As I suspected, the cabinet is full of random plane paraphernalia. No ledger, no SD card, no prepaid mobile phone, nothing. So I move to the next cabinet, and the next.
I’ve been searching fruitlessly for fifteen minutes when Sam comes to find me.
“Dance is about to start,” he says. “Any luck?”
I shake my head, feeling defeated.
He nudges my chin up so I’ll meet his eyes. “You’ll find it.”
“I only have three days left.” My voice wobbles, but I don’t try to hide it. Not from Sam.
“All the more reason to take a breath. Come dance with me.”
I laugh. “Seriously? You want me to dance right now? Besides, shouldn’t you be tending to Haley?” Just the sound of her name reminds me of all the “us” I seem to be losing. “What happened to us, Sam?”
Sam takes my hand and pulls me to the almost empty dance floor. The band, mistaking us for a couple, begins a sweet, sultry version of “Stardust.” I should feel uncomfortable, and I do, but not for the right reasons. I should be worried that I’m wasting the little time I have left. I should be worried about all the people depending on me. Instead, I’m worried about what Sam is going to say.
He knows me better than I know myself. Is there something I’ve missed? Something I’ve done to break us? I start marshaling my arguments, because I can’t let Sam leave me. Even Tyler couldn’t fill the gaping hole a missing Sam would leave in my chest.
Sam moves me across the floor with considerable skill, spinning and dipping me in time with the music. He’s showing off and shutting me up at the same time. I can’t help but smile. He may not be an obedient minion, but he can be devious when he wants to be.
For the final chorus, he slows us to the gentle sway of the other dancers who have joined us during the course of the song.
“I forgot you knew how to dance,” I say.
“I learned from the best,” he says softly, sadly. He’s thinking of my dad, and I feel sympathy for his loss for the first time.
“Listen, Sam—”
“No,” he says, pulling me closer. “It’s your turn to listen.”
Then, before I know what is happening, he leans down and kisses me. Molecules split apart and reconnect, whole galaxies rearrange themselves, and everything finally falls into place.
“Holy crap,” I whisper. I am such an imbecile. I stare at him, not having any idea what to say. Thoughts of Tyler crowd my discombobulated brain. “Sam.”
“I love you, Julep,” he says. “I always have.”
The music is loud enough that I can barely hear him. But I know what he’s saying. A thousand memories bubble up, a thousand glances, a thousand touches, a thousand words. He’s been telling me all this time, but I haven’t listened. I haven’t wanted to listen. I didn’t want to know.
“Sam, I …” What can I say to my best friend to keep him? Either way, I lose him. “I don’t know what to say.”
His face falls, but he never gets a chance to respond.
“Samuel Elliot Velasco Seward?”
The couples nearest to us pull back to reveal Mike, who’s wearing a suit and a grim expression. Sam looks a question at Mike, and there’s not a single spark of recognition on his face. My blood freezes.
He’s never seen Mike before in his life.
“Yes?” Sam says.
“Mike, what’s going on?” I say.
Mike flicks me an apologetic glance, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he pulls a wallet out of his pocket and flips it open, showing us a golden badge with an eagle crest.
“Sam Seward, you’re under arrest.”
THE MESSAGE
I stand gaping at Mike for a moment like the mark on the wrong side of a con, almost unable to process the sting of his betrayal. I thought Mike was on the level, that we were made from the same hardscrabble material, that we understood each other. The sob story about needing the paycheck—he’d known from the beginning exactly how to play me. Tears of humiliation push at my eyelids, but I’ll be damned if I let them fall.
With effort, I pull myself together, clamping my hand over Sam’s with the force I wish I could use on Mike’s throat. Throwing a pointed glare at Mike, I haul Sam off the dance floor and head to the parking lot. I won’t let him be humiliated, too. I won’t let Mike cuff him in front of all his friends and enemies. In my peripheral vision, I see Tyler edging over to meet us.
Once we’re outside, Mike stops us long enough to read Sam his rights. Sam won’t look at him, or at me for that matter.
“What’s going on?” Tyler asks as he jogs up to us.
“… anything you say or do may be used against you …”
“This backstabbing Benedict Arnold is arresting Sam.”
“… you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed …”
“What?” Tyler says. “Why?”
I can’t answer Tyler without getting Sam into more trouble than he’s already in.
“… you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?”
Sam nods as Mike opens the back door of a dark SUV with heavily tinted windows.
“Where are you taking him?” I demand. “You have no right to do this.”
“MCC,” Mike says, his face expressionless. “And yes, I do.”
“Don’t say a word, Sam—not a single word. I’ll come get you.”
I watch as the SUV pulls away with my best friend trapped inside it.
“I have to go,” I say to Tyler. “I have to get him out.”
“I’ll drive.”
I don’t even put up a fight. I take shameless advantage of Tyler’s generous heart and let him drive me, despite everything that happened between Sam and me not ten minutes ago. The boy is either a saint or a sucker for punishment.
Unfortunately for Tyler, I spend the fifteen-minute drive to downtown silently fuming, coming up with new and creative ways to torture Special Agent Mike Ramirez. The Molotov was too good for him.
