t do anything but support you. I’ll be praying.”
“That’s the best thing right there. And I’ll have the peace of knowing where you’re at while I’m doing it.”
They said good-bye, and Desi closed the phone. She hugged herself. If only it were Tony’s arms around her. Just his voice warmed the chills from her heart. Why had they wasted so much time battling each another? The enemy was so tricky—not the flesh and blood enemy but the spiritual power behind all evil. One of that enemy’s favorite game plans was to pit Christian against Christian. Kept them too busy to even remember he existed.
Almost worked, but not quite. And it’s about time to shut you down!
One more phone call, and the paintings hit the road.
Desi smiled and went inside. She settled on her father’s couch and picked up the living room phone. If anyone’s listening, enjoy yourself. “Hello, this is Desiree Jacobs. I made arrangements this afternoon for a crate to be picked up at the Dock B warehouse. I’m calling with delivery instructions that must be carried out immediately.”
Desi finished the brief conversation and hung up. If that dispatcher was as efficient as he was bored, everything should go off like clockwork.
She went into her bedroom and put on jeans and a sweatshirt. And now … the shoes! She got the box from the closet and flipped the cover open. Just ordinary brown lace-ups with chunky heels and thick soles. Hah!
Oh, Daddy how could we have guessed I would use these to help in your murder investigation? We ordered them just weeks ago. Tears wet Desi’s face. Remember how we joked and laughed the day they came in the mail?
“The game is afoot, my dear Watson,” Dad had posed with slitted eyes while puffing an invisible pipe.
Desi groaned, but played along. “I say, Holmes, this is a nasty state of affairs we’ve stepped into.”
Dad chuckled. “Nigel Bruce, move over. A twenty-first-century woman has upstaged your forties Dr. Watson.”
“And I like you better than Basil Rathbone as Holmes.” She kissed his cheek.
A good memory. One of many.
Desi went into the bathroom to wipe her eyes and repair her makeup.
Yes, the game was afoot, and Tony had neatly sidelined her. He acted downright casual about sending her to babysit a criminal. Did he know something she didn’t? She wouldn’t put it past him. The lovable hunk was bound and determined to protect her from herself. Well, if she found out he had a hidden agenda, she’d get even with him later.
Right after she thanked him.
“We’re out of time.” Tony strode up the sidewalk toward his partner.
The older agent lounged against their car, arms folded. “Took you long enough on that interview. I’ve got my end buttoned up. This running in different directions on everybody else’s cases is for the birds.”
“Yeah, well, it’s keeping us under the radar. Forget everything else now. Desi called.”
Crane straightened up. “Where’s the drop?”
“Thomas Park.”
“All right!” He smacked his gum. “I gotta go with my gut on Balzac. She knows something’s about to go down with the Jacobs deal, so her little catchall assignment has kept us jumping through hoops all afternoon like trained mutts.”
Tony climbed into the driver’s seat.
Crane settled in beside him. “Your little answer to prayer looks more like female scheming to me.”
Tony shook his head. Some people just had to fight for their right to deny the divine. “Keeping us busy isn’t out of character for Rachel. You’ve just never gotten used to taking orders from a woman.”
“Get off it, Lucano.” Crane’s glare could have melted stone. “I’ve never made secret my attitude about women in dangerous jobs. They should leave that work to the men. But I don’t let my feelings interfere with my job.” He jabbed Tony’s shoulder. “Besides which, I had a mother, too, and learned ‘yes, ma’am, no, ma’am’ straight from the cradle.”
“All right, all right, so there’s some chivalry to your chauvinism.” Tony rubbed his arm. “So it’s down to you and me. Are we going to do this thing or let it go? Even if we succeed, we could be in hot water up to our eyeballs—this is so far outside standard operating procedure.”
“In the immortal words of Clint Eastwood: ‘Make my day.’ I want to go out on a high note. Be remembered even when I’m out to pasture.”
Getting rough and rowdy with a few bad guys wasn’t the best motive for going ahead with the plan, but Tony would take it. “Quoting from Dirty Harry? You like old movies?”
“Nah, just action flicks where the bad guys—or gals—get what they got coming.”
Tony started the car and pulled out onto the street. “You had me scared there, Stevo. For a minute, I thought you might have something in common with Desiree Jacobs.”
