INFORMANT (23 page)

Day Eighty

Morning

“Complete immunity,” I say. “That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

It’s six o’clock in the morning, and we (meaning me, Beckett, Agent Reardon, Sarah, and two other solemn-looking DEA agents), are gathered at Polk Street Bagels. We are sitting together in the back room, surrounded by fifty pound sacks of flour, refrigerated tubs of flavored cream cheese, and assorted boxes of paper goods. We’ve got a tray of bagels spread out on the table before us, but nobody’s touching anything except the coffee. 

Reardon leans back in his chair. “Funny. I didn’t realize you were the one calling the shots here.”

“Someone has to. If I left it up to you, this would just drift along forever. Let’s see… It’s only taken me a few weeks to get Miguel Diaz pinned down. But you’ve been working this case for…” I pause and tilt my head to one side, as though calculating an enormous sum, “how long? Years or decades?”

Reardon’s neck flushes red. His expression tightens, and quiet rage flashes through his eyes. Beckett shoots me a warning look, but I ignore it.

“Ronnie gets full immunity, too, or the deal’s off.”

“Your brother-in-law?”

“Yeah.”

One of the other DEA agents leans forward. “So you’re admitting Ronnie Hoyt was involved in dealing drugs for Sun Yee.”

I slant him a cool look. “I’m not admitting anything. I’m just saying that in return for helping the DEA nail Miguel Diaz and Sun Yee, Ronnie and I walk away clean. You never hear from either of us again.”

I twist around, grab my backpack, and reach inside. Maybe I move too fast, or maybe it’s just instinct on their part, but with the exception of Beckett, every agent there reflexively reaches for his weapon. I freeze, then send an admonishing look around the table. When I withdraw a single sheet of paper and slide it across to Reardon, they all sheepishly look away.

Reardon glances at the document. “Well, well. Looks like you lawyered up.”

Absolutely. Compliments of Professor Brad Morris, Esq. A single page immunity agreement that ensures Ronnie and I can walk away when this is over, without the threat of prosecution hanging over our heads. Short, tight, and neat. I’ve signed it. Ronnie’s signed it. Now we just need Reardon to sign it.

He lowers his reading glasses and looks at me. “What’s the matter, don’t you trust me?”

“Not particularly. But that doesn’t matter. Sign the document and we’ll move on.”

“Move on?” He arches his brows in fake astonishment. “There’s more?”

I slide a pen across the table and wait.

Reardon shows the immunity agreement to the agent sitting to his right. He scans it as well, then looks at Reardon and shrugs. A silent communication passes between them. With a barely contained smirk, Reardon scrawls his name in the signature block and passes it back. I slip the agreement in a protective envelope and return it to my backpack.

“When’s your birthday, Agent Reardon?” I ask.

“My birthday?”

“Yeah. Your birthday.”

“March third,” he replies, playing along.

“March third, huh?” I lean forward. “Well, this might be a little bit early, but I’ve got one hell of a gift for you. I think you’re gonna go nuts when I tell you what it is.”

“Oh?”

“How’d you like to place Miguel Diaz, Sun Yee, and both their respective crews, together with a shipping container full of drugs, weapons, and cash?”

Reardon’s self-satisfied smirk vanishes. His expression goes tight and straight. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about putting away Sun Yee and Miguel Diaz for good. I’m talking about making you a bona fide hero, getting your name in all the papers.”

Beckett shoots me a glance. Just a quick, barely perceptible glance to help me gather my courage. I’ve got my immunity agreement, so it’s time to talk. I take a fortifying breath, and then begin. I don’t hold anything back. I tell them about Ronnie running drugs for the Golden Dragon, about Dally’s kidnapping, and how Julio Juarez was murdered so Ricco could take his place. Last, and most importantly, I tell them that Miguel Diaz plans to intercept Sun Yee’s next shipment, and that this is all going to take place within a matter of days.

“I need details,” Reardon says, his voice clipped.

“You’ll get them,” I say. Then I deliver my terms. “For five hundred thousand.”

Reardon rears back in his chair. His gaze moves from me to the rest of his agents. “Is this some kind of fucking joke?”

