Authors: Nora Roberts
But for now he stood watch while she slept.
B
ROOKS SPOTTED THE
FBI
SHORTLY AFTER HE SAT DOWN FOR
breakfast at the hotel’s morning buffet. He barely glanced toward where Abigail sat, reading the newspaper at her single table. Casually scanning the room, he pretended to make and receive calls on his cell phone, just another busy man in transition. With the phone still at his ear, he headed out with his overnight bag.
And pulled the fire alarm on his way.
He paused, as any man might—surprised, mildly annoyed—and watched the crowd in the buffet area push away from tables, heard the noise level rise as people talked all at once.
She was good, Brooks observed. Abigail merged with the exiting crowd. As he zigzagged between her and the tailing agents, joining the people exiting, she nipped to the side and into a restroom. If he hadn’t been watching for it, hadn’t known the plan, he wouldn’t have seen the move.
He slowed his pace a moment. “Fire alarm,” he said into the phone.
“No, it won’t hold me up. I’m heading out,” he added, as he fell in behind the agents. After he pushed the phone into his pocket, he pulled a ball cap out of his bag. Still moving, he put on sunglasses, stuffed the jacket he’d worn into the buffet in the bag, pulled the strap of the bag long, then slid it crossways over his body.
They were looking for her now, Brooks noted, one of them doubling back, searching the crowd, aiming for the lobby and the main exit.
Less than two minutes after he’d pulled the alarm, she slipped out of the restroom, joined him. The long tail of her blond hair was pulled through a ball cap like his. She wore flip-flops and a pink hoodie, and had shed a good ten pounds.
They walked out together, hand in hand, then broke from the crowd and climbed into a cab.
“Dulles Airport,” Brooks told the driver, “American Airlines.”
“Jeez, you think there’s a real fire?” Abigail asked, with a hint of New York in her tone.
“Don’t know, baby, but we’re out of it now.”
At Dulles they got out at the American terminal, went inside, circled around, then exited to take another cab to the terminal for the private charter.
“Can’t really blame the feds for wanting to tail you,” Brooks commented, once they were settled on board.
“No.”
“And you make a pretty hot blonde.”
She smiled a little, then turned her laptop toward herself. “Cosgrove responded.”
“Already?” Brooks tilted his head.
I don’t know who you are, but be aware you’re attempting to blackmail a federal officer. This matter will be turned over for immediate investigation.
“Standard first-round bluff.”
“Yes,” Abigail agreed. “I’m about to call it.” She glanced up. “I’m a very good poker player, and it’s ironic he’s the one who taught me.”
Brooks watched the text come on-screen. “The student becomes the master.”
Rudolf Yankivich was your Volkov connection on the incident. He is currently serving ten to fifteen in Joliet. I’m sure your commanding officer would be interested in this information. The payment has now increased to $75,000, and will continue to increase by $25,000 for each scoop of bullshit you serve. You now have thirty-seven hours.
“Scoop of bullshit?”
“Yes, I believe harsh language is appropriate at this time.”
“I’m so in love with you.”
The sentiment made her smile. “I know how to say ‘bullshit’ in several languages. I’ll teach you.”
“Looking forward to it.”
She sent the e-mail, sighed.
“I can’t wait to pick up Bert and go home.”
I
T COULD BE LIKE THIS
—would be like this, she corrected—as she sat on the back porch with a glass of wine, the dog at her feet.
Peaceful, quiet, yes—but not solitary, not with Brooks sitting in the second chair, which he’d bought on the way home.
“Will I get used to it, do you think? Being one person, being safe, being with you?”
“I hope you will, even to the point where you take it all for granted now and again.”
“I can’t imagine that.” She reached over for his hand. “It should happen quickly now.”
“We’ll be ready.”
She sat for another moment, her hand in his, looking out over her thriving garden, the quiet woods. Just another soft evening, she thought, as spring drifted toward summer.
“I’m going to make dinner.”
“You don’t have to bother. We can forage around for something.”
“I feel like cooking. Like routine. Like everyday.”
She saw understanding when he looked at her. “Everyday sounds good.”
To her mind, no one who hadn’t done without everyday could fully appreciate how precious it was.