Crane moaned.
Tony grinned. He’d better enjoy a little joke while he could. Their real-world plans came with no guarantee that the bad guys wouldn’t blow them away.
Desi stepped into the foyer of the Webbs’ split-level home.
“Watch out for Dean.” Max laughed. “His new jet came in today, and he’s as giddy as a kid. He danced me through the house when I got home tonight, screaming ‘the investors came through, the investors came through.’”
Investors? Or a suddenly rich wife?
Eyes narrowed on the redhead’s back, Desi followed her up the stairs into the living room. Somehow Max coaxed Southwestern print sofa and chairs to look comfortable with Art Deco end tables. Dean made his mark with aviation prints on the walls. The kids got into the act with handmade pottery and popsicle stick creations from last year’s Vacation Bible School. A wide-screen plasma TV took up most of one end of the room.
“Something else new?” Desi nodded toward the television.
“What can I say?” Max shrugged. “The charter flight business has really taken off. Pun intended. He’s talking a fleet of planes, more pilots. Me, I’m talking new house. We could really use a guest bedroom.”
“This plane—” Desi tossed her purse down beside one of the chairs—“is it the one he was crowing about that can zip to from New York to London in under six hours?”
“That’s the one! He says he can fly the continent and back in less time than it takes for us nine-to-fivers to call it a day.”
“What does Dean really know about the investors who subsidized the plane?” I shouldn’t be baiting her, but I can’t help it.
Max lowered herself onto the sofa. She wasn’t smiling now. “Yeah, that bugs me, too. He won’t tell me much. Makes me wonder how careful he’s been at looking into their backgrounds. But I can’t rain on his parade, especially since …” Her gaze darted away.
“Hey, girl, I didn’t mean to bring you down.” Yeah, right!
“No, don’t worry about it.” Max shook her head. “You care, and that’s a good thing.” She smiled, lips compressed.
“So where is the man of the hour?”
“He went to the store.” She stood. “I should finish stirring up that crab dip. Sit. Kick your shoes off. Get comfortable.”
I’ll leave my shoes on, thank you very much. “The kids aren’t here either? This place looks way too neat for your pair of live wires to be around.”
Max’s eyes brightened. “Too true. Too true. We lucked out. They went with another family to a puppet thing at church. But they’ll probably charge back in here about halfway through the movie and talk our ear
s off.” She headed for the kitchen. “Just relax. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Relax? That’s rich!
So Dean had a new plane, did he? Well, that settled it. No way he didn’t know what his wife was up to. Desi should have seen the full picture sooner. That made not one, but two conspirators in this house. And she was plopped right in the middle of them with the case about to bust wide open.
She could only hope that Max’s kids didn’t come home too early. Or else they just might walk in on the FBI arresting their mommy and daddy.
Tony sat in the parked car and sipped a hot coffee. Dusk softened the edges of the convenience store where he’d bought it a few minutes ago. In the passenger seat, his partner downed the last bites of a microwaved sandwich.
“I hate this part the worst.” Crane wadded the wrapper and spoke with a full mouth. “Those last minutes of waiting until the whole thing goes ballistic.”
“I’m grateful your guys were gung ho to help out. We’ve asked a lot from them lately.”
“Nothing they didn’t get a kick out of doing. They’ve got that park covered like fleas on a dog. They know good and well that we couldn’t sit in a Bucar within eyeshot of the drop site. Not when someone’s out there who knows how to see one. This is as close as I like.” Crane dug out a fresh stick of gum and popped it in his mouth.
Tony glanced at his watch. 7:00 p.m. Drop-off time. He looked down at the two-way radio in the dash. Not a peep. C’mon, people. Desi paid you good money. Don’t mess this up because you can’t tell time.
“Heads up!” A quiet voice hissed over the radio. “I’m walking my dog past the Dumpster, and there’s a delivery van here unloading a crate.”
Tony opened communications. “Got it. That’s good news. Just keep on strolling.”
“You bet! My forty-pound pooch needs the exercise, you know.” The voice chuckled. “Got nothing to do with my spare tire.”
Crane grabbed the mic. “Don’t want to lose that. Then we couldn’t roll you out of Sporty’s so easy.”
Reluctant Burglar: A Novel Page 21