“No,” I reply. “It’s no joke.” 

“You want five hundred thousand.”

“For the information I’m providing, that’s cheap and you know it. Rock bottom.” This is true. According to Beckett, Reardon can authorize payments of up to half a million to secure necessary information. Anything more than that has to be approved by higher-ups in the DEA chain of command. But that takes too long. We’ve got
days
to act, then this window of opportunity closes for good.

“I want to help you nail Diaz and Sun Yee,” I say. “But I’m not going to do it for free. You dragged me into this hole, now you’re going to help me climb out. Help me put my life back together when this is all over.”

His supercilious smirk returns. “You really think you’re worth five hundred thousand?”

“No. But I think the information I’m offering you is.” I let that sink in, then I give a cool shrug. “Unless maybe you have another informant operating somewhere in the city who can give you details on the shipment? Someone who’s in this mess as deep as I am and is willing to risk his life to get out?” Reardon glares at me and silently works his jaw. I watch him for a long moment, then I shake my head. “I didn’t think so.”

Reardon stands abruptly and pulls out his phone. He steps away from the table and makes a call. When he returns, he towers over me in a way that’s meant to be intimidating, but isn’t. I’m holding the cards here and we both know it.

“A quarter of a million,” he says. “Not a penny more.”

“Fine by me. Which do you prefer—the place, or the time?”

His eyes narrow. “What?”

“This isn’t a negotiation. You pay half, you get half. A quarter of a million gets you either the place or the time, but not both. You want both pieces of information, you pay for both.”

Reardon brings his palm down hard on the table, slamming it right beside me. I flinch reflexively. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Beckett start to move, but he stops himself. Good. This is my show now. He’s got to let me do this on my own.

“You know what I think?” Reardon hisses. “I think this is bullshit. I think you’re no different than your drug-dealing brother-in-law. I think this is nothing but a greedy grab for money.”

I look at him and shake my head, refusing to be baited. “Bullshit, huh? You saw the meeting at the Palace of Fine Arts,” I say. “You recovered Julio Juarez’s body. What more proof do you need that something’s going down? You either want to be there when it does, or you don’t.”

“I could have you arrested for obstructing justice,” Reardon says. “For extortion."

“Not with an immunity agreement,” I retort.

For a long moment neither of us speaks. In theory, we’re on the same side, but it certainly doesn’t feel that way. We glare at each other like enemy combatants. 

Finally, it’s my buddy Sarah who breaks the silence. “How do we know you’re not making this up?”

“I guess you’ve got to trust me.”

Reardon doesn’t respond. He just laughs.

I stand, remove my mike from the pocket of my backpack and toss it on the table. “You don’t want to pay, that’s fine. I’m out. I quit. You want me to continue, you want to put Diaz and Sun Yee away, it’ll cost you half a million, transferred directly into my bank account. Your choice.”

“And if your information’s wrong?” Reardon counters. “If you can’t deliver?”

I stop at the doorway and turn back. Now it’s my turn to laugh. “You’re the government, remember? If I don’t come through, you’ll figure out some way to get it back.”

Day Eighty

Afternoon

At three o’clock, I get a text from Jane
. Transfer complete. 500k in your account. It’s on.

Day Eighty-Four

Night

Ricco loves to dance. He’s good at it, too. Smooth and fluid. Never misses a beat or loses his tempo. He’s beautiful to watch.

We are at the Boom-Boom Room, a small Latin dance club a couple of blocks off Guerrero Street. As usual, the entire Diaz entourage is with us. Assembled together are Miguel, Uncle Juan, Anna and Anita, various body guards, friends, dealers, whores, accountants, and God only knows who else.

I have officially become a hanger-on. I am a pack member now. Ricco’s woman. I have thrown everything I have into the role of undercover informant, sticking close to Miguel Diaz and his son. I assure them Ronnie will get them the information he promised. I travel with their crew all over the city and pretend to have a great time. This is my job.

For the most part, Ricco treats me well. He lets me choose what I want to eat for dinner. Permits me to talk to the other women. Allows me to leave the party when it’s late and I’m tired. But there are other things he’s firm about controlling. He decides what I’ll drink, and how much. When I’ll dance and with whom. He also likes to dress me up.

Generally, our nights out go like this: Ricco picks me up at my place. He brings two or three slinky dresses and sky-high heels. (Thank God my mom’s not here to see me in these get-ups.) I slip them on in my bedroom and then come back into the living room, where he’s sitting, waiting for me to model them for him. I spin around and pretend to enjoy the ritual, pretend that I appreciate his generosity in buying this clothing for me, but in reality, it makes my skin crawl.

Tonight I’m wearing a stretchy teal blue dress that looks like I applied it to my body with a spray can. Pretty much the opposite of anything I would ever buy for myself, but Ricco likes it. Why shouldn’t he? This is his way of exerting dominance over me. His way of reminding me that I am his to control.

But the worst part always comes at the end of our ‘date’. Every night, I wait in a state of agitated suspense, certain he’s going to insist on coming in. That’s he’s going to force his way into my bed and claim me in the most animalistic way possible. Strangely enough, that hasn’t happened.

Sometimes his touch is crude, other times he’s gentle. Either way, I try not to flinch. I swallow my repulsion. Remind myself that my connection to Ricco is what saved Dally. Like a stripper or a porn actress, I try to fix a look of feminine sexual arousal on my face, because that’s what he wants to see. On some level, it must work. When he moves away from me, I never fail to note the dark satisfaction in his gaze.

As the song ends, I return my attention to the dance floor. Ricco is escorting his latest partner—a gorgeous blonde—back to her table. She looks him up and down, licks her lips, and slips him her number. There are no clocks in the Boom-Boom Room, but I’m guessing it must be near closing time. Obviously she’s hoping to go home with him. When he turns away with a little more than a polite nod and heads back to me, she gives a pretty little pout.

My frustration swells. It’s ridiculous. I would
love
for him to ditch me and take her home. Nothing would make me happier. But Ricco’s got some warped code of honor that won’t allow it. Drugs, murder, racketeering—that’s all business. Leaving the woman he brought to a club and taking someone else home—shameful.

“Having a good time?” he asks as he slides into seat next to me.

“Absolutely,” I lie.

His hand finds my thigh beneath the table and gives it a squeeze. “Good.” He glances up, spies the waiter, and signals for another round of Cuba Libre. I bite back a groan. If I never taste another rum and coke in my life, that’s fine with me.

The gorgeous blonde hasn’t given up. She’s checking us out, clearly trying to figure out what our relationship is.

“Pretty woman,” I say absently.

Ricco glances at her, and then turns back with a sneer. “Just another whore,” he clips out.

Something about the exchange is eerily familiar. I think for a minute, and am suddenly reminded of Stephanie, Beckett’s partner in our chem lab. Another beautiful woman who was assertive in demonstrating her physical attraction to someone. Ricco’s response to her was every bit as vitriolic. It’s odd. Most guys would love for a gorgeous woman to openly flirt, but not him. A warning bell goes off in my head. I know there’s something important there, but I can’t quite grasp it.

He smiles, leans toward me, and murmurs, “Maybe she makes you jealous, eh?”

“Not really.” It’s been a long night, I’m bone tired, and the words are out before I can stop them. I instantly realize my mistake.

His eyes darken and his smile abruptly fades. Moving with snake-like speed, he grabs my wrist, holding me in a grip that’s so tight it’s punishing. It’s all I can do to keep from crying out.

“You should be very careful,
armorcito
. Very careful. My father is not a patient man, and neither am I.”

I try to pull back. “Ricco—”

“Where is your low-life brother-in-law now, eh? Sun Yee’s shipment will arrive in three days, yet we have heard nothing from him.”

“You’ll hear. Ronnie’s working on it.”

“Is he? I hope so. It will be very bad for you both if he fails to do as he promised.” His grip tightens even more. I had no idea Ricco was so strong. It feels as though he’s going to fracture my wrist.

I wince. I can’t help it. “Ricco, you’re hurting me. I thought we were friends.”