The waiting room at the Metropolitan Correctional Center is a lot like the waiting room at the DMV, if you add a collection of convicts in fancy bracelets awaiting processing.
Seeing so many people in custody makes me jumpy. Living on the edge of eventual incarceration gives a person a preemptive claustrophobia for confined spaces. Especially confined spaces crawling with cops.
“Who are you here for?” the booking officer asks, looking over the rims of his reading glasses at me.
“Samuel Seward,” I say. “Is bail set yet?”
“Hold on,” he says. A few computer clicks later, he tells me he’ll be right back.
Sam needs a lawyer, which means parents. His mom is going to have an apoplectic fit, and she sure as hell is never going to let Sam within a football field of me after this. But then, that might be in his best interest.
I pace between the plastic chairs bolted to metal frames and the hallway leading to the interrogation rooms while I wait for the booking officer to come back. Tyler knows better than to try to comfort me. He sits patiently, brooding and watching me.
But the booking officer doesn’t come back. At least, not until after Sam’s dad marches through the lobby door at the same time Mike ushers Sam out of one of the interrogation rooms.
“Mr. Seward,” I say, moving to intercept Sam’s dad. “I fully intend to—”
“What are the charges?” Mr. Seward barks at Mike, ignoring me.
“No charges yet,” Mike says. “But your son is still under investigation. I expect him to be available for further questioning.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. Sam’s off the hook for now. But he still looks miserable, and he hasn’t looked at me once. He and his father seem to be engaged in a silent battle of wills.
“Sam—” I say. But the only acknowledgment I get is him shrugging off the hand I put on his arm as he passes. Which hurts. But it’s the least I deserve for getting him into this.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper at his retreating back, though
I doubt he hears me. He follows his dad out of the building, and I break out in a sickly sweat at the thought that it might be the last time I ever see him.
But there’s another person I still need to deal with, and it doesn’t matter one bit to me that he’s a federal officer and about twenty years my senior.
I fix a cop-killer glare on Mike, fury rolling off me in waves. I’m cognizant of the fact that my rage, hair spikes, and smudged makeup make me look like a post-battle Marvel mutant. But I can’t make myself care in the wake of Mike’s betrayal.
“Congratulations, Mike. You’ve caught yourself a criminal. Bravo.”
He just stands there, not taking me as seriously as he should.
“I’d ask why you bothered with the sidekick when you could have collared the ringleader, but I’m guessing you didn’t have the basic competence to gather the evidence you needed. If you think Sam’s going to give it to you, you’re sadly mistaken.”
“Julep, this isn’t personal.”
“It’s personal now.”
He motions me into the room he and Sam just vacated. I have far too much to say to storm out. So I storm in. Mike closes the door behind me.
The room is pretty much what you’d expect from an interrogation room. Spare, government-issue table, two pointedly uncomfortable chairs arranged across the table from each other, and a long “mirror” on one wall. The room is carpeted, though, and there’s a small barred window near the ceiling that is letting the neon night spill onto the floor.
“Sit down,” Mike says. “Would you like some coffee?”
The offer reminds me of our conversations at the Ballou, which enrages me further. I sit in the seat nearest the door. I’m not the one being interrogated here.
“Everything you ever told me is a lie.”
Mike takes the seat across from me. “Would you have given me the time of day if I’d told you I was undercover?”
“I might have,” I say. “When the time was right. And it’s not like I told you much as Mike the PI.”
“When the time was right?” Mike’s expression is a mixture of anger and incredulity. “If I hadn’t tackled you out of the way of that Molotov, you’d be a Jane Doe charcoal briquette in the morgue right now.”
“I’ll get you your information,” I say. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it? You want the evidence my dad found.” And as soon as the observation is out of my mouth, my head fills with questions I didn’t even consider while Sam was in custody. “How did you even know about that?”
Mike sighs and rubs his eyes. “Your dad told me.”
“You’re lying. My dad would never go to the authorities, not for any reason, ever.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, kid. All I know is I got a series of phone calls from a guy claiming he had evidence to link Petrov’s gang to an extensive smuggling ring. That some top brass were involved, so he couldn’t take it to the local PD.”
“You knew all that and you didn’t tell me? I would never have—” I literally bite my tongue to stop myself from admitting that I asked Sam to hack the FBI database. The last thing Sam needs is my confession added to whatever evidence Mike has against him.
“You didn’t need to know who was pulling the strings to follow your dad’s clues to the evidence he stashed. And I didn’t need you getting pulled off course. If you’d known it was Petrov, you’d have gone straight to him.”
“Why didn’t you go after him? Why were you tracking me instead of Petrov in the first place?”
“I have been tracking Petrov,” he says. “I’ve tapped his phone, I’ve analyzed his financial records, I’ve had him followed, but nothing ever pans out. He’s cagey enough to keep his business untraceable to him—money laundering, shell companies, the works. And I can’t crack his inner circle. He only lets in people he’s known for twenty years or more.”
“Until my dad,” I say, my shoulders slumping.
