Chasing Frost (West Side Series)

by Isabel Jolie

  I dress quickly in case he comes back out, run a brush through my hair, and peer into the dresser mirror to swipe on some blush and cream eyeshadow. I’ve repacked my suitcase, except for my toothbrush I left in the bathroom. He has yet to turn on the shower.

  I gather his clothes from around the room, fold them neatly on the edge of the bed, and toss the throw pillows back in place. The toilet flushes, then the sink runs. He’s probably brushing his teeth. He’s been in there ten minutes and has yet to turn on the shower. We’re going to be late meeting everyone.

  I sit in a chair and open my handbag. I check my BB&E phone and have zero emails. The shower finally sounds, and I pull out my personal cell. My finger hovers over Jemma’s name, my DC emergency contact. We met during basic field training, then went our separate ways. She went on to be an intelligence analyst. With my MBA and CPA, I could have gone on to be a forensic accountant. Could have skipped basic field training. But that wasn’t my dream. No, I wanted special agent. And here I am.

  Chase’s voice sounds from the shower as he sings a song I don’t recognize. He sings in the shower. I tap Jemma’s name.

  She answers, out of breath, huffing loudly into the phone. “Hotshot!” she screams. Back at Quantico, some of the guys came up with the name, but she’s the only one who still uses it.

  “Squirrel,” I say back, mainly because I know she hates her Quantico nickname, and it’s my passive-aggressive way of punching her back.

  “How’s New York?” She’s still huffing into the phone.

  “Why are you breathing so hard?”

  “Sunday morning long run. Thank god you interrupted it.” I smile. Jemma and I bonded during the physical training at Quantico. It’s safe to say we both run out of necessity. The shower drones on, but I know I don’t have much time.

  “I screwed up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I had sex with a suspect.”

  “You’re UC?” Her tone drops an octave, and I imagine she’s separated herself from any other humans on her jogging path, possibly standing away from the trail near trees.

  “Yes. For this assignment.”

  “Is he gonna do jail time?”

  “No. We’ve cleared him. He’s no longer a suspect. But he doesn’t know—”

  “That you’re FBI?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, he’ll be shocked when you tell him, but then after that, he’s just gonna think you’re a badass.”

  “Jemma, I don’t know what I’m doing.” I stare at the two queen beds, one rumpled and half-done, one well made.

  “You sound like you’re referring to more than a guy you hooked up with.”

  “I am.”

  “Special Agent not cracked up to be what you thought it would be?”

  “It is, but it isn’t.”

  “How long have you been UC?”

  “A couple of weeks.”

  “You realize you moved to a new city and went undercover, all at the same time. I’m gonna guess you’re feeling lonely.”

  “Yeah.” I sigh. “And hence the bad decisions.”

  “Was the sex bad?”

  I grin, reflecting on my multiple Os. “No. It was good. Bangin’, as my university roommate used to say.”

  “Then not a bad decision.”

  The water turns off, but Chase continues belting out the song I’ve never heard before.

  “I gotta go.”

  “Hey, remember, there are lots of career options within the FBI. UC might not be your thing. Call me tonight, okay?”

  I end the call. Leave it to Jemma to focus solely on work. Is work what has me down? Is she right? Is it the drain of being UC twenty-four-seven for the last couple of weeks that’s affecting me? Or is that I am on assignment and did something that’s unthinkable? My chest tightens. When I get home, I’ll call Hopkins. I’ll probably be off the case. This will be a mistake no one needs to know about.

  I zip the interior pocket of my pocketbook, effectively hiding my personal phone, just as the lock clicks and the bathroom door opens. A freshly shaven, baby-faced Chase greets me with a white bathroom towel wrapped below his trim six pack.

  He points an index finger at his mouth. “Freshly brushed, minty fresh. Get over here.”

  He wiggles his index finger, telling me to come to him. I shake my head, more at me because instead of telling him last night shouldn’t have happened, like I should do, I rise and in three steps stand before him.

