by Diane Kelly
The man led me to a table for two in the back corner, as if trying to hide their pathetic, lonely patron away from the eyes of their happier, accompanied customers. After pulling out a chair, he snatched the second set of silverware from the table as if not to embarrass me further.
Ugh. Maybe treating myself to dinner had been a bad idea.
As I began to look over the menu, a man’s laugh floated across the room. A man’s laugh that rang a familiar bell. My gaze followed the sound and I found myself staring at my ex Brett and a pretty woman who had to be his new girlfriend, Fiona. Or should I say his fiancée? A rock the size of an escargot graced the ring finger of her left hand.
No doubt about it now.
Treating myself to dinner had definitely been a bad idea.
I contemplated whether I could sneak out without being seen. Brett and I had ended our relationship on good terms, or on as good terms as possible when you mutually decide to go your separate ways. Still, I didn’t want him to see me sitting here, without a date or even a friend, like some pathetic loser. And I had to admit, even though it was clear the two of us were not meant to spend the rest of our lives together, it hurt a little to see that he’d moved ahead so quickly.
Quicker than Nick and I.
Ouch.
I’d just stood to attempt a quiet escape when my phone went off in my purse, booming “Gunpowder and Lead” across the restaurant. Dammit! Every head in the place turned my way, including the heads perched on the shoulders of Brett and Fiona.
All of a sudden, my French came back to me. Well, at least the word I needed now, which was “crap.”
Merde. Merde, merde, merde!
I gave Brett a wave and a forced smile as I settled back into my chair. I pulled the phone from my purse and jabbed the button to accept Eddie’s call. “Hi, Eddie,” I said, keeping my voice as low as I could so as not to disturb the other diners any further.
“I’ve found us an art appraiser,” he said. “The art teacher at the twins’ school has a masters in fine arts from SCAD.”
“Scab? What’s scab?”
Despite my attempts to keep my voice to a whisper, a woman at the next table overheard me, quirking her lip in disgust.
“It’s SCAD,” Eddie repeated. “Savannah College of Art and Design. It’s one of the top art schools in the country. Mrs. Windsor also spent three years working as a curator at the Guggenheim. She knows her stuff.”
“Fantastic. It’ll be nice to get a professional opinion.”
The waiter approached and I asked Eddie to hold while I placed my order, not only for my wine but for my food, as well. I wanted to eat as quickly as possible and get the heck out of there. My peripheral vision told me that Brett had cast a glance or two my way since my wave.
“She can take the afternoon off next Tuesday,” Eddie said. “Does that work for you?”
“That works fine. Thanks, Eddie.”
As I ended the call, I noted a waiter approaching Brett and Fiona’s table with an appetizer of boudin blanc. The instant the server set it down between them, Fiona’s face turned green. She leaped up from her seat and dashed to the ladies’ room.
Sheesh. You’d think a woman who was a professional chef wouldn’t freak out over a little white sausage.
When the waiter left his table, Brett stood and came over. “Hi, Tara.”
A warm flush rushed up my neck. I hoped he wouldn’t notice. “Hi.”
His gaze moved over my face. “You look great.”
“I just had a facial.” I circled an open hand in front of my face. “All this skin is brand-new.”
He chuckled. “How’re things going?”
That was a hard question to answer. Hard, at least, to answer honestly. Since Brett and I had broken up I’d been nearly run off the road by a thug hired to kill me, shot four men in a strip club, been fired from the IRS, engaged in a shootout at a truck yard, and had my ass burned in a gas well explosion. And that was just for starters. But I’d also fallen in love with Nick, evened the score with my college nemesis, and been rehired by the IRS after a jury found me innocent in my excessive-force trial.
I looked up at Brett. “You know how things always are for me. Totally nuts with a side of crazy.”
He offered me that boyish smile that used to turn my knees to mush. “You wouldn’t want it any other way.”
True that.
“I noticed Fiona’s ring,” I said. No point in pretending otherwise, right? “Looks like congratulations are in order.”
