Beating Ruby (10 page)

A pawn.

I don’t know about you, but I have this internal clock for burritos when I’m working. It’s set to twelve thirty. So you can be sure that around that time I’ll stop whatever I’m doing to think of burritos. It doesn’t necessarily mean I’ll have one for lunch, but I’ll think about them anyway. That’s how I could tell lunchtime was overdue without even checking the clock—I was getting increasingly frequent mental flashes of black beans and guacamole.

Alex and I had remained alone in Thom’s office after Colin and Di Stefano’s departure. I was sitting cross-legged in one of the guest chairs, stomach rumbling while I finished reading Thom’s latest e-mail. My heart sank when I reached our exchanges. It was an indescribable feeling—an elusive mix of pain, guilt, and nostalgia—to read myself telling him that all the servers had crashed during the night, but surely it wasn’t anything huge, maybe a memory leak, and I’d be there soon. Next to me, Alex was swimming with a look of mild exasperation in the capharnaum covering Thom’s desk.

He abandoned his inspection of a pile of résumés to rub the bridge of his nose with a long sigh. “Nothing, right?”

I looked up from the screen, shaking my head. “Not really. Seems like he kept saving his work on those fake image files we found, and even the code he was working on last night has been wiped from the logs. Looking at his Mac, you’d believe he barely worked at all. All I got are his e-mails—everyday stuff, nothing out of the ordinary. Not that he’d have been stupid enough to use his EMT mail address to contact whoever made him do this.”

Alex walked around the desk to stand behind me and take a look. I pointed at a particular list of folders. “We also got some files related to the department’s administrative supervision. But there’s no code here either. Not a single line.”

I heard him scratch his stubble as he always did when thinking. The only time I had ever seen Alex with a close shave he had looked eighteen, and I could tell he’d missed his precious whiskers, because he kept stroking his chin unconsciously, looking for them in vain. “I see. Those chicken files . . . What was the exact date they were created?”

I checked again. “They were first saved on March 14, basically right after Thom got back from—”

“Zürich?”

Alex had reached across the desk to grab Thom’s beloved quantum physics cat memes calendar. On March’s page, under the picture of a kitten playing with strings, several days had been circled with a red pen.

“Yeah, he was at Mach-T.”

“Mach-T? What is that?”

“Machina Tomorrow,” I explained, getting up and setting the laptop aside to fish for a colorful brochure on the glass desk. I showed it to him. “It’s the biggest machine learning conference. They do it every year in a different country, and EMT Switzerland was the principal sponsor this year, so they organized it in Zürich. I was supposed to go too—I went last year—but this year Thom said he needed me here to finish our beta.”

Alex’s eyes lit up. “So he went alone, and right after he came back, he started tweaking with Ruby’s code in secret. Looks like we’re finally going somewhere.”

“To Switzerland?”

“Yep. And you’ll be coming too.”

My jaw dropped. “You mean . . . with you . . . there?”

“Is that gonna be a problem?”

All I could do was shake my head lamely.

“Not really where I planned on taking you for a surprise getaway, but I guess the cheese wheels will have to do,” he concluded with a sheepish wink.

“A surprise getaway?”

“Well, before all this”—he made an all-encompassing gesture at Thom’s desk—“I’d been thinking of taking you to Ferris Lake. Ever been there?”

“No . . . where is it?”

“North, in the Adirondacks. One of my friends has a cabin there, in the woods—not too far from the road,” he added quickly as he took in my expression of doubt.

I wasn’t much of an outdoor enthusiast, more like that annoying friend who falls into every possible hole, gets mysterious rashes and giant blisters, and keeps checking her phone for 4G coverage and bear sightings. If I was being honest with myself, though, the slim chance of getting chased and killed by Confession Bear over a tuna sandwich was not the real issue here . . .