She gathered what she needed, pleased when he came in to sit at the counter and talk to her while she worked. She chopped plum tomatoes and basil, minced some garlic, shredded some mozzarella, added some cracked pepper and poured olive oil over them to marinate. For fun she began to prepare a pretty tray of antipasti.
“I thought we could get another dog, a puppy, as company for Bert. You could name him, since I named Bert.”
“Two dogs, no waiting.” He considered. “It’d have to be Ernie.”
“Why?”
He nipped one of the hot peppers off the tray. “Bert and Ernie. Muppets?
Sesame Street
?”
“Oh. That’s a children’s program. Bert and Ernie are friends?”
“And possibly more, but since it’s a kids’ program, we’ll stick with friends.”
“I named Bert for Albert Einstein.”
“I should’ve figured.”
“He is very smart.”
Her computer signaled.
“That’s incoming mail,” she said, and stepped out of everyday.
She walked to the computer, leaned over and brought up the mail. “It’s Cosgrove.”
“He took the bait.”
Blackmail me, blackmail the Volkovs. You won’t live to spend the money. Back off now, and live.
“He’s tying himself to the Volkovs with this response. It’s not concrete, of course, but it’s a start.”
“Let me answer this one,” Brooks requested, and took a seat.
“Oh …” Then Abigail’s uncertainty turned to a nod of approval. “That’s very good.”
Tell the Volkovs you’re being blackmailed, you’re a liability. They eliminate liabilities. Pay now, and live. Payment is now $100,000. You have twenty-nine hours.
“I’ll route it.”
He gave her the seat, stood behind her, rubbing her shoulders, as she worked what he thought of as strange magic with the keyboard.
“Now he could call the bluff. He could let this go past the deadline, wait it out.”
“No, he won’t.” Brooks leaned down, kissed the top of her head. “He’s shifted from using the law as a lever to using the Volkovs. He’s sweating. His next response will demand a guarantee. How can he be sure we won’t come back for more?”
“That’s irrational.” Once the message was routed, she turned in the chair to look up at Brooks. “It’s all dishonest, it’s extortion. Asking for a guarantee’s not logical, and would cost another twenty-five thousand. He should either agree to the payment or ignore any other communications.”
“Side bet, ten bucks.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I have ten dollars that says he’ll come back whining for a guarantee.”
Her brows drew together. “You want to wager on his response? That doesn’t seem appropriate.”
He grinned at her. “Afraid to put your money where your mouth is?”
“That’s a ridiculous expression, and no, I’m not. Ten dollars.”
He drew her to her feet, into his arms. Swayed into a dance.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure we’ll make a nice picture dancing at our wedding.”
“I’m a very good dancer.”
“Yes, you are.”
She laid her head on his shoulder, closed her eyes. “It should feel strange, dancing with no music, making wagers, while we’re orchestrating something so important.”
“Does it?”
“No, it really doesn’t.” She opened her eyes in surprise when her computer signaled another incoming e-mail. “So quick.”
“He’s on the edge. Squeeze play.”
“I don’t understand what that means.”
“Baseball. I’ll explain later. Let’s see what he has to say.”
How do I know you’re not going to come back for more later? Let’s work out a deal.
“That’s a very foolish response,” Abigail complained.
“It cost you ten dollars. Keep it short. Say: ‘You don’t. No deals. You’re up to $125,000, clock ticking down.’”
She studied him a moment: that slightly crooked nose, the hazel eyes—a wash of green over amber now—the shaggy black hair in need of a trim. “I think you’re very good at extortion.”
“Thanks, honey.”
“I’ll put the pasta on while he considers. That’s what he’s doing now? Considering?”
“Sweating, pouring a drink, trying to figure out who’s screwing with him.” Oh, yeah, Brooks thought, he could picture it. “He’s probably thinking about running. Not enough time to make running plans, so he’ll pay, and start making them.”
At the counter, he popped an olive from the tray into his mouth, then topped off her wine. And when her back was turned, tossed a slice of pepperoni to Bert.
By the time she’d boiled the pasta, drained it, the signal came through.
Onetime payment. Come after more, I’ll take my chances with the Volkovs. Spend it fast, because I’m coming after you.
“Big talk.”
“You understand him very well,” Abigail noted.
“Part of the job. You have to understand bad guys to catch bad guys. Where were you figuring to have him wire the money?”
