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Trust, as it happened, was the key sticking point between Arch and I. As he’d pointed out in another of those rare honest conversations, it went both ways. I wasn’t the only one worried about getting my heart broken.
“For what it’s worth,” I said, “when I asked Arch what he would’ve done were he in his father’s shoes, he responded, ‘I’m not my father’s son.’”
“So you’re telling me that although Arch has a twisted sense of right and wrong, he does have a sense of decency. A bad boy with a good heart.”
I smiled. “Exactly. I know you’ll find this hard to believe but he’s actually quite vulnerable.”
Nic snorted.
I wasn’t offended because I knew it was a tough pill to swallow. The man was six feet of hard muscle. He smoked Marlboros, had a tattoo and cussed a blue streak. Not to mention he socialized and tangled with bad sorts. Vulnerable didn’t fit the picture but that’s because people only saw what he wanted them to see.
I flashed on a memory and cringed. “Oh, crap.”
“What?”
“I just remembered, Arch told me about his family in confidence.” He’d given me permission to talk about Chameleon, not his personal life.
“Why does it have to be secret?”
“Because he said the more people know about him, the more vulnerable he becomes.” I thunked my forehead. “I can’t believe I betrayed him.” Again.
“Calm down.” Nic leaned over and squeezed my knee. A sweet gesture from a non-touchy-feely person. “I think your man is being paranoid, but we’ve all got our quirks. I won’t repeat what you told me about his family. Not even to Jayne.”
I massaged my pounding temples. “I hate keeping things from her, but I did promise Arch.”
“I understand.”
“I just wanted to give you some insight. I know you don’t like him—”
“I like Arch, Evie. He’s a likable guy. I just don’t trust him.”
That made two of us.
“Maybe I’ll feel differently when I get to know him better.”
Ditto.
“Moving on. So, do we break it to Jayne that you’re working with a team of fraud investigators before or after we save her from Madame Helene’s evil clutches?”
“Tough call. I’d like to get Arch’s take, if that’s okay. He understands the psychological aspects of the mark and the con artist. I don’t want to make the wrong decision only to have Jayne turn on us instead of Madame Manipulator.”
“Makes sense. Can you talk to him about it ASAP? I really want to get on this.”
“I’ll have an answer today.”
“Good. Great.”
There was a pregnant pause while we both regrouped. I didn’t know what was on her mind, but I’d yet to share what I’d wanted to reveal in the first place. “Back to Arch and Beckett’s profession.”
Nic shifted and caught my gaze. “Ah, yes. Big-time hush-hush.”
“Brace yourself.”
“Spit it out.”
“Chameleon isn’t a freelance investigative agency,” I blurted. “It’s a covert branch of a government agency. You know, like the FBI.”
“You’re working for the freaking FBI?”
“No, the AIA.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Artful Intelligence Agency.”
“Still never heard of it.”
“Me, neither. But they exist. Don’t ask me what they do, but Chameleon falls under their umbrella.”
If I were Nic I’d be pacing the floor just now, venting and spewing rapid-fire questions. She just sat there, assessing. “You’re telling me Slick is a G-man?”
Slick was her moniker for Beckett. One he didn’t care for because she usually said it with sarcasm. I had no sympathy because he called me Twinkie. “Yes,” I said. “Beckett’s a federal agent.”
“What about Arch?”
“Nope. Beckett’s the only official member of the AIA. He answers to the director, a hardnose named Vincent Crowe, and everyone on the team answers to Beckett. Well, except Arch. They’re partners. Sort of.”
“Complicated relationship. I got that. Complicated further by you.”
I smirked. “Thanks for reminding me.”
“This is an awful lot to take in, Evie.”
“I know.”
“It’s bigger than I first thought. More dangerous. And it plays right into Jayne’s fears about a friend getting burned.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I’m sorry I haven’t been here for you and Jayne.”
She quirked a lopsided smile. “Yes, well, you’re here now and we’re going to help our friend.”
I reached over and squeezed her hand. She squeezed back and my throat got thick as I thought about another friend in potential need.
“Any other bombs you wanna drop?” Nic asked.
“No.”
“Anything you want to talk about?”
I swallowed and met her gaze. “I’m worried about Beckett.”
CHAPTER THREE
Philadelphia International Airport
“I’M ON THE GROUND.”
“How’d it go, mate?”
“Mission accomplished.” Milo Beckett navigated the crowded terminal, fighting exhaustion and self-disgust. He’d manipulated and intimidated con artists before, but he’d never lost his composure. Then again, Turner wasn’t a professional grifter. He was a former pro athlete with an arrogant streak and, as it turned out, an explosive temper. A dirtbag who cheated at sports, cheated the IRS and cheated at cards. Still, making him disappear for the sake of a politician’s career left a bad taste in Milo’s mouth. He’d spent several hours trying to put the ugly episode out of his head. Finally, he’d resorted to rationalizing. I sold my soul to the devil for the greater good.
Evie Parish, a virtuous soul who kept him connected to innocence and the pursuit of dreams, would view that rationalization as copping out or selling out. She’d certainly disapprove of the tactics he’d employed to accomplish the senator’s goal. He hated that he cared. He wished he could stop thinking about that pleasurable but ill-timed kiss. He’d sent her away in order to focus on what he had to do. He’d sent away the entire team to shield them should his plan curdle. The separation had been an unexpected relief. The dynamics of the tight-knit group had been strained ever since Evie had tripped into their lives.
Now that they were in between cases everyone could go their separate ways. Maybe time apart would help ease the friction. Or maybe this was the end of Chameleon. He’d been contemplating leaving the AIA anyway. Screw his pension. His vision for the team had been compromised over the past year and he didn’t see things improving under the leadership of the new director. Although maybe Crowe would get off Milo’s ass now that he’d completed his unofficial directive.