I found myself staring once again at the pieces of a puzzle scattered in front of me, and whatever image slowly emerged was neither just “Alex,” nor Agent Alexander Morgan. So he had meant to take me on a surprise romantic getaway—or a romantic survival trek—in a cabin in the woods, owned by a “friend,” who might be another agent for all I knew. Would he have kept up the act even then? Or dared to show me a little of his true self?

I was still grappling for the best answer to this non-invitation when he spoke again. “It’s okay. I understand—” He tilted his head, and there it was again, that look of frustration, like we stood on opposite sides of a miles-deep gap. “Let’s take care of Ruby first. Maybe we can talk about this again when we’re back from Zürich.”

I couldn’t meet his eyes. “Maybe.”

“Good. There’s something else I’d like to do before we pack.”

“What is it?”

“I’d like to search his apartment again. With you.” Concern warmed his gaze. “Do you think you can?”

Physically, yes, of course I could. But the idea of searching Thom’s things, now that he was gone . . . it almost felt like a violation. “I guess . . . but I thought you guys would have done that already.”

“We did. And our agents came back empty-handed, but now I’ve got an ace up my sleeve.” The corners of his lips curled up. “You.”

I didn’t think I deserved such high praise. “I’ll do what I can,” I said lamely.

I exited Thom’s office to go pick up my tote in the open space—someone had placed it back on my desk at some point, no doubt after a thorough search. When I flung it on my shoulder, I felt a vibration against my hip. I fished for my phone in one of the many inner pockets under Alex’s suspicious gaze. Private number. I picked up anyway, slightly anxious at the idea that somewhere, someone might be listening to the call.

“Island Chaptal speaking.”

On the other end of the line, a youthful, nasal voice greeted me. “Hi, Island, this is Shauna from Maid Magic. I see you haven’t returned our subscription form yet, and I was wondering if you’d have a minute to discuss our services.”

Murder, hacking, theft, CIA, and now . . . telemarketing. How much worse could this day get?

“I . . . uh . . . I’m sorry, we’re interested, but this is not the best time—”

She went on. “The form was attached to our coupon book. Maid Magic is pleased to offer you a free ten-hour trial for our VIP service, with laundry, ironing, and antibacterial cleaning included!”

My eyes darted to Alex, who was staring at me, one of his eyebrows raised in question. “Thank you, Shauna. Like I said, I
do
plan on using my coupons, but I’m at work right now, so I can’t really take care of the subscription.”

“But I can’t schedule intervention hours until you’ve returned the form,” Shauna insisted.

I sighed. “Look, I promise I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. I have to go.”

Concern—and some level of scandal—rose in her voice. “Island, there’s mold around your sink. That kitchen is a serious health hazard!”

A chill cascaded down my spine. “What the hell?
How
do you know?”

Next to me, Alex tensed; his eyes narrowed.

Shauna, on the other hand, seemed to completely ignore my shock, resuming her sales pitch in a casual, businesslike tone. “You were recommended to us by one of our clients. Apparently it was a case of immediate emergency.”

“Uh . . . recommended?” I tried to lower my voice. “I thought this was a contest.”

She answered with a steady voice. “Must have been a typo in the letter.”

Okay, things were getting weird. I could feel sweat dampen my neck, and I fought the urge to raise my voice so Alex wouldn’t suspect anything. “Thank you again, Shauna. I don’t have time right now, but I’ll definitely call back. Good-bye.”

Once I had hung up, I stood there for a couple of seconds, overwhelmed. Someone had called Maid Magic to tell them Joy and I needed cleaning hours. Someone who already knew how messy our apartment was . . . I turned to Alex. That twitch in his jaw spoke volumes: he didn’t like what had just happened.

“Telemarketing,” I explained with a shrug. “They’re getting worse and worse these days—borderline creepy.”

He seemed pensive for a couple of seconds before his smile slowly returned. “I know, I sometimes get those too.”

As he said this, an inelegant gurgle rising from my stomach officially heralded lunchtime and interrupted this awkward moment.

Alex chuckled. “Why don’t we go get ourselves something to eat?”

