For the next time we dance.
****
“Where have you been hiding, Bailey? I haven’t seen you all week.”
Trina Hanson, the no-nonsense detective who worked in the office across the hall, leaned into Jaq’s office on her way downstairs to the coffee stand on the main floor.
Jaq looked up from her desk, startled. “I’ve been down in Brighton since last week, finishing up the Riley case.”
She nodded. “Better you than me. Brighton always gives me a migraine. Wait, didn’t you go to a wedding up north before that for the bank holiday?”
Jaq fished her phone out of her jacket pocket, scrolling through pictures until she found what she wanted. “I did,” she said, “And it turned out to be pretty interesting.”
She held the phone up to Trina, who leaned in and grabbed it out of Jaq’s hand with a delighted squeal. It was a picture of Bronwyn with her father and Catherine at the table during Victoria’s reception.
“You met Catherine Flack? How the hell did that happen?”
It had been almost two weeks since she’d seen Bronwyn and Jaq still hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything else. Talking about Catherine was a distraction, at least. “She’s a friend of a friend and was seated at my table for the reception.”
“You know she hosts my favorite show every summer, right?’
“I’ve heard you mention it once or twice.” Jaq peered over to look at the picture. “Scroll over to the next one.”
Trina swiped to the next photo and looked suddenly like she might faint. “Jaq, oh my God! Send that to me this very instant!”
Jaq laughed and took her phone back to text the picture to Trina. She’d asked Catherine during one of the slower speeches whether she’d mind posing for a picture for her workmate. She was very gracious about it and had borrowed a pen to write something on her napkin, then held it up in the photo, pointing at it with a big smile. Trina’s Biggest Fan.
Jaq could still hear her chattering about it halfway down the hall, which was pretty entertaining because ordinarily, Trina was all business and hard as nails. Jaq sat back in her chair and stared at the window, the spreadsheets she had open on her monitor forgotten. She was waiting to be briefed on a new case from her boss, Terry Macmillan, but he was late for their meeting.
Jaq had never given law enforcement a thought until she was actively recruited in the States and flown back to London for an interview. As she started learning more about what they needed, she realized why they’d chosen her; computers only went so far. They needed a human link to identify numeric codes and patterns and give the other detectives an edge as they delved deeper into the cases that required forensic accounting. Jaq had always been able to identify codes that computers missed, so the combination of that and her additional knowledge of specific case details proved to be invaluable. It had pushed her abilities in an unexpected direction, and she’d loved it from the first day.
For the first three months in London, she worked with law enforcement professionals to develop the physical skills she’d need on the job, much like boot camp for American police officers. Unlike the States, almost none of the law enforcement personnel in the UK were authorized to carry guns, except for those at higher levels who received special clearance, and Jaq was one of those. More often than not, if forensic accounting was brought in to help solve a case, there was a good chance it was linked to the drug trade and trafficking. If you followed the money, what you found at the end was typically drugs, which amped up the danger for anyone involved.
A few minutes later, Terry Macmillan arrived at her office, trying to hold onto a stack of folders and peel the backing from a nicotine patch at the same time.
“These things will be the death of me,” he said, handing the files to Jaq and slapping the patch onto the underside of his arm. “But my wife says she’ll leave me if I don’t quit smoking. Frankly, I’m not sure which is worse.”
Jaq smiled. Anyone who’d ever stepped into Macmillan’s office, his walls thickly lined with photos of his wife and three redheaded boys, knew that wasn’t true.
“Now,” he said, leaning over Jaq’s desk and dropping the nicotine patch wrapper into her trash, “Let’s go over this case. We’ve been working on this thing for three months, but there’s something we’re missing here.”
“How so?”
“Technically, it’s a money laundering case, but I’m fairly certain it leads straight into the center of the cocaine trade here in London. All the money patterns follow the known drug shipments, but whoever is at the helm knows what they’re doing. It’s been difficult to track and even harder to figure out who’s calling the shots.”
“So why haven’t they shut down the account?”
“If we do that, they’ll ghost us, which means she’ll just go underground and we won’t have continued access to them.”
“It’s a woman?”
“It is, although I’m positive there’s more than one person involved here, most likely a small group. She may just be the front person,” Terry said. “I was almost sure whoever was moving the money was using an account they hijacked, so first thing we did was track down the person whose name and national insurance number is on the account.”
“That’s like an American social security number, right?”
“Just the same,” Terry said, “But that woman died in 1982.”
“So they used a dead woman’s details to open a fraudulent account?”
“They most likely did it online,” Terry said, leafing through the folder as he spoke. “Either that or they have a connection within Barclay’s Bank or one of its subsidiaries. It’s difficult, but it can be done.”
“So you can’t freeze the account and tip them off, and there’s no way to know when they’ll visit a particular bank to be able to arrest them there?”
“Exactly. There are more than thirteen hundred branches of Barclay’s in the UK.” Macmillan turned his pen over and over between his fingers as he spoke. “Once we make a move, it doesn’t take long before they realize we’re onto them, sometimes only hours, and once they do, we won’t have a chance in hell of seeing them again. They’ll be gone faster than a donut at a fat camp.”
Macmillan suddenly looked at his watch, grabbing his suit jacket and shoving his arms through it as he headed for the door. “Shit, I was supposed to be at my kid’s lacrosse game ten minutes ago.”
“Go,” Jaq said, pulling the folders over into a stack and waving him off. “I’ve got it. I’ll go through these, and we’ll talk in the morning.”
****
Later that night, Jaq sat on her leather sofa, her office folders and stacks of papers spread out on the coffee table in front of her as she ate the last of the takeaway she’d picked up on the way home from the restaurant around the corner. A kind Pakistani family owned the place, and their four-year-old twin boys were always running around in the front of the restaurant when Jaq stopped by after work a few times a week. They’d gotten to know her by now; a few months ago, she couldn’t decide what she wanted, so she just left it up to them, and since then she’d never ordered anything specific. She’d just come in and sit by the window until the boys ran over with her food in a bag and she handed over the money with an extra pound for each of them.
When she was a kid, she’d almost burned the trailer down one night while her mom was at work, and she hadn’t cooked since. She’d tried to make Kraft mac and cheese from the box, but she was only seven and somehow missed the part about adding water to the pan with the dry macaroni. She’d turned the burner up to high so it would be ready faster, and the pasta caught fire. By the time she’d run outside and dragged the garden hose through the front door of the trailer, the flames were almost to the cabinets, and it seemed like forever before they reluctantly backed down, hissing under the spray. She’d slid down the wall of the trailer and sat in the pool of water and black, oily ash until her mom came home. She was already drunk and tripped over Jaq on the way to
her room, locking the door behind her. Over the years, Jaq shoved it to the back of her mind, but the memory of being invisible never faded.
She made it through all but one of the files, then leaned back and stared at her phone on the table. Streetlights shone through the tall loft windows and scattered across the wood floors in broken amber squares. Jaq got up, poured a bourbon into a short glass, and swirled it around in the fading light. She drank it without a flinch and poured another. She stood by the windows, watching people pass on the sidewalk underneath, and pushed her hair back with her hand. The silence was heavy and dark as she reached through it for her phone and pressed a button.
****
The next day was sparkling with unexpected October sunshine, the breeze ruffling the leaves at Bronwyn’s feet as she walked from her house across town to meet Moira at her local pub. They always met there; the pubs in Notting Hill were a bit too stuffy for Bronwyn. The hipster crowd had taken over in the last few years, and now you couldn’t get a pint without someone in a beard asking you whether you fancied a mushroom stuffed with goat cheese or something equally as obnoxious. She texted Moira as she walked, turning sideways as a crush of giggling schoolchildren passed her on the sidewalk, their backpacks bumping against her and almost knocking the phone out of her hand.
Almost there, where are you sitting?
Her phone pinged almost instantly with Moira’s reply. Where I’ve sat for the last ten years. Already got you a chocolate martini.
Bronwyn raised an eyebrow, typing quickly as she crossed the street to the pub on the other side. You’d better be kidding.
Okay, it’s for me. But if you’re not here in three minutes, I’m drinking your pint.
People sitting outside, soaking in the last of the afternoon sun, packed the World’s End Pub. The building was lacquered a bright red, with an old black door that was usually propped open with an old whiskey barrel, even late into the fall. Flowers fell several feet down the front wall from the second story windows, competing with the ivy growing around the corners and up to the mossy slate rooftop. She edged her way inside then out to the back garden, spotting Moira sitting at a picnic table, tapping her nails on her glass. She gave her a quick hug from behind and slid onto the bench on the other side.
“Did you have a nice holiday weekend?” Bronwyn dropped her bag under the table and smiled sweetly at Moira.
Moira rolled her eyes. “Oh my God, Bronwyn, if you don’t start talking right this second, I’m going to lose my mind.”
Bronwyn laughed and took a sip of her pint. It was a hard golden cider, more sharp than sweet, and Bronwyn’s favorite.
“How the hell did you get back in touch with Jaq Bailey?”
“I didn’t, well, not on purpose anyway. We ran into each other at a country pub outside Northumberland.”
“What were you doing there?”
“Well, here’s the short version. I got lost in that storm Friday night, my car got stuck in the mud, and I walked to the nearest pub dragging my suitcase behind me in the rain. I looked a right state by the time I got there.”
“Ooooh.” Moira looked thrilled, sipping her chocolate martini and giving herself a tiny chocolate mustache in the process. “So you were stranded and walked in looking like a sopping stray cat? This is even better than I thought.”
“Cheers, Moira,” Bronwyn said with a wink, “Although you’re not wrong.”
“So what, she was just sitting there when you walked in?”
“Apparently,” Bronwyn said, smiling at the memory of how Jaq looked when she walked over to her by the fire, “But she waited until they told me there were no vacancies for the night before she said something. She walked up behind me, and I knew it was her before I saw her.”
“God, it’s that deep sexy voice of hers.” Moira paused and added to her mustache. “Even I’d recognize that.”
“Exactly,” Bronwyn said. “And she looked…well, you saw her at the wedding.”
“She was hard to miss. You looked gorgeous too, by the way; that suit was amazing.” Moira paused, getting back on track. “Wait, what happened after you saw her in the pub?”
“Well, she was nice enough to let me use her room to dry off and lend me a sweater.” Bronwyn ran a hand through her hair, smiling at the memory. “When I came back down, she’d ordered me dinner, and we just talked for ages.”
“If you’re going to try to make me believe you had a cozy little supper with Jaq Bailey then politely got into a cab and went on your way, don’t waste your breath.”
“Okay,” Bronwyn said, “I stayed the night in her room, but nothing happened.”
“Oh my God.” Moira leaned forward in her seat. “This just keeps getting better.”
“Well,” she said, “Nothing happened that night.”
“Spill it, B,” Moira said. “You slept with her after the wedding, didn’t you? Even Catherine noticed the tension. She literally couldn’t keep her eyes off you.”
“Well, it almost happened then, but we held off until the next night. But God, it was amazing.”
“That’s not hard to imagine,” Moira said. “Who started it?’
“I did; she was worried I’d regret it and kept asking if I was sure.”
“Such a gent,” Moira said, pulling her lip-gloss out of her pocket and expertly swiping her lips without a mirror. “If that’s the term to use, anyway.”
“To be honest, I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“Can’t stop thinking about…it?” Moira said, leaning forward over the table until Bronwyn stopped avoiding her eyes, “Or her?”
Bronwyn didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. She swiped at the sudden tear on her cheek as Moira reached out and took her friend’s hand.
“So you’re going to let her go because you think you have to keep Ian happy? I’ve never seen you as happy as you were with her, B.”
“But I’m engaged.” Bronwyn picked up her pint and sat back with her arms crossed.
“Yes, you are engaged,” Moira said, looking at the diamond on her hand with one eyebrow raised. “To a complete knob.”
“Moira! You just don’t know him. He’s not always that bad.”
“Bron,” Moira said, “If you let Jaq go, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. We’ve been best friends for fifteen years. I know you.”
“Shit.” Bronwyn pushed her pint to the side and dropped her head down on her arms. “What the hell am I going to do?”
****
“I was starting to wonder if I was going to hear from you again.”
Amelie Linder walked through the door as soon as Jaq opened it, tossing her purse on the couch, and walking to the bar, where Jaq had already poured her favorite brandy. An executive at Veuve Cliquot, the top champagne producer in the world, she was based in Paris but met Jaq one evening at a restaurant in London’s west end, where they were both dining alone at separate tables. Forgotten food and stacks of paper surrounded Jaq, her pencil moving across the page faster than Amelie had ever seen someone write, and strangely, she could see it was numbers, not letters. She’d invited Jaq to join her, and by the end of the evening, she was naked in her bed, hands braced hard against the headboard, while Jaq brought her to an orgasm so intense she thought she might pass out. Since then, they’d seen each other whenever they found themselves in London or Paris at the same time.
She swirled the brandy in the glass, then walked back over to Jaq, pressing the length of her body into hers. Jaq didn’t kiss her, just slid her hand around the back of her neck and pulled her gently back.
“Drink that.”
Amelie smiled. Jaq turned her on in a way she’d never experienced. She was always in control, yet treated her with intense respect; Amelie had done things with Jaq she’d never done with anyone else, simply because of the way she treated her. She drank the brandy, Jaq’s eyes locked onto her mouth, and handed her the glass. Jaq stroked her bottom lip gently with her thumb before she spoke.
�
��Go to the window, please, and face it.”
Endless floor to ceiling windows made up the entire front wall of the loft, and Amelie walked over to them, stopping at the center window. She heard Jaq walk to the couch and sit, just far enough behind her that she was an invisible voice.
“Take your coat off.”
Amelie loosened the belt of her trench coat, letting it drop behind her and pool at her feet. She was wearing a black turtleneck cashmere sweater, sleek black heels, and nothing else.
She heard her get up from the couch and closed her eyes as Jaq stepped between her body and the window and slowly sank to her knees.
“Hands against the window, please.”
Jaq’s voice was quiet and strong, and Amelie spread her hands on the window as Jaq placed one of her thighs over her shoulder. She paused until she heard Amelie beg, then Jaq’s tongue enveloped her clit in a sudden hot rush and she moaned, moving against Jaq’s mouth, every stroke so intense she felt it might push her over the edge. Jaq wrapped one hand around her hips and held her while she sank her fingers deep inside, pulling Amelie’s swollen clit into her mouth without mercy, working it with her tongue until she felt her tense and moan, fingers spread and white against the cold glass.
She ran her tongue over every inch of her until Amelie’s nails dug into her shoulders. She continued to stroke her, pulling Amelie hard into her mouth and holding her there until she shuddered to a shattering orgasm, hands spread against the icy glass, the only barrier between her and the glittering night sky.
Chapter Nine
Bronwyn pulled on her favorite painting jeans, splashed with every color of smeared paint and falling apart at the knees. It had been almost two weeks since she’d seen Jaq. She still woke up every night, thoughts of her swirling around her in the dark, stealing the hours until dawn. She’d even thrown her coat over her pajamas three nights ago and driven to her building, just to be closer to her. She’d almost called but stopped herself at the last minute. She was being ridiculous, and she knew it. She’d made her choice, and that meant going back to the life she had before instead of throwing everything away for the fantasy of Jaq Bailey. But somehow, everything was different now, in a way she couldn’t shake, and she woke up every day feeling like half her heart was missing.
London Page 10