“I have an account set up. Once he’s transferred the funds, I’ll distribute it to a charity for children of fallen police officers.”
“That’s commendable, and I don’t like denying kids, but …”
“You have another recipient in mind?”
“Keegan. Can you transfer Cosgrove’s payment to Keegan’s account?”
“Oh.” Her face lit up as a woman’s might when given rubies. “Oh, that’s
brilliant.
”
“I have my moments.”
“More than moments. It implicates both of them. It gives the FBI cause to bring them both in for questioning.”
“Honey, it fucks them both inside out.”
“Yes. It really does. And yes, I can do it. It’ll take me a few minutes.”
“Take your time. Bert and I will go for a little walk while you work.”
He snagged a couple more slices of pepperoni on the way out—one for him, one for the dog. A nice evening for a stroll around, he thought, with time to check out the progress of the garden, think about what he might do around the place on his next day off.
“This is our place,” he said to the dog. “She was meant to come here, and I was meant to find her here. I know what she’d say to that.” He laid a hand on Bert’s head, rubbed lightly. “But she’s wrong.”
When Bert leaned against his leg, as he often did with Abigail, Brooks smiled. “Yeah, we know what we know, don’t we?”
As they circled around, he saw Abigail come to the door, smile.
“It’s done. Dinner’s ready.”
Look at her, he thought, standing there with a gun on her hip, a smile on her face and pasta on the table.
Oh, yeah, he knew what he knew.
“Come on, Bert. Let’s go eat.”
B
ROOKS SPENT A CHUNK
of his morning—too big a chunk, in his opinion—meeting with the prosecutor on the Blake cases.
“The kid’s crying for a deal.” Big John Simpson, slick as they came and with one eye on a political future, made himself at home in Brooks’s office. Maybe a little too much at home.
“And you’re giving him one?”
“Save the taxpayers’ money. Let him plead guilty to assaulting an officer, resisting, the trespass. Got him locked on the vandalism at the hotel, the assaults there. All we give him is a buy on the deadly weapon. We’d never make attempted murder stick. He gets five to seven inside, with mandatory counseling.”
“And serves two and a half, maybe three.”
Big John crossed his ankles above his mirror-shined shoes. “If he behaves himself, and meets the requirements. Can you live with that?”
“Does it matter?”
Big John lifted a shoulder, sipped at his coffee. “I’m asking.”
No, they’d never make the attempted murder stick, Brooks admitted. A couple years inside would do one of two things, he calculated. It would either make Justin Blake into a halfway decent human being, or it would finish his ruination.
Either way, Bickford would be free of him for a couple years.
“I can live with it. What about his old man?”
“Big-city lawyers doing their big-city shuffle, but the fact is, we’ve got a lock there. We got the phone records proving he called Tybal Crew. Got three separate witnesses saw Crew’s truck outside the house on the day in question. Got the cash money turned in, and Blake’s fingerprints are on a number of the bills.”
He paused a moment, recrossed his ankles. “He’s claiming he hired Ty to do some work around the place, paid him in advance ’cause Ty needed the money.”
“Kosseh sher.”
“Say what?”
“Bullshit in Farsi.”
“Don’t that beat all?” Big John let out a chuckle. “Yeah, it’s bullshit in any language. We can bring in a couple dozen witnesses who’d swear Blake never pays in advance, never pays cash,
always
gets a signed receipt. True enough Ty was pretty damn impaired by the end of it, but he hasn’t changed his story by an inch. So.”
He shrugged, drank more coffee. “If Lincoln Blake wants to push it to trial, it won’t hurt my feelings. Make a nice splash. He’s charged with solicitation of murder for hire of a police officer. They’re going to want to deal before it’s done. Any way it’s sliced, he’ll do time.”
“I can live with that, too.”
“Good enough.” He unfolded his six-foot-six-inch frame. “I’ll make the deal with the boy’s lawyer. You did good, clean work with both these arrests.”
“Good, clean work’s the way it’s supposed to be.”
“Supposed to and is aren’t always the same. I’ll be in touch.”
No, they weren’t always the same, Brooks thought. But he’d like to get back to that good, clean work. Just that. He wanted the rest over and done, however intriguing parts of it were.