“Until your dad,” he agrees. “He was the first contractor Petrov ever hired outside his internal crew.”
“But why did my dad call you?” Why didn’t he tell me?
“I think he was in over his head and needed help. He was going to give me the evidence the night your apartment was tossed, but he never showed.”
“I still don’t understand how you figured out who he was. Even if he did want your help, he’d never have given you his name.”
“He didn’t give me his name, Julep,” Mike says softly. “He gave me yours.”
I close my eyes. “He wanted you to protect me.”
“Yes, though if he’d cut you out of the equation, sent me a direct location for whatever it is he found, you’d have been safer than with me just watching out for you.”
I shake my head, resting my hands flat on the metal table between us. “He couldn’t send you the evidence or its location without risking interception. That’s why he hid it so only I could find it. It was his insurance policy against Petrov taking me out on the mere chance that I know too much. Besides, you’re not the only one he put on Julep detail.”
The chill of the table seeps into my hands, making them feel disconnected, heavier. But I can’t dredge up the desire to move them. They’re the only part of me that isn’t numb.
“Why did you arrest Sam?” I ask.
“He broke the law.”
“Why did you really arrest him?”
Mike looks down, the only sign that I’ve unsettled him at all during this conversation. “You were getting too close to Petrov. Anytime you’ve made any leaps in that direction, it was because Sam made it possible. I took him out to protect both of you.”
Something else clicks into place. “You told the dean. About my dad. So she would bring in the social worker and set me up in foster care—get me out of your way.”
He doesn’t answer, which is all the answer I need.
“You ruined my life,” I say.
“I know,” he says.
I push myself up, the cold in my hands spreading to my wrists. I hope it reaches my heart before I forget what sensation is like altogether. I’d rather be cold than feel nothing.
I walk through the door into the too-bright hallway. Mike follows me out.
“One more thing,” I say, looking back. “Why tell me Sam hired you? Why not tell me my dad did?”
Mike’s hands are in his pockets, his face a picture of chagrin. “I needed you to feel sorry for me, so you’d keep me in the loop. With your dad gone, I didn’t have the excuse of a paycheck.”
Classic Spanish Prisoner con, and I fell for it like a total rookie. I nod at Mike, acknowledging his victory.
I slink into the waiting room, my wrath now tempered with regret and ignominy. Tyler takes one look at me and jumps to his feet.
“Are you—?”
“Let’s just go.”
I don’t look back at Mike as I walk out the door. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
Tyler follows me to the parking lot. “Julep,” he says, grabbing my arm and turning me to face him, “talk to me.”
“There’s too much at stake, Tyler—too much at stake, and I keep making boneheaded decisions.”
I lean against the R8, away from him. I can tell I’m hurting his feelings, but I don’t deserve him. And I won’t believe him when he says everything’s going to be okay.
“Then stop.”
I blink at him, disoriented.
“Stop making boneheaded decisions.” He opens his passenger’s-side door for me. “You can’t do anything about what’s already happened. Adapt.”
I give him a weak smile. “That sounds like something my dad would say.”
He smiles back, though worry still clouds his eyes. “I read it on the back of a cereal box.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I needed that.”
“So? What next?”
I need to sort things out with Sam. I need to find the evidence against Petrov. I need to rescue Petrov’s prisoners. But first things first.
“Th
e clue,” I say. “Time is running out.”
When we get back to the hangar, the dance is in full swing. I thread my way through couples convulsing on the dance floor to strobe lights and the sounds of a DJ remixing the music of our generation. I’m grateful I managed to at least minimize the damage to Sam’s reputation, though I’d be a fool to think word won’t get around, and soon.
Tyler and I pick up the search where I left off, hunting through bins and cabinets, combing through tools and propeller parts. But nothing looks remotely out of the ordinary.
The music is too loud for us to carry on much of a conversation. Tyler’s acting like his usual Tyler self, despite everything that’s happened tonight. But I sense a space between us that wasn’t there before, like he’s holding something back.
We work our way to the small corner office where they must keep the majority of the paperwork for hangar operations. I pick the lock on the door, hoping that the chaperones are deep enough in their flasks by now that they won’t notice.
The hangar is warm from bodies and space heaters, but the office itself is less so, since the door has been shut and locked all night. When we get inside, my eyes settle on the exact hiding spot of the last clue. He’s made it so obvious I’m shocked it’s still here. Anyone with even a hint of delinquency knows a Carlito’s Way poster is always a hiding place for contraband. He meant it as a message: Once you’re in the game, you’re in until the big sleep.
My anger returns—at my dad for this ridiculous charade, at Mike for his betrayal, at Petrov for ruining all my chances at a decent life, at myself for leaving those girls behind out of fear for my own safety. I stalk across the small room and rip the poster from the wall.
I’m not sure what I expected. A piece of paper with another clue, I guess. But instead, there’s a hole punched into the wall. Taking a deep breath, I start pulling out the bigger chunks of Sheetrock, dropping them on the floor. When I reach in, my hand brushes a thin, delicate stem. Carefully, I draw out the dried husk of a rose, beautifully preserved but thoroughly dead. And worse, no note.
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