  He bends and gives me a good morning kiss that has me pressing against his crotch and lifting my ankle in the air like some starlet in a 1940s film. A part of me does want to throw him back on the bed for a repeat of last night, but no.

  “We’re supposed to meet everyone in five minutes.” I point at my wrist to emphasize and scold.

  He tilts his head, smirks, and wiggles his thick eyebrows. “We can be late.” He pinches me. “I can be quick.”

  I laugh. “I don’t do late. Hurry.” I push him to his suitcase and slip into the bathroom to grab my toiletries and commence the search for any lost items before zipping up my suitcase.

  Within three minutes, he’s dressed, and his suitcase is zipped. I open the door to the hotel room, and he wraps an arm around me and pulls me back for another kiss. It’s a slow, sweet, minty kiss.

  “What was that?”

  “I just like kissing you.” He opens the door wide for me.

  When I reach down for my suitcase, he swats my ass playfully and says, “I’ve got it. Go, Miss Punctual.”

  We’re the first ones down and have almost completely finished eating before anyone else joins us. The situation does not go unnoticed by Chase.

  The jet ride back is quiet, almost subdued. We’re coupled off the whole way back, and somehow, I fall asleep only to be woken by a soft kiss.

  “We’re home.”

  He’s been sweet and thoughtful all morning. Not the way I would’ve thought he’d be after a conquest. I shrug it off as him being around all his friends, and there not being any other single ladies in the vicinity. I’ve gone with the flow and held his hand, and snuggled against him on the plane, enjoying his touch and proximity, with full knowledge it will come screeching to a halt soon. Either I’ll never see him again because I’ll be pulled off the case, or he’s going to put distance between us at the office so I don’t mistake what’s going on between us as more. I recognize his behavioral traits, or in FBI speak, his profile. His friends already said as much.

  When the car service pulls up to my apartment, Chase jumps out before the driver and picks up my suitcase and meets me on the sidewalk. He follows me to my apartment building’s door and brushes his thumb across my lower lip. The way he looks at me, the way he touches me, everything says he’s genuinely into me. He could win an Oscar.

  “I had a good time this weekend. A great time.”

  “I did, too.” It’s the truth.

  “I have tickets to a show Tuesday night. Would you like to go with me?”

  “What kind of show?”

  “It’s a DJ. Tickets came through work, so it’s possible some clients might be with us. But I have extras. Thought I might ask some of this crew too if you’re up for it. If you like hanging with them.” He pulls me close, running his fingers through my short hair before tucking it behind my ear. “I like hanging with you. I want to see you again. Soon.”

  It’s ridiculous, but my heart speeds along as if this is real. And this is where it’s all confusing and probably why I have up and down emotions whirling inside because when I tell him I want to see him, too, it’s the truth.

  Twenty-One

  Chase

  “Good morning, Sunshine!” Rhonda flashes her pearly whites and follows me into my office with a steaming cup of joe.

  “Wow. What a difference a weekend can make.” My assistant extraordinaire places the BB&E branded mug on my desk and takes a step back, dramatically looking me up and down.

  I glance down. I’m weari
ng my green hedgehog shirt. Hedgehogs. Why can’t they just share the hedge? It’s not stained.

  “What?”

  “Friday when you left, you looked like you were about to have to let ten percent of the department go, and this morning you look like you’re going to announce raises.” She grins, and I know that grin that’s spreading across her face. It’s the one that says something happened and I want to know all about it. “You and Sydney? This weekend?” She’s shaking her head up and down, grinning like a banshee.

  Now, if Rhonda were a dude, I might be willing to share. I’ve been known to let it rip about one or two sexcapades in the past. But it’s not like I’m gonna spill to Rhonda.

  I wave my hand in the air, signaling for her to get out as I bring my laptop to life.

  “Oh, no. I’m not leaving. You’ve gotta give me something. Are you guys together now? Did it happen during the wedding? I swear, weddings are the best place for hookups.”

  “Rhonda, I—”

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Rhonda and I both look to the doorway. Evan fills the entrance, but I can see Tom behind him in the hall.

