скачать книгу бесплатно
“Aye.”
“Forget it.”
“He’s not there.”
“I don’t care.” No way, no how was I getting naked in Beckett’s apartment. I’d been there. Done that. Almost. Thanks to ODing on a combo of over the counter medication. “I’m fine. Really. Let’s go.”
He didn’t look or sound exasperated, but I’d wager I’d taxed his patience. “Fine,” he said then steered me to a storage room.
My pulse accelerated as we navigated the jam-packed room and pushed through a concealed door. A set of creaky stairs led to the basement. A low-wattage bulb illuminated a washer and dryer and a freezer. Workout equipment. Tools. Crates of liquor and soda. All perfectly normal. Well, except for the appliances. The avocado finish screamed early 70s. Hello, Brady Bunch. The old-as-dirt dryer was probably a fire hazard. The ancient wiring couldn’t be that safe, either. I immediately redirected my basement inferno thoughts.
I’d only been down here once before. But I knew Arch had to swing aside a wall clock to get to a security pad. Unlike Pops he didn’t ask me to turn away when he punched in the code. Which intimated trust. Which gave me a warm fuzzy feeling. If only it would heal the itching sensation driving me batty.
Just as I knew it would, a wall slid open revealing The Cave. The super spy facility I’d imagined only it was hidden behind shelves of canned pretzels and assorted nuts.
I don’t know why they called it The Cave. It didn’t look like a cave. It looked like a state-of-the-art recording studio. Acoustic tiles. Plush carpeting. Leather furniture. A console of visual and audio gadgets.
A techno-geek’s dream. Speaking of…
“I dug like you said, Ace, but I didn’t get much,” Woody said as we entered the room and the wall slid shut behind us.
The Kid, as everyone except me called him, was sitting alongside Tabasco at the console tapping away at one of three computers. The two men couldn’t look more opposite.
Woody had a pasty complexion, scraggly hair, and a sparse beard. Skinny as a rail, early twenties—a dead ringer for Scooby-Doo’s Shaggy. He’d had one girlfriend and he’d lost her. It didn’t help that he was a social train wreck.
Tabasco probably had a girlfriend or two in every state. Any woman who’d ever drooled over Antonio Banderas would drool over Jimmy Tabasco. Same sexy, Latin lover vibe. Plus, he was sweet.
Tabasco’s official role with Chameleon was dual: Transportation Specialist and Location Scout. But he was also pretty savvy with tech gear. Last night he’d worked alongside Woody in the high-tech surveillance van, spying on Mad Dog’s poker game. Since the players weren’t allowed to have guests, Arch (as the Baron of Broxley) had sent me back to our hotel, only I’d stopped the cab a block down and had backtracked, slipping inside the undercover van to view the sting over Woody’s and Tabasco’s shoulders. Being on the outside looking in wasn’t where I wanted to be, but it was better than being in the dark. Due to strategically hidden cameras, Tabasco, Woody, and I had a prime view of every player and their cards via multiple monitors. Due to transmitting and receiving body wires, we had full audio contact. Between Arch and Gina, who were both in the game, Mad Dog never stood a chance even with his luminous contact lenses and marked cards.
“The only reason CNN picked up the story,” said Tabasco, “is because Mad Dog was a former pro football player.”
“Otherwise we wouldn’t have learned the news so soon,” Woody said. “A burglary that resulted in homicide. Local news stuff.”
Just then Gina emerged from another room with a cup of coffee. Without a word she perched on the cushy leather sofa and thumbed through a stack of newspapers. She barely spared us a glance. I wasn’t surprised. She hated that I was sleeping with Arch. I hated that she’d slept with Arch (something I’d learned from my meddling ex-husband). Arch, who’d refused to apologize to me for past affairs (which when I thought about it logically was, well, logical) was nevertheless sensitive to my discomfort. Hence, he’d been treating Gina with cool indifference. I was starting to feel bad about that. Especially, when I put myself in her shoes. I could fully sympathize with the plight of the woman scorned.
“Hacked into the local law’s computer system,” said Woody. “The initial report looks routine, though sketchy. Cops must be frustrated as all get out. No physical evidence. No clue as to the identity of the assailant.”
“Yet,” Tabasco said.
“Pull up that report for me, Kid.” Arch moved to the console.
I scratched. I needed a distraction from the itching that was only getting worse. Eying the stack of newspapers, I sucked it up and sat down next to Gina. Not right next to her, but close enough to make her frown.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Looking for any mention of ‘Mad Dog.’ Doubt there’ll be one since most of these papers went to press last night, but it’s worth a look. Also keeping my eye trained for any blips about Senator Clark or Vincent Crowe. Anything at all.”
“Can I help?”
I thought I heard her sigh, only Gina wasn’t the sighing type. She reminded me of Nic—independent, cynical, worldly. She also resembled my friend in appearance, only her skin was paler and her eyes were brown. But she exuded the same sensuality. Had the same tall, slender but toned body. Except Nic was nice and Gina was mean. Okay. Maybe not mean. But definitely bitter. Again, I could relate.
She passed me the Philadelphia Inquirer without comment and I felt another twinge of guilt. Maybe if I tried harder we could strike some kind of truce. The tension I’d created between Arch and Beckett was bad enough.
Determined to fit in, I scanned the newspaper, every section, every page, every article. Meanwhile I listened to the men discuss the timeline and where they thought Beckett would have/should have been and what, if anything, could have gone wrong.
I didn’t point out that I had made similar conjectures just minutes ago in Arch’s car. I skimmed the paper and scratched, silently congratulating myself for thinking on their level.
Gina looked over her shoulder at Arch. “The Kid said you spoke with Jazzman this morning. How did he sound?”
“Tired.”
“What did he say?”
“Mission complete.”
“His part of the mission,” Gina said, “was to make Turner disappear.”