“Thanks.” Brett glanced in the direction she’d run. “It’s kind of hard to believe I’m going to be someone’s husband.” He looked down for a moment, then back up at me. “And someone’s father.”
It took a moment for his words to register. “Fiona’s pregnant?” Wow. He hadn’t wasted any time once we’d split up, had he?
He nodded, looking a little embarrassed. “It was a … surprise. But it’s one I’m happy about.” The soft smile he offered was genuine.
“You’ll be a great father,” I said. He would be, too. He doted on Napoleon, his Scottie mix, as well as Reggie, a pit bull he’d taken on after Christina and I had arrested the dog’s owners. Any child of his was sure to be hopelessly spoiled.
His smile morphed into a look of concern and his eyes cut to the empty seat across the table from me. “How are things with Nick?”
I debated my answer. Frankly, I was still upset with Nick for taking on the undercover assignment in the cartel. Not that he’d had much choice in the matter, but he didn’t have to be so eager about it. Still, I wasn’t sure I wanted to air our dirty laundry, especially to Brett, what with his pretty bride-to-be and a baby on the way. Not that it was a competition or anything, but, if it were, Brett would definitely be winning. By a wide margin, too.
“Things are good,” I said finally. “He’s working a dangerous undercover case that’s got me a little worried, though. I came here hoping the crème brûlée would take my mind off things.”
“The crème brûlée is pretty mind-blowing.”
Less than a year ago Brett and I had shared the dessert at this very restaurant. Things had changed so much since then.
“Tell you what,” Brett said as my waiter approached, “your dessert is on me.”
At one time, he might have meant that literally and suggested I eat it off his naked body. Now, though, a plate would be involved.
He asked my waiter to bring me a crème brûlée and add it to his tab.
“Thanks, Brett.”
“Any time.”
Fiona reappeared at the other end of the room, looking a slightly lighter shade of green now. Brett bid me good-bye and returned to his table. Fiona glanced my way and said something to him, probably asking who I was. I was curious what he’d said in return.
An old friend?
The girl I left for you?
Just somebody that I used to know?
Choked up with emotion, I had a hard time getting my dinner down. I felt worried and lonely and, admittedly, a little jealous. I’d only recently got an “I love you” from Nick, but Brett had already given Fiona a diamond and a zygote. Not that I was necessarily ready for those things quite yet, especially the zygote. How could I chase down bad guys if I were suffering from morning sickness like Fiona? Adding a kid to the mix would definitely complicate things for me and Nick jobwise, too. It was one thing for a single guy to go undercover inside a dangerous cartel, but it would be another thing entirely for a father to risk his life that way. Given that I was the best shot in the office, Lu often assigned me to investigations where gunplay was likely. Should a mother with a baby at home put her life at risk? If—when?—Nick and I decided to settle down and reproduce, we’d face a lot of tough decisions.
But why worry about that now? I forced those complicated thoughts aside and decided to just enjoy the delicious crème brûlée the waiter was placing in front of me.
I jabbed the top with a spoon to break through the hard top and scooped up a piece
of the hard glaze along with the creamy goop underneath. I loved the stuff, even if it was a bit like eating glass. I stuck the spoon in my mouth and closed my eyes to savor the delicious flavor. Yummm. It was almost enough to make me forget that Christina and Nick could be dead right now.
Almost.
chapter thirteen
Phone Calls and Carbohydrates
At three o’clock Friday morning, the sound of rumba music pulled me out of a fitful sleep. My head felt foggy, my eyes droopy, my limbs heavy. But at least now that I was regaining consciousness, the nightmares involving El Cuchillo fled to the dark recesses of my mind. The killer had been running through my head all night, slashing and stabbing indiscriminately, leaving a trail of bloody, dismembered bodies in his wake and leaving my heart pounding so hard it was a miracle blood wasn’t spurting out my ears.
As my skinny, creamy cat Anne stirred beside me, lifting her furry white head, the rumba notes kicked in again.
Wait. There’d been no music in my dreams. What’s making that sound?
The secret cell phone, that’s what!