I gave a quick nod. It seemed I was reaching a point in my life where only a burrito could help.

TEN

The Contest

“Derek’s long and huge car raced past her, the roar of the powerful engine pumping the fuel of desire into her most secret tank.”

—Alannah Prost,
Formula 1: Racing for Love

Under any other circumstances, this would have been one of the high points of my biography: I was going to Chipotle. In a sports car.

As you can guess, though, a few technicalities dampened my enthusiasm. My eyes darted at Alex’s profile while he drove us up Liberty Street. I examined the dark bristles outlining his jaw. I had always liked them; up close, they looked a little shiny. It was hardly the best time to indulge in the strange infatuation with androgenic hair that March’s glorious chest hair had awakened in me, but Alex’s whiskers were the only topic able to take my mind off that damn phone call.

In the meanders of my brain, the rambling of a crazed saleswoman who probably called a hundred people a day had sparked this wild scenario where March decided to come back for me. He would sweep me off my feet, call me “biscuit”—the nickname he had given me in Paris—and he’d fold and sort my panties by color like he had before. I guess that was the sweet side of his OCD issues. Or maybe the really dark one. Not sure.

Yeah. Except that the most reasonable hypothesis was that my dad had been the one to call them. I’ll have to check this with him later. From my diet, to my cell phone contract, or even my dates, he needed to stick his nose everywhere, and he perfectly embodied the concept of a mother hen. Well, more like a grumpy father hen. With a serious temper.

My “tryst” with March had only made his parental anxiety worse. From my father’s point of view, I had run off to the other end of the world with a (possibly) deranged stranger, stopped answering my phone for five—five!—days. All this to come home and start asking questions about my mother’s past—a past he had made considerable efforts to hide from me. According to Janice, my stepmom, that evening we had spent sorting out our family issues and yelling at each other had nearly caused him an ulcer.

At any rate, the case was closed—for my dad, at least—and he was back to his overprotective self. In spite of his initial wariness, he had welcomed my relationship with Alex rather favorably, and I shuddered at the idea of him learning half of what had happened so far since this morning . . .

I stole another glance at Alex, noticing the way his lips were pressed together. He seemed distracted. No, more than that—he was . . . worried?

“What’s going on?” I asked.

He checked his mirror with a somber look as we turned right on Williams Street and drove past Chipotle without stopping. “I think we’re being tailed.”

I twisted on my seat to look behind us, only to be stopped by his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t. Just check the mirror. Black Mercedes, behind the two cabs.”

Following his instructions, I sat still and glanced sideways. Barely visible behind two yellow cabs was indeed a low sports car whose large emblem on the ventilation grille was the only thing allowing me to tie it to a Mercedes; everything else was just sleek, aggressive lines wrapping around large wheels, like Alex’s car.

Oh crap.
I was pretty sure I knew that car. It looked every bit like the one that had parked behind us the night prior and caught Alex’s attention. We glided down Barclay Street and toward the massive Ionic columns of Saint Peter’s Church, a Greek temple oddly planted among skyscrapers. At that point, my eyes were glued to the mirror, trying to determine whether Alex and I were right, or if the recent events were making us both paranoid. That Mercedes
was
technically following us, but this was New York after all, luxury cars weren’t rare, and we were driving on a one-way street, so it’s not like the guy had much of a choice. Maybe he had meant to go to Chipotle too and couldn’t find a spot to park.

“Island. Relax and lean back in your seat.”

I glanced at Alex, and my mouth opened to form a question, but when he turned on Church Street and shifted from second to fifth gear with a quick movement of his wrist, I experienced a split second of weightlessness that left me breathless before being pinned to my seat in a deafening roar. I distinctly heard my internal organs splatter against my rib cage and saw the whole street around me turn into a blur of brick buildings and cars. I shielded my eyes with my hands and felt nausea rising in my stomach when Alex started slaloming through the traffic, each acceleration of the Corvette’s engine sending powerful vibrations up my legs and spine.

Then we were on Sixth Avenue. And I didn’t understand how we could already be there. I tried to force words out of my mouth in a series of rapid pants. “Alex! Please slow down. I don’t . . . I don’t like this at all!”

“It’s gonna be okay, Island. Just breathe.” Gone was sweet Alex; this voice was confident but rough with adrenaline.

My eyes squeezed shut when we flew past a fricking bus, its wheels inches from ours. The drivers around us rewarded our performance with some furious honking and outraged shrieks. The Corvette wasn’t slowing down, though, and when a close rumble finally registered in my brain through the noise of our own engine, I looked into my mirror with a strangled gasp, my nails digging into the red harness securing me against my seat. The black Mercedes was tailing us, no doubt about that; you don’t swerve at full speed to slip between two trucks unless you have some sort of emergency.

Not only that, but it seemed to be catching up fast. I watched with gritted teeth as that monster effortlessly passed a cab and a couple of sedans to cruise at our level, getting closer and closer to my side. Dammit, those black tinted windows screamed “bad guy.”

“Alex, it’s coming—”

“I know, baby. Hold on!”

I would have commented on the deeply rooted machismo influencing male behavioral patterns and forcing guys to buy muscle cars and call women “baby,” but Alex took a violent left turn that caused the car to drift, tires screeching on the asphalt, smoke rising behind us, and, well, I just squealed in panic instead. Not to be outperformed, our pursuer imitated him, barreling after us on West Thirteenth Street while, in the distance, the first howls of police sirens echoed. Not that it would do any good; their sedans were likely no match for Alex’s or that guy’s car.

There was another series of sharp turns, more buildings and cars flying past us. Road code and basic courtesy were ruthlessly shat on, and I caught a glimpse of a street sign indicating that we were now racing on West Forty-Fourth Street and toward Times Square. I twisted my neck to look behind us. Two more police cars had just made a failed attempt to join in the fun, and the black Mercedes was still tailing us with a persistence I had to say was admirable.

When we reached the corner of Forty-Fourth Street and Seventh Avenue, I heard tires screeching again and felt my torso being projected forward, my head jerking as Alex slammed on the brakes at a red light. I felt his hand squeeze mine. “It’s gonna be okay,” he said.

No, it wasn’t. “Alex, what’s going on? Why is he doing that?”

“No idea, but we need to lose him.”

I looked around in panic. One car away from us, the Mercedes . . . had stopped as well, engine growling impatiently.
What the hell?
I pushed my hair out of my eyes and blinked at the avenue in front of us. Glass buildings, lights, lights everywhere, theaters, M&M’s, old people . . . It took me a few seconds to make sense of the scene unfolding before my eyes and understand why Times Square was virtually paralyzed. A bunch of guys disguised as M&M’s were busy promoting the theatrical release of
Cars 6: Ponies under the Hood
. Terrible crossover, by the way—I heard some parents left the theater with their kids when the Hummer villain runs over Twilight Sparkle.

Anyway, they were having this street marketing thing in Times Square that was part advertisement for “
Cars
Limited Edition” M&M’s, part community service. They were helping tourists and old people cross the street, and waving racing flags for the cars to drive every time people were done crossing, thus rendering the traffic lights useless.

It was completely surreal. Two M&M’s were helping an old lady limp her way across the street, while in front of our car, a yellow M&M waved at us and played with his checkered flag. Cars were rapidly piling up behind us and the Mercedes, equally trapped. On Seventh Avenue, three police cars were trying to maneuver through the dense traffic and undisciplined passersby, ready to intercept us and our pursuer when we were finally able to drive.

And the light was now green, but we were still waiting.

Like decent road users.

And that bad guy was waiting too, because even when you’ve devoted your life to crime and drive an entirely black car to make a statement about that choice of career, you just don’t plow into old ladies and M&M’s. Gotta have some standards.

That grandma and her knight in saccharine armor were almost at the sidewalk. I felt Alex’s warm hand leave mine to return to the gearshift. I released a trembling breath.

“Trust me,” he said quietly.

Beneath me, the engine’s roar intensified. I don’t think that yellow M&M really understood what was going on—then again, I gather he’s the stupid one in the ads. He kept hopping happily and raised his flag. Those black-and-white squares were all I could see. I heard Alex swallow. I gripped the harness on my shoulders, blood pounding in my neck and temples, beads of sweat forming on my brow. The police cars were now lined up to our right, thirty yards away, their rumbler sirens pulsating and sending ominous chills down my spine.

We
had
to make it through that crossing, away from the black Mercedes and past those cops.

Or did we?

It dawned on me that maybe this was no longer about being tailed. After all, we could abandon the Corvette to block the traffic completely and lose that asshole in Times Square’s crowd. Alex could go speak to those cops, show them his badge. I looked at him, my eyes widening in realization. In my peripheral vision, the old lady had just safely reached the sidewalk.

“Alex. What are you trying to prove? Are you two—”

His breath was a little short. His hands gripped the wheel tighter. The corners of his lips curled up in a near-snarl. “Don’t worry. Guy has no idea what to do with his engine.”

The flag went down. The road was clear. In the space of a heartbeat, tires howled on the asphalt, and as I slammed back into my seat under the strength of the Corvette’s acceleration, I had a moment of sudden clarity. My life was being risked in a dick-measuring contest. Also, I was participating in a car race organized by M&M’s.

I wasn’t given the opportunity to voice any of these concerns. Both cars cometed through the crossing under the passersby’s bemused eyes. I registered some flashes in my field of vision; our exploits were likely going to end up on a quite a few social media platforms, along with ridiculous captions. The police cars had been ready all right, but once again, it all boiled down to who had a V-8 engine capable of reaching 190 miles per hour and who didn’t. We bulleted past them, swerving to avoid a more daring vehicle attempting to block our way. The Mercedes, however, seemed more hindered by that particular cop car than we had been. In my mirror, I saw it drift around the obstacle, losing ground on us.

By the time we were on Sixth Avenue again, the blaring of the sirens had become distant. I looked through my window; I could no longer see the black car. The Corvette sped up one last time as we reached Central Park, and once we were driving on Central Drive, surrounded by the soothing scenery of blossoming trees and green lawns, everything slowed down.

I slumped in my seat and let the air out of my lungs in a long exhale, the sight of a rickshaw cycling by our side bringing me a ridiculous amount of relief. “Is he gone?”

“Yes, we’ve lost him.”

Alex’s right hand left the wheel to caress my forearm; I covered his fingers with mine without thinking. When I saw him smiling at me, at our joined hands, I pulled away gingerly.

“What did he want?” I asked. “Do you think he might have something to do with the people who killed Thom? It looked like the car we saw last night.”

“Could be. You’re the last person who saw Thom alive, so maybe they were watching you too. Could mean we’ve made more progress than we thought.”

I was about to reply to this when I remembered the obvious. “You were
racing
with him!” I groaned, slapping his shoulder. I wondered how many years you could spend in jail for hitting a federal agent, even if he was technically your boyfriend.

That warm, mysterious smile returned to his lips, and already I feared I wouldn’t be able to stay mad at him. “But I won.”

“Are you for real?”

Alex welcomed my outrage with an easy laugh as he drove us toward the East River. We’d be able to catch the FDR and be on Roosevelt Island in less than half an hour if traffic cooperated. As we turned on West Fifty-Eighth Street to reach the Queensboro Bridge, I noticed that behind us a long white truck had stopped on Second Avenue, preventing the other cars from following us. I heard some honking and someone asking with a touch of impatience if that truck driver fucked like he drove. I thought nothing of it, but Alex checked the mirror with a frown. I could understand how he’d still be on edge after what we had experienced less than ten minutes ago.