“Friends?” He makes a
tsk
ing sound with his tongue. My hair falls across my face as I struggle to pull away from him. He brushes it back and whispers in my ear, “Is that what you want,
armorcito
? You want to be friendly? Good. So do I.”

With that, he hauls me up and drags me with him toward the coat room. It must be later than I thought, for the coat-check girl has already gone home. My relief that we’re finally leaving is tempered by the realization that Ricco is drunk—when he leaned close, the heavy odor of rum clouded his breath. I’ve been discreetly pouring my drinks out, while Ricco’s been downing one after another. I’ll have to convince him to let me drive, and in the mood he’s in now, that won’t be easy.

With my thoughts thus occupied, I’m totally caught off-guard when he catches me by the shoulders and slams me up against the wall. My breath rushes out of my lungs. I’m knocked off-balance, wedged between a rack of men’s overcoats. The back of my head hits the wall so hard I’m literally seeing stars. When my vision clears and the reality of what just happened finally sinks in, I’m not scared. I’m fucking
pissed.

I bring up my knee, aiming straight for Ricco’s groin. Unfortunately he anticipates my move and blocks me with his thigh. He gives a low chuckle, grabs my opposite wrist and effortlessly pins both above my head.

“I thought you said you wanted to be friendly,” he says, pressing his body against mine.

“Get off me.”

“Make me.”

“I’m serious, Ricco,” I hiss, staring him straight in the eye. “Get the fuck off me.”

With his free hand, he slaps me across the face.
He slaps me.
My bottom lip splits and I taste blood. I go crazy, frantically writhing against him, but he’s got my wrists pinned and my body trapped beneath his. Also, I’m wearing the hideous hooker stilettos he brought me, so my balance is off. When I try to slam my knee into his balls, he blocks me with frightening ease. I cry out, but his mouth covers mine, swallowing my screams. It’s useless anyway. There’s no one here to help me. The music is insanely loud in the club and our bodies are hidden by all the overcoats.

And, I realize, I tossed away my DEA mike trying to prove a point to Reardon. I’m totally on my own.

I feel Ricco’s erection press against my hip. He reaches up my dress and fumbles for my panties. Genuine terror overtakes me. Oh, my God. He’s going to rape me. Right here in the coat room. He’s too strong for me to overpower. The more I fight back, the more aroused he gets.

Wait a minute.

The more I fight back, the more aroused he gets.

With that hideous thought, a bolt of realization suddenly strikes me. The warning bell that sounded earlier suddenly makes sense. For weeks, I’ve wondered why he never saw through me. I’m not a good actress. My sexual interest has been so thinly feigned it’s absurd.
I’ve had it backwards the whole time
. Ricco never bought my play-acting. Like his Uncle Juan, he doesn’t want a willing partner. He wants me
because
I don’t want him. My reluctance, my lack of genuine arousal,
excites
him.

I immediately stop struggling. Instead, I lean into him. “Am I getting it right?” I murmur. “Is this doing it for you?”

He pulls back slightly, frowns.

“Or do you want me to pretend to fight harder?” I writhe a bit more. In a voice that’s falsely high, I say with a giggle, “Stop, Ricco, stop.”

“What the fuck are you doing?”

I shrug. “Don’t worry about it. It’s no big deal. Lots of guys can’t get hard by themselves. They need to playact. Is this what you need to do to get it up? To pretend?”

“Shut up.
Shut the fuck up
.”

“Ricco, it’s no big deal.” I give an impatient sigh. “Is it working? Is your little Willy Wonka’d yet?” I purse my lips and shake my breasts “Or do you need me to take out my big, soft Oompa-Loompas?”

His face contorts. Dark rage flashes through his eyes. He releases my wrists and draws back his fist, but this time I see the blow coming and strike first. I lift my leg and drive my stiletto heel directly into the arch of his foot. When he doubles over, I slam my fist upward, straight into his Adam’s apple.

He reflexively gags. I shove past him and flee the club, running as fast as I can into the night.

This is my second time running away from Ricco. The third time I won’t be so lucky.