Snapping fully awake, I sat bolt upright, upsetting the cat, who scampered to the end of the bed. I grabbed the phone from my nightstand and frantically clawed it open. My mouth started speaking before the phone even made it to my ear.“Nick? Nick, are you there?”
When he spoke, his voice was hushed and hurried. “We can’t reach anyone on our outside team. I need your help.”
“Anything.”
“I need you to follow a car, see where the driver goes.” He gave me a color, make, and model—black Toyota Sequoia SUV—and a Texas license plate number. “It’ll be heading south on Central Expressway from Plano in twenty minutes or so. Can you get up there by then?”
“If I haul ass.”
“And what a sweet ass you haul.”
“Aww,” I replied. “You’re making me blush.”
“Take your gun,” he said, “and don’t get out of your car under any circumstances. The guy in the Sequoia is extremely dangerous. He’d slit his own mother’s throat if she got in his way.”
“Got it,” I said. “Take my gun. Stay in my car.”
“Don’t call me back,” he said. “I never know when someone’s going to be with me. I’ll call you later for the information.”
“Okay.”
“Tara,” he said, his voice tinged with worry. “Be careful.”
“Always am,” I said.
“That’s a lie.”
He was right. I’d been known to take some crazy risks. But, hey, I was just doing my job.
“Where are you?” I asked, almost afraid to know the answer. Though we had our share of drug violence here, much of the most gruesome violence took place south of the border.
“Our targets are expanding their network in north Texas. I’m still here in town.”
I closed my eyes. Thank God. My heart squeezed painfully. “I miss you, Nick.”
“Good,” he said. “The more you miss me, the better the sex will be when I get back.” With that, he gave me a “gotta go” and disconnected.
Leaping from my bed, I ripped off my nightshirt and headed to my closet. I grabbed the first thing I found, a pair of blue scrubs with BAYLOR MEDICAL CENTER printed on the chest. I’d bought the scrubs at a secondhand store months ago when I’d been staking out a post office and needed some undercover disguises. Last time I’d worn the scrubs, people had assumed I was a real nurse and asked me all kinds of personal and disgusting medical questions about warts, and infected tattoos, and issues down there. Since I’d be doing surveillance from my car tonight I wouldn’t have to worry about that.
I slipped into the scrubs and a pair of sneakers, forgoing a bra and socks. There was no time for undergarments. I scurried downstairs, hurdling Henry, my furry Maine coon, who lay on the rug at the bottom. He tossed me a dirty look.
“Count your blessings, cat,” I told him. “You could be a lion in a teeny cage.” Poor Simba.
Grabbing my father’s old field glasses from the coat closet and my purse from the table in the foyer, I ran into my garage, punching the button to raise the door.
“Dammit!”
Alicia’s black Audi was parked behind my car in the drive, blocking me in.
Closing the garage door, I darted back inside, once again hurdling Henry, who refused to move. Pompous cat. I glared down at him. “You are not the center of the universe.”
The look he gave me in return said both that he pitied my ignorance of astronomy and that I could go straight to hell. Assuming, of course, I filled his food bowl first.
I fished around in my roommate’s bag for her car keys and ran out front with them, my nipples hardening in the cool night air. At least there was no one around to see the peep show. I bleeped the Audi’s door locks open. I’d driven Alicia’s car only once before, when she’d downed a few too many Mexican margaritas, but I knew she wouldn’t mind my taking it tonight. It was an emergency, after all. I slipped inside, started the engine, and threw the gearshift into reverse.
Ten minutes later, I sat on the shoulder of the southbound 75 freeway with the lights and engine off and my dad’s oversized field glasses resting on my lap. With any luck, I’d look like a motorist having car trouble. With more luck, Dallas PD and the driver of the Sequoia wouldn’t pay any attention to me.
I’d been waiting only three minutes when a vehicle fitting the description drove past. Raising the binoculars to my eyes, I checked the license plate.
Yep. That’s the one.
I started the engine but kept the lights off until I’d eased into the traffic lanes. Hanging back a dozen car lengths, I followed the Toyota for several miles before it took the exit for the 635 loop. I took the exit twenty seconds later. Shorty afterward, the driver headed off the freeway and onto the surface streets, eventually pulling into a Waffle House on Jupiter Road.