  “Tom and I are heading over to Berkley’s Diner for breakfast. You free to join us?”

  “Of course. I’ve got to be back by ten.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem. We don’t have long.”

  Berkley’s Diner is a joint across the street that specializes in greasy griddle food. It’s my go-to place when I’m hungover. Lots of BB&E employees go, but it’s after nine, so there won’t be many employees there now. I have an idea what they want to talk about, and it’s probably best no one overhears.

  I grab my backpack, which has my folders and notes still in it, toss it over my shoulder, and follow the bosses out. So much for my great morning, because following the two suits to the elevator sure does blow all the shit going on all over me. It feels like I’m the zookeeper who just got blasted by the elephant.

  Rhonda tugs on my elbow as I pass her cubicle. “When you get back…” She wiggles her eyebrows and beams like a gossipy teenager.

  Tom Bennett glances back at us. The guy definitely heard her. Smooth, Rhonda.

  Tom and Evan lead the way to the diner, side by side. They’re both easily half a foot taller than I am, and I can’t help but feel a bit like the kid following the two adults. They’re each wearing custom made suits, sporting expensive-ass watches, and wearing shoes I know damn well hurt their feet. I’m wearing somewhat wrinkled khakis because the wash and fold on my block is, by some standards, subpar, running shoes, and a sports jacket I snatched up off the rack on sale for three hundred bucks. Sometimes I think I should invest in my wardrobe, but then I remember the guys who spend thousands on a suit are often pretty much pricks.

  The two of them lead the way down the narrow aisle, past the bar with shiny aluminum stools, all the way to the last booth along the wall of windows. The two of them slide into one side, leaving the other side open for me. There’s a giant rip in the middle of the pleather, so I sit to one side in the booth and cover the unsightly jagged foam with my backpack.

  We all order coffee and an omelet with hash browns. The hash browns here are around twelve hundred calories per order but so fucking worth it. I order mine with cheese.

  No one else occupies a booth, and there’s one old guy sitting at the far end of the bar sipping on coffee and eating pancakes swimming in syrup. The waitress leaves, and Evan glances behind him. It’s only restrooms back there. He’s not wearing a hat, but he should be wearing a fedora and trench coat the way he’s posturing and looking all secretive. But, to be fair, this is some serious shit.

  A television set playing on the wall behind their heads shows Senator McLoughlin speaking at a news conference. The subtext scrolls, and he’s talking about healthcare. One more bill the senate struck down because ultimately it would hurt insurance companies.

  The waitress returns to our booth with the coffee and fills our mugs. An awkward silence fills the table. Evan and Tom both stare. At me.

  After the waitress is back in the kitchen, Tom leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “We’ve worked all weekend on this. Since you’re the one who brought it to us, we wanted to fill you in. Evan and I are flying out to Chicago to meet with executives from South Fork to bring them up to speed. We’ll explain to them what’s happened.”

  “You know chances are they are in on it, right? Possibly paying Garrick?” Tom lifts his arms and rests his forearms in an identical position to Evan, only his fingers wrap tightly around the base of a fork. “I’m not trying to make you angry. I know you go way back with them, but it’s inconceivable they didn’t know revenues were inflated.”

  “Do you have any idea what’s it like to run a business? CEOs don’t sit there calculating each sale. We look at spreadsheets. We trust the numbers put before us.”

  I shift, spreading my arm across the back of the bench. Tom is one pissed off man.

  “Maybe you’re correct.” I placate him. “But what if I am? What are you going to do then?”

  “That’s not for us to decide. Our responsibility is to provide corrected financials and to notify the client. At this point, it is not a criminal investigation.” Evan’s deep voice has a commanding edge to it, and he looks back and forth between Tom and me as if he’s waiting to see if one of us will argue, waiting to see who he needs to pummel.

  The waitress arrives with our food, and Tom and Evan both back off the table, unroll the paper napkin tightly rolled around their utensils, and place it in their laps. Their movement appears coordinated, and it’s almost comical.

  I focus on my fiduciary responsibility. “I’ll provide you the corrected P&L, and corrected earnings statements. The correction will be based on the original data we received from South Fork, but you need to realize a full audit must occur. We have clear evidence information was altered by a BB&E employee, but I have no way of knowing if what they’ve been sharing with us all along is correct. You get that, right?”

  “I’ve known the founders of South Fork, John and Eileen, since college. We both have. They aren’t criminals.” Tom grits his teeth and adjusts his spectacles, pushing them farther up the bridge of his nose. “The point is, by the middle of the week, we’ll have answers about how South Fork wants to handle this. We’ll follow their lead, but we also are following the letter of the law. We meet with our General Counsel before getting on a plane this afternoon. He’s had the whole legal department outlining exactly what we need to do in order to meet our fiduciary obligations.”

  “I’ll get everything to you by Wednesday.” Tom gives a short nod. “And I’ll also have a notarized letter documenting what I found.”

  “Are you receiving legal advice?” Tom’s face contorts as he asks the question. His hands are under the table, but I’d bet dollars to doughnuts those hands are balled in angry fists.

  “Yes.”

  “You promised me you wouldn’t tell anyone.” Evan sounds shocked, but it’s the way he cowers under Tom’s glare that’s noteworthy. It’s pretty clear who’s the alpha at this table. And it is not my man Evan Mitchell.

  Tom shoves the table an inch my way, then rests his forearms on the surface, his tight fists hovering over his plate. “Who all have you told? Does Rhonda know? Anyone else on your team?”

  “Evan asked me not to tell anyone. I haven’t.”

  “Except your lawyer?” Evan questions.

  I nod.

  “No friends?” Tom doesn’t believe me. It’s clear he’s done with this conversation when he pulls out his wallet and lays cash on the table.

  “I know it’s a serious situation. I told my lawyer for personal protection. It’s going to get ugly. You know it. I know it. Believe it or not, this isn’t a fun topic to laugh about with my friends. I am taking this seriously. And I’m glad to see the two of you are, too. I’ll be interested in hearing how John and Eileen take the news.”

  It’s going to blow the acquisition right off the ta
ble, an acquisition that, if the papers are right, would make each of them very wealthy. These two are fools to think John and Eileen are innocent. But here’s the thing, and the real reason I brought in my own law firm. Chances are Tom and Evan are in on in it too, and I’ll be damned if I’m going down as the patsy.

  Tom rubs the side of his head, and it’s like he’s giving his right eye a massage as he does so. Yeah, I’d imagine he could easily have a migraine. The tension radiating between all of us is bringing on my own headache.

  “Who’s your lawyer?”

  I’m using my buddy Jackson’s law firm. Well, his old law firm, the one where he worked before he went over as a partner in a VC firm. It took him all of three minutes listening to me before he told me I needed the best, and he hooked me up. Not that I’m about to share any of that with these two.

  “You’ve probably never heard of him.”

  “Give me the name.”

  I glare at him. Two can glare. For good measure, I rest my fist on the table.

  “I want all the information before we fly out to Chicago.” Tom sounds defeated.

  “Dan Brown.” Yeah, it’s clear from the look he’s giving me he recognizes the name. Whatever. It’s the first name that popped in my head. I toss my used napkin on the plate. “Told you you wouldn’t’ve heard of him. He’s a buddy of mine.”

  The walk back to the office is ice cold, and not because of the outside temperature.

  Twenty-Two

  Sydney

  Chase: All ok?

  My phone’s lying flat on the round table, and Hopkins reads the incoming text at the same time I do.

  “Someone’s worried about you, huh?”

  “I’m sure he assumes I have a doctor’s appointment or something.”

  Hopkins’s cell rings, and he answers. I sink back and wait. This is the call we’ve been waiting for all morning. A decision from Bill Walters, the lead prosecuting attorney, on whether he still wants me working undercover. At this point in time, we’ve got so many cooks in the kitchen, in both New York and Chicago, I don’t envy the agent in charge of managing Operation Quagmire.