“Not literally!” I snapped. “He was just supposed to make him, you know, go away. Split the country. Change his identity and never mention the senator’s wife’s gambling problem or else—” I scratched my cheek “—something. He didn’t kill Mad Dog,” I grumbled while scratching my arms.
“Preaching to the choir, Sunshine. We’re all on Beckett’s side.” Arch sounded calm. No surprise there.
Tabasco sounded calm, but his attitude needed work. “I have a sinking feeling we’re going to be linked to Mad Dog’s death.”
“Agent Beckett did say he had a bad feeling about this case right off,” Woody added.
“I want to know why the AIA pulled him in,” Arch said, “and why he hasn’t returned our calls.”
“What’s with the red blotches on your face, Twinkie?”
I glanced up and saw Gina staring at me with—here’s a shocker—concern. I experienced a full body blush. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve been acting like a dog with fleas ever since you walked in,” Woody said.
I realized then that I was scratching like a loon. My arms. My neck and chest. My face. Yet there was no relief from the incessant itching that felt as though it had wiggled beneath my skin. I felt irritable and anxious, and okay, a little scared. “Stupid gorilla suit!”
“What?” Gina laughed but she still looked concerned.
Arch moved around and crouched in front of me just as I yanked off his jacket in order to scratch my bare arms.
“Shite.”
“Shit,” Gina echoed. “That’s a serious allergy attack, Arch. Get her to a doctor.”
My eyes widened. “What? No. I’m okay. Really. I want to help you guys help Beckett.”
“Nothing we can do right now,” said Tabasco. “Jesus, babe, you’re covered in hives.”
The Kid stood in front of me shaking his head. “You look awful.”
“You always manage to say the worst thing possible,” I snapped, because he did, but not on purpose. “I’m sorry, Woody. I…” I felt an anxiety attack coming on.
“Come on, lass.” Arch pulled me off the sofa and into his arms.
I was going to die of embarrassment. I was going to die period. The itching was unbearable. But even as he carried me from the room I thought about Jayne. “What about Madame Helene?” I asked Arch. “You promised—”
“Tabasco.”
“Yeah?”
“I need to you to check up on a local psychic,” Arch said. “Madame Helene. I want to know her game.”
“Will do.”
“Kid. Gina. Call me if you learn anything more or hear from Jazzman, yeah?”
They said, “Sure,” as Arch whisked me up the stairs.
I clung and fought not to hyperventilate. I couldn’t think straight. I’d never been so physically miserable in my life. Except maybe when I had the chicken pox, but that was a faded childhood memory. Even the concussion I’d suffered in the Caribbean because of the Simon the Fish fiasco paled.
I scratched even though Arch told me not to, even though it didn’t help.
Two minutes later, he placed me in his car.
I closed my eyes to stave off tears. “I’m going to die.”
Arch kissed my forehead and buckled me in. “Not in my lifetime, lass.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
MILO SAT IN THE RENTAL CAR, staring up at her condo. “You’re a glutton for punishment, Beckett.” They weren’t on the best of terms. Hell, she didn’t even like him. Still, he’d driven here instead of home. Somehow, he knew she’d make him feel better. Or at least she wouldn’t object if he drank himself blind.
He’d been sitting here for fifteen minutes. “Screw it.”
He rang her up.
“Hello?”
“It’s Beckett.”
Silence.
“I know this is crazy, but…I need to drink and I don’t want to drink alone.”
“Call a friend.”
“My friends are my associates. Not up for that right now.”
She paused and when she spoke again her tone was less abrasive, but not much. “What’s wrong?”
“I’d rather talk about it over Scotch.”
Silence.
His throbbing temples charged him a fool. His judgment had been off lately. Coming here was just another example. “Never mind.”
“No, wait.” She blew out a breath. “It’s five o’clock somewhere, right? I’ll meet you at The Irish Pub.”
“Your place,” he countered.
“Not comfortable with that.”
“Neither am I, but I’d appreciate it.”
“Well, damn, Slick.” Another curse, then, “I live at—”
“I know.” He knocked on the door.
A beat later it swung open and he was looking at Nicole Sparks. A lush-lipped beauty with a bad attitude. Nine days ago, she’d threatened to make his life hell if he ever hurt her friend Evie. She was an outspoken, pushy, skeptical pain in the ass. Seeing her again only convoluted his emotions.
What the fuck was he doing here?
His cock twitched in answer.
Easy, Mr. Happy. You don’t want to go there. Okay. Maybe you do, but I don’t.
The warm air sparked with mutual hostility as they sized up one another on the threshold of her third-story condo. He knew he looked bad. His lip was split and swollen. He hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours. He needed a shave and his suit was rumpled.
She, on the other hand, looked chic in her slim-fitting pants and tailored blouse—black, like her long, glossy hair. Her unusual coloring—mocha skin, jade-green eyes—gave her an exotic look that solicited erotic images. He attributed his unwanted hard-on to her potent sexuality and his pathetic love life. It sure wasn’t based on healthy desire. Nic was a threatening storm to Evie’s hopeful rainbow. Not to mention she was Evie’s best friend. The dynamics of his relationships with friends and associates was already screwed. Like he needed to add another twist. Nicole Sparks was trouble on several levels and Milo didn’t want any part of her.
Yet here he was.
“Awfully sure of yourself, Slick.”
“Just optimistic.”
“You mean desperate.” She quirked a brow. “What happened to your lip?”
“Walked into a fist.”
“That fist belong to anyone I know?”
“No.”
“Arch didn’t lose his cool and pop you one for—”
“No.” He took off his sunglasses and nailed her with weary eyes. “Are you going to let me in or not?”
She waved him inside and he tried not to stare at her ass when she led him through the foyer into a spacious living room. Tried and failed.