Five cars sat in the restaurant’s lot, two near the front and the other three near the back in what was probably an employee parking section. Two eighteen-wheelers had been parked parallel to the far right curb. The bright yellow restaurant was well lit inside, making it easy to see the half-dozen people seated on the stools and the cook behind the counter flipping eggs and hash browns.
As I turned into the parking lot, taking a spot near the front, a young Latino man with short but messy hair and a dark backpack climbed out of the Sequoia and looked around. Fortunately, he gave the Audi only a cursory glance before heading inside.
Even with the outside lights, it was too dark for me to get a good luck at the man. Could he be El Cuchillo? I had my doubts. The photo of El Cuchillo online had depicted a man with his head shaved bald and a face crisscrossed with scars. Though scars wouldn’t be visible from this distance, this man looked too young and had too much hair to be the notorious, violent criminal. Given the backpack, this man looked as if he were a mule, moving either money or drugs. As upper management in the cartel, El Cuchillo wasn’t likely to do this type of grunt work.
I watched for a moment or two from my car as the Toyota’s driver walked past two men in flannel shirts, took a seat down the counter from them, and placed an order with the counter clerk. She nodded and served him a cup of coffee. He added two sugars, stirred, and took a sip, adding a third sugar when the first two packets proved insufficient.
Was the guy waiting for someone? Or was he simply having an early breakfast? Drug dealers, like nurses, truckers, and undercover federal agents, probably worked odd hours. Maybe he’d simply stopped for a stack of pancakes before heading on to his final destination.
Nick had told me to stay in my car and be careful, but I wanted to be as helpful as possible, too, without jeopardizing the investigation, of course. With my disguise in place, surely I could go inside, keep a better eye on the guy. Besides, I probably looked far more suspicious sitting in the car in the lot.
I whipped my comb from my purse, eyed myself in the vanity mirror, and did my best to comb my bed-head hair
into some semblance of style.
“Yikes.”
Despite my best efforts, my hair looked puffy on one side and flat on the other, but it would have to do. I shoved the comb back into my purse, climbed out of the car, and headed inside, hunching my shoulders to hide my peaked nipples.
“Sit wherever you’d like,” called the waitress, gesturing with an orange-rimmed pot of decaf before refilling a mug for a stocky man seated near the end of the counter.
I slid into a booth in the corner where I could keep an eye on the man at the counter. Looking over the menu, I debated my options. Biscuits. Grits. Hash browns. Toast. Pancakes. Waffles. So many carbs, so little time. Should I go with greasy carbs or syrupy carbs? Hmm. Tough choices.
The waitress sauntered up with a steaming pot of regular coffee in her hand now. “Coffee?”
“That would be great.” I had no idea how long I’d be tailing the driver of the Sequoia. Might as well make sure I was properly caffeinated lest I nod off driving down the highway and end up in a ditch. Or worse.
When she finished filling my cup, the waitress set the pot down on the tabletop, pulled a pencil from behind her ear, and held her pad poised to jot down my order. “What can I get you?”
“Biscuits and gravy,” I said. “Extra gravy. Hash browns. Grits. The cheesy kind. And a pecan waffle.” Good thing these scrubs had a stretchy waistband, huh?
She made a note of my order.
I cocked my head. “Any chance you’ve got lite syrup?”
“Lite syrup?” She raised a brow. “You’re kidding, right?”
I shrugged. “You’re right. What’s the point, huh?”
She slid the pad back into the pocket of her apron, retrieved her coffeepot, and went behind the counter to submit my gluttonous order.
Pretending to be surfing the Net on my cell phone, I eyed my target over the top of the device. He looked to be in his early twenties and wore jeans, dark tennis shoes, and a lightweight gray windbreaker jacket, nothing remarkable. With the brighter indoor lighting, I could see that he had a thin mustache and a barely there beard, making him look like a Latino James Franco. He’d set his backpack on the floor in front of the stool next to him where it wouldn’t be underfoot.