Temples throbbing, he hustled toward baggage claim, anxious to get on with his life. The sooner he reported to HQ, the sooner he could decide his future.
“Still there, Jazzman?”
“Yeah.” He’d called Arch out of courtesy. Next he’d call Samuel Vine, aka Pops, a trusted friend and the bartender and caretaker of the Chameleon Club. Word would trickle down to the other team members that he was safe and on home turf. “How’s everyone doing?”
“Evie’s fine.”
“I meant the entire team.”
“Sure you did.”
Milo didn’t argue. Truth was he did worry more about Evie because, unlike the rest, she wasn’t trained in self-defense. Unlike the rest, she didn’t have skin as tough as a rhino’s. Not to mention he was infatuated with the good-hearted fireball.
“The Kid booked you a rental car,” Arch said, skating past further talk of the woman who’d put a kink in their already complex friendship.
“He texted me the info.” Woody, aka The Kid, was Chameleon’s computer geek. A wiz at all things technical. His role in the Mad Dog Turner sting had been vital as they’d relied on high-tech surveillance equipment to cheat a cheat.
“I assume Senator Clark was pleased when you handed him that briefcase packed with his wife’s lost fortune, yeah?”
“‘Impressive’ was all he said. About the money anyway.” Milo had driven to Senator Clark’s estate directly after he’d handled Mad Dog. “Mostly he wanted assurance that I’d protected him from future scandal. I’m sorry to say I was able to give it to him.” He reached in his jacket pocket for a packet of Tylenol.
“Want to talk aboot it?”
“What do you think?” He popped the pills dry, wincing when his hand bumped his split lip—compliments of Turner. Just then Milo noted two suits wearing dark shades. “Shit.”
“What?”
“Trouble coming my way.”
“Bad sort?”
“My sort. Gotta go.”
“Call me if you need me, mate.”
“Right.”
Thirty minutes later, Milo stood in Vincent Crowe’s office, clueless as to why he’d needed a personal escort to HQ. Agents McKeene and Burns had dodged the question. Didn’t matter. This couldn’t be good.
“Take a seat. Director Crowe will be in shortly,” McKeene said on his way out.
“Thank you.” He waited until the door shut then added, “Agent Ass-Kisser.”
McKeene and Burns were new men, company men. Brownnosers who made Milo’s balls twitch. He didn’t sit as directed. He hitched back his suit jacket and stared out the window, watching pedestrians navigate Independence Square on a sunny spring day.
For the most part, the new director of the AIA operated out of Philadelphia instead of Washington, D.C. A source of curiosity to Milo, although he’d never asked why. Crowe had been his boss for a month. Their relationship had been adversarial from the get-go. Because of a botched land investment sting in the Caribbean, and because Milo had been unwilling to explain why the team had operated outside of AIA jurisdiction, Crowe had put Chameleon on suspension. They were still on suspension. The mission they’d just completed had been unofficial. A favor.
Two weeks ago, Crowe had summoned Milo to this same office to inform him of Senator Clark’s plight. His wife, an obscenely wealthy gambling addict, had lost a bundle to Frank “Mad Dog” Turner, pro athlete turned restaurateur, in a series of private high-stakes poker games. She swore she was cheated. Senator Clark enlisted Vincent Crowe to clean up his wife’s mess. Crowe assigned Chameleon to infiltrate the game and win back the senator’s money and then, to ensure there wasn’t a scandal that could jeopardize the senator’s political aspirations, to make the cheat disappear.
Milo had balked. Chameleon was his brainchild and he’d formed the elite group to champion Everyday Joes, not the rich and powerful. In his opinion Clark should have contacted Gamblers Anonymous instead of the AIA. But Arch and the team had talked him into taking the case, thinking if he refused he’d be damaging his career. Milo didn’t give a flying fuck about his bureaucratic career, especially when it interfered with the work he really wanted to do. But he did care about the members of his team and if they wanted to stay tight with the AIA, he wasn’t going to screw up that connection. Against his better judgment, he’d agreed to help the senator.
At least he’d had the opportunity to bail Evie’s mom out of a swindle just prior to roping Turner. A win for the Everyday Joes. Unfortunately, it had also been a win for Arch. Even though something simmered between Milo and Evie it was Arch she loved. Leaving the better man, or at least the safer choice, shit out of luck.
The door opened and closed and Milo turned.
Crowe crossed to his desk. He didn’t look happy.
At least they had one thing in common.
“We have a problem, Agent Beckett.”
“Sensed that when you sent McKeene and Burns, sir.” He didn’t mistake the escort for a courtesy ride. The men had been cool and tight-lipped. Upon entering HQ, the receptionist and the five desk jockeys had greeted him warmly, which led him to believe few were privy to whatever was going down.
Crowe, a slouch-shouldered man with a puffed-up ego, settled behind an antique desk. The air crackled with arrogance and tension as he leaned back in his leather chair. “When I told you to silence the man who bilked Mrs. Clark, I didn’t mean literally.”
Milo eased into a chair as he felt the rug being pulled out from under him. “Are you telling me Mad Dog Turner is dead?”
“Are you telling me you didn’t do it?”
“Hell, no. Sir.”
“Sources say otherwise.”
“What sources?”
“My sources, Agent Beckett. Did you think I was going to send your arrogant ass and hotdog team to handle something as sensitive as the senator’s case without insurance?”
“You had agents spying on us?”
“I prefer to think of it as keeping tabs.”
Milo’s blood pressure rocketed. He eased a kink from his neck, breathed. “I won’t bore you with the details. I assume you’ve already heard them. But I will tell you that when I left Turner, he was alive.”
