Becoming Rain (2 page)

“I
am
special,” I mutter, earning his snort. “But this isn't a guy you can string along. He's not into virginal girls and he's not looking to make money off me.” In hindsight, how the Feds thought putting an undercover on this target with the hopes of luring him with mere words and seductive gestures is beyond me. Desperation—that's the only explanation I can come up with. They have plenty of evidence at the low level but nothing connecting it all, nothing concrete enough to pull the entire organization down. Not to mention two failed efforts by undercover agents to gain a foothold into the top level, attempting to earn their trust and friendship.

Apparently, neither Rust Markov nor Luke Boone is interested in making new male friends. Female “friends,” however . . .

Warner shrugs. “You
say
whatever you need to say to hook him.”

I sigh, knowing that Warner's not going to give me the satisfaction of agreeing. He's 100 percent committed to the job. “Well, I can't sit in that bar week after week. People are going to start noticing.”

“I'll get the guys to rotate. Make it look like they're hiring you for the night.”

I shake my head. “Too risky. None of the girls 12 takes home are escorts. That may turn him off.”

“Okay then . . .” He leans forward to scoop up the case files, tossing them onto my lap. “What's gonna work? You're the one with your neck on the line. You're looking to go Fed. This is a big deal for you. So you tell me . . .” He stabs the stack of paper with his index finger. “What's our next move, boss?”

That's one of the things I like most about Warner. He could be an arrogant, condescending dick. The big-show FBI agent versus a mere metro cop pawn. But he's been nothing but a team player from day one. In fact, he reminds me a lot of the guys I work with back home. A tight group who take every opportunity to joke around and let loose, knowing how much we all need the release from what we see in our day-to-day.

Sipping on my wine, I start flipping through the pages of candid shots. Luke Boone is a decidedly handsome target by anyone's standards, with wavy caramel-brown hair that he styles in a sexy mop and clothing that's tailored to a well-honed body, courtesy of daily jogs with his dog and workouts in his building's gym.

Son of Oksana Boone, single mother to him and his younger sister, Ana Boone. Biological father's whereabouts unknown.

Nephew of Rust Markov, who has raised him like a son, footing his tuition for a bachelor's degree in business, followed by two years in a mechanics program. The nephew of a man pegged as the leader behind one of the West Coast's biggest car theft rings by a confidential informant avoiding heroin-dealing charges. The nephew who seems glued to his uncle's side, who is now stepping into a managerial role at one of Rust's legitimate businesses—a car repair garage—and who lives in a million-dollar condo that his uncle gifted to him, either out of the goodness of his heart or to protect his assets.

The nephew who the Feds believe is being groomed to step into a leadership role in the car theft operation.

“Be thankful.
He
could have been your target.” Warner taps a shot of Rust Markov leaving his office one afternoon. A man I can't wait to see stripped of his Versace suits and sleeping in a bunk bed behind bars for a very long time.

“Wouldn't be the worst I've had.” At forty-five years old, Rust's fit and by no means bad looking. Likes younger women, from what I know. “May have been easier.”

“No, it wouldn't. 24's smart. You need the dumb nephew. Kid's too new. Get him comfortable, get him drunk . . . He'll slip and, when he does, we've got him.”

“I just don't know what the best way in is with this guy. I don't think it's the bar scene.”

Heaving himself off my couch, Warner strolls over to the kitchen to drop his empty on the counter. “We have a few more weeks before the warrant's up. Sleep on it. We'll regroup in the morning.”

“ 'kay. Night,” I call out as the condo door shuts. As tired as I am, I know that the stress of looming failure—of being sent back to D.C. to bust pimps and drug addicts—is going to keep me up. I'm half-tempted to drink wine until I pass out, but I'll only feel worse tomorrow. Not that I have anywhere that I need to be.

So I start flipping through the case files, beginning to end, like I've done over a hundred times. Luke Boone's schedule is pretty basic: he's either at the garage, at a club with his uncle, working out, or “entertaining” one female or another. There have been no reports of him disappearing into warehouses or storefronts at erratic hours of the night. The team's never lost track of him in the few hours per day that they're on him. Unlike his Uncle Rust, who continