скачать книгу бесплатно
Emily scanned the page eagerly. Trick tried to sit up, but the pain in his gut was like a bucket of hot lead.
A few people drifted in, a few people drifted out, dishes clattered, coffee was poured, and life went on in the outlying areas of the Rest-O-Rant. Nobody passed near her, and Emily stayed intent on what she was reading.
“Damn,” Trick swore under his breath. He couldn’t pass out. Not yet. Not before he knew where Rico and the Ice Man had stashed the loot…
“You have to come up with the money,” a low, heated voice said fiercely. “Listen to what I say, Slab. We’re past desperate here. We’re right over the brink into disaster.”
Wait a minute. Slab? There was no one named Slab in this book. And that hadn’t been a voice inside her head. That was real. Out loud.
Confused, Emily looked up from the page, toward the source of the intriguing voice. Her gaze slid right through the gap between her booth and the next, snagging when it caught the face of the man who’d spoken. And what a face…
She swallowed. She felt her cheeks suffuse with heat.
Whoever he was—this man who was teetering on the brink of disaster—he looked amazing.
She didn’t know who or what he was, his name, what he was doing there, any of those important details. It didn’t matter. All she needed was one glance at that gorgeous, dangerous face, all hard angles and stormy shadows, the hint of stubble, the carelessly cut dark hair that brushed the collar of his battered leather jacket. And she knew him down to her bones.
She had an overwhelming desire to toss aside the adventures of Trick McCall, private eye, and toss herself over the divider into his booth.
“You pay up now, Slab,” he muttered, “or we’ll both be in too deep to shovel out.”
Pay up? In too deep to shovel out? This sounded an awful lot like the book she’d just been reading. How very exciting! Easing herself up and around to one side, trying not to make any noise, she craned her neck enough to get a glimpse of this Slab person through the shabby fronds of a plastic plant attached to the top of the divider. Holy smokes. She could see where Slab got his name. The man had shoulders the size of a minivan and a face like a hunk of concrete.
“But, Tyler, I ain’t got the dough,” Slab responded, sounding higher and whinier than she would have expected from someone that large. She couldn’t completely make out his next words, but it was clear he was offering excuses.
So the gorgeous one’s name was Tyler. First or last? Who cared? Tyler. She tried it on her tongue and decided she liked the feel of it.
“Yeah, well, if you don’t fork over some cash like yesterday, I’m the one who’ll take the heat,” Tyler returned. “You owe me, Slab. You owe me big-time.”
“I could knock over another bank,” the big lug offered cheerfully, and Emily caught her breath.
Knock over another bank? Who were these people?
“Keep your voice down, will you?” After that command, Tyler dropped his own volume as well, and Emily had to really concentrate to get any of their conversation. Darn it, anyway. This was fascinating.
Tyler said something about “the Feds.” Was it, you know the Feds are on our tail? Or, who knows if the Feds have the details? Good show the Feds let you out on bail? She chided herself for jumping to conclusions. For all she knew, he’d just said that Joe Fezz didn’t pay retail.
He added in an ominous tone, “You never know where they have wiretaps and informants parked. Let’s be smart about this.”
Okay, so she was right the first time. Slowly Emily slid as far down into her seat as she could go. She was only five-four, but she wasn’t taking any chances that they might catch a glimpse of her and take her innocent eavesdropping for something more sinister. Who knew what these two were involved in? Just because Tyler was a major babe was no reason to think he wasn’t a hoodlum.
She tried to remember what she’d heard so far. Let’s see…Tyler needed Slab to fork over some cash that was owed to him or dire things would happen. Slab didn’t have the money, but was willing to rob a bank to get it. And not just rob a bank. Rob another bank. And the FBI was apparently sniffing around.
If she had any sense, she would run, not walk, out of the Rainbow Rest-O-Rant. But she couldn’t help herself—she leaned in closer to the divider so she could make out more of their soft, tantalizing words. Slab mumbled something she couldn’t catch, but Tyler’s words came back fast and furious.
“Listen to me,” he whispered angrily, “don’t even think about any more bank jobs. You got caught the last two times, and that means you better retire already.”
Ooh, this was getting good. Slab had a criminal record but was none too bright and wanted to do it again, while the awesome Tyler was trying to keep him away from more criminal activity.
Maybe he was some kind of counselor, she mused, like for some ex-con twelve-step program.
“Do you know how much you’re already into me for?” Tyler went on. “I trusted you, Slab. I know—that makes me every bit as stupid as you, but I trusted you. And now you need to do right by me. You said you could come up with the money. Or we both know I’m out on the street.”
That made no sense for a counselor. A loan shark, maybe? She ventured another glance through the slats. World’s best-looking loan shark?
But Jozette, the world’s crankiest waitress, chose that moment to come back. After stopping to refill the coffee at Tyler’s table, trading chitchat and good-natured insults and making it very clear they were old pals, she finally sauntered around to Emily’s side of the booths. Quickly Emily pretended to be absorbed in her book so that Jozette didn’t shout, “Hey, I think we got your FBI snitch right here!” or something equally scary.
As quietly as she could manage, Emily ordered the banana split she’d completely forgotten. She waited impatiently for Jozette to vamoose so she could go back to listening. Meanwhile, the men in the next booth were still arguing in the same hushed, urgent tones.
“Look,” Slab said finally, half-rising in his seat. “There’s only one way. I’m gonna have to get out of town.”
“Are you nuts?” Tyler retorted.
She felt sure she heard something about Slab not being allowed to leave the jurisdiction—or maybe both of them—and then the name “Fat Mike,” which sounded very familiar. A local mobster? Emily quickly added these clues to the others she’d already amassed. Couldn’t leave the jurisdiction…if Slab were out on bail and unable to leave the area, would that make Tyler his bail bondsman?
“I gotta do it, Ty,” the big guy continued. “It’s the only way! I gotta go to Frisco.”
“Slab, keep it down, will you?”
No, no, Emily wanted to plead. Talk louder! But no one cared what she thought.
Slab mumbled something about “real loot, plenty to make us even,” and then “stashed in Frisco.” That was followed by a string of words that went right past her, and Emily leaned her whole head into the plastic plant to try to pick up more of it.
“Money…stashed,” Slab whispered, as something akin to a wistful smile crossed his blunt features. “Sweet Shanda. Best time I ever had was with Sweet Shanda.”
Emily started to get excited. This was kind of like charades. And she thought she had it! Slab had hidden his money in San Francisco with an ex-girlfriend named Shanda.
Tyler’s next words were very low, but the intent was unmistakable. “If you go to San Francisco,” he said, “Fat Mike will kill you. And maybe me, for good measure.”
Emily shivered. Had he really said “kill”? As in, dead? Nobody would really kill someone who looked like Tyler, would they? And waste all that potential?
But the gigantic man shook his head, his voice rising as he argued. “I owe you, man. And Fat Mike will get off both our backs if I come up with the dough. I’m going, and I’m gonna get it.”
“Forget it—”
“Damn it!” Slab bellowed, pounding a huge fist on the table and making the coffee cups bounce. “I’m going to get my stash!”
There was a long pause from their booth, as Tyler seemed to bide his time before speaking. “Sit down,” he said finally, in a dark, curt tone that didn’t brook objections. Slab sat. Emily could feel the reverberations all the way over on her side.
Angry words went back and forth, a “get a grip” followed by “I gotta do what I gotta do,” with Tyler getting colder and Slab becoming more and more agitated. Leaning across the table, the big guy distinctly brought up “Sweet Shanda” again and then something about the money had better be where he left it or he would “tear her apart with my bare hands.”
Emily felt chilled to the bone. Eavesdropping on criminals was one thing, but when they started contemplating taking women apart with their bare hands, it was going too far.
Finally the big guy raised his entire bulk from the booth, pushing himself to his feet with some effort. “I know what I gotta do,” he bellowed.
After mumbling a few more things Emily didn’t catch, he stomped his way out of the coffee shop, apparently determined to assault some poor woman named Shanda in San Francisco in order to recover ancient ill-gotten gains.
Tyler sent a wary glance around the place, clearly wondering whether anyone had overheard the outburst. Emily noted that, except for her, the diner’s few patrons appeared to be very good at minding their own business. And unless Tyler happened to lean forward and look in just the right place, he wasn’t going to see her, either. There were some benefits to being small.
Emily tucked herself even farther down into her bench seat, just to be sure, as she wondered what she should do next. Frankly, she was appalled. Had she just heard criminal activity being planned, and if so, as a lawyer and thereby an officer of the court, was she obligated to pull out her cell phone and report it to the police? Would they believe her if she did? And what would that mean for Tyler, the scowling, handsome ne’er-do-well who had done his best to dissuade the evil Slab from his crime spree?
Her head was spinning. Maybe she should at least call her mother the judge. But she was a bankruptcy judge. What would she remember about criminal law? Plus then Mom would know Emily was out eating banana splits in seedy dives and not at work. And then Dad would know, too, and she’d end up the first Chaplin in three generations to be fired from Chaplin, Chaplin & Chaplin.
Besides, she wasn’t absolutely sure there was anything wrong in what she’d heard. For all she knew, Slab had done his time, was completely reformed, and wasn’t allowed to leave the area because…well, there had to be some decent explanation. And if she started calling police and judges, she’d just make a fool of herself, making a mountain out of a molehill of stray words and overheard bits and pieces. Who knew anything for sure?
“Damn it.” Tyler interrupted her frantic thoughts as he, too, rose to his feet. He threw some money on the table, muttering under his breath. “I have to go after him.”
So maybe he was a bounty hunter? A bounty hunter with a heart?
Whatever he was, Emily gulped and hid behind her book as he crossed around the booths and passed right by her. She peeked over the cover, absently noting how well his weathered jeans wrapped his tight bottom, how wide his shoulders were under that leather jacket, how fearsome the expression on his handsome face…ooh, green eyes. She hadn’t been able to tell before, but now she could. Definitely green. Not the color of emeralds or grass or even a Christmas tree. What was that color?
One thing she’d say for him—he might be involved in a mess, but he was hot.
As she watched his every move, he cut near the counter where Jozette was just emerging with Emily’s banana split, and then he bolted up a set of stairs tucked in beside the rest rooms.
As the waitress ambled over and shoved the ice cream in front of her, Emily narrowed her eyes at the stairs. What was up there? And what was Tyler doing?
But before she’d had a chance to piece together a theory, he came barreling back down the stairs. “Jo?”
The waitress turned away from Emily’s table. “Yeah, babe. Whatcha need?”
He cocked his head, indicating he wanted to talk to her by the counter. She hotfooted it over there, which said volumes about how much more she valued Tyler’s business than anyone else’s.
As the two of them talked, Emily set her book down, absentmindedly picking up her spoon. With an overflowing scoop of banana, ice cream and hot fudge camouflaging her, she gazed in their general direction, wondering what in the world they were discussing.
“I’m telling ya, lay off,” Jozette said finally, in an aggrieved tone that was loud enough for Emily to hear. “I wanna do this. I got a credit card—it ain’t like real money—and you’re good for it. I know you, Tyler. You’ll pay up the minute you get back from San Francisco.”
Tyler tried to protest, but Jozette cut him off, laying a hand on his arm with a gesture that seemed downright friendly. “Ty, listen. I never did pay you what I owed you. Somebody’s gotta follow the big jerk and make sure he gets back in one piece. I can’t, so you gotta. Least I can do is get you on an airplane.”
After a long pause, he said reluctantly, “Yeah, okay. Get me an aisle seat, will you? I’ll just go upstairs, you know, pack a few things. Be back in a sec,” he called out as he headed for the stairs. He turned back. “And Jo—thanks.”
Going to San Francisco, Emily sang in her head, leaving out the part about wearing flowers in your hair. And Jozette was apparently paying his way, which implied some relationship between Mr. Cool and the hardbitten waitress. There was no way she would believe the two of them had, well, a thing. It was more as if he had done Jozette some major favor in the past—kind of like the Godfather or something.
Very curious. Biding her time until the tantalizing Tyler came waltzing back down those stairs, Emily decided that she could honestly say she’d never been confronted with anything remotely this intriguing in her entire life. Crimes, misdemeanors, mystery men, hidden loot, bank robberies, felons on the lam…
“You come to work late. You eat lunch at a new place. You break your cosmic routine. And all hell breaks loose,” she whispered.
Emily smiled. What fun!
Chapter 2
TYLER O’TOOLE TOSSED his toothbrush and a couple of extra T-shirts into a beat-up duffel bag.
“Damn it all to hell.” The last thing he wanted was to run to San Francisco to play baby-sitter for a loser like Joseph “Slab” Slabicki. But what else was he going to do? “Worst client I ever had,” he said darkly.
And he’d had some doozies in his short and unproductive legal career. So when he said Slab was the worst, that was going some. His clients were mostly lowlifes and petty thieves. Sure, they deserved a defense as much as anyone else. If only they paid better.
And if only their problems would quit sucking him into legal problems of his own. He’d already had the ethics committee of the bar association breathing down his neck—twice—over the way he’d handled a couple of cases for lesser lights in Fat Mike’s organization. Allegations of jury tampering and money laundering. Right. As if his clients had the cash to pay off jurors or launder money. That was way too liquid for his flea-bitten legal practice.
“Lie down with dogs, get fleas, and don’t even get a bone. Yeah, Ty, old boy. Real smart. You know, you might want to think about making some changes in this so-called life of yours.”
Excellent idea. As soon as this was over.
He threw a few more things into the bag and zipped it up, aware he had to get done and get out of there if he had any chance of pulling this off. Sure. All he had to do was follow Slab to San Francisco, find the mope before he did anything stupid, keep him from getting killed or arrested, and get them both back to Chicago in time for Slab’s preliminary hearing on Monday.
Because if he didn’t, Fat Mike would be out the dough he’d put up for Slab’s bail. And then there would be hell to pay.
Not to mention more scrutiny from the ethics committee over just how involved he was in Slab’s flight from the jurisdiction. Fugitive from justice. Aiding and abetting. Yeah, it sounded just great.
And then he was getting squeezed from the other side, too—the Feds investigating Fat Mike, who were none too subtle about pressuring potential witnesses into cooperation.
“This is a lose-lose situation,” Tyler muttered, making his way back down the stairs to the coffee shop. And a fool’s errand. But it was also his only shot at keeping the wolf—and Fat Mike—from his door.
“Hey, Jo,” he called as he hit the bottom step, “do you mind watching my place for a couple of days while I’m out of town? Only open it up for a search warrant, okay?”
“No prob, Tyler. I got you covered.” She glanced down at the counter where she’d scribbled some notes. “You’re leaving from O’Hare. I got you on a two-o’clock flight.”
“Terrific. Thanks again.” He paused. “I should be back by Monday. I’d better be back by Monday.”
And with that, he picked up his bag and headed to the street to look for a cab. He hoped he could cover the fare to the airport.
EMILY SAT THERE over the melting remains of her banana split, listening, thinking, planning.
“The only thing I can do is follow him,” she whispered, growing more sure with every word. “I’m a lawyer, aren’t I? And it sure sounds like he’s going to need one.”
After all, if Tyler was dangling from the precipice of legal troubles, maybe she could help him, keep his creepy friend from taking any old girlfriends apart with his bare hands, and get the adventure of a lifetime while she was at it.
It sounded a lot better than sitting in Chicago with Kip Enfield and the Bentley file.
Emily dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the table and grabbed her things. She still had time to catch him. And she’d always wanted to say, Follow that cab!
SHE SAW HIM JUMP OUT of a taxi and head into the terminal at O’Hare just as her own cab was pulling up behind it. On the trip to the airport from the city, she’d had plenty of time to rethink her impromptu plan, but she hadn’t. In fact, she was more set on it now than she’d ever been. It was only for the weekend, after all. He’d said very clearly he’d be back on Monday. And didn’t lots of people throw together last-minute weekend plans?
Besides, hadn’t she begged for something wild and new to happen? What more could you ask for?
“Sukie Sommersby would do it,” she repeated to herself as she followed him into the terminal. As he approached the ticket counter, Emily quickly ducked behind a large family and their immense pile of luggage, to stay out of Tyler’s sight line.
Pretending to be absorbed in a cartful of golf bags, she added, “Sukie would do it in a New York minute. Sukie would be waking up in Vegas with him tomorrow, no regrets. And then she’d be calling me to tell me all about it.”
“Who are you talking to?” demanded the father of the family she was using as cover. He strong-armed the cart she was hiding behind, sharply wheeling it away from her. “Are you touching my bags?”
“No, no. I wasn’t touching anything. I, uh, twisted my ankle and was just resting for a moment.” She gave him a weak smile, which didn’t seem to satisfy him.
She wanted to demand, Do I look like a terrorist? but she kept her mouth shut. Harrumph. She was wearing a beautifully cut navy-blue suit, a silk blouse and her grandmother’s pearls. Hardly the sort of person who planted bombs in other people’s golf bags.
Oh well. She pretended to limp as she darted behind a convenient pillar, just to allay Mr. Cranky’s fears. It provided a better angle to spy on Tyler, anyway. From that vantage point, she saw him take his ticket from the agent at the counter and disappear down Concourse C.
“For once in my life,” she said with determination, “I’m not going to be the one on the other end of the phone. I’m going to be the one in the middle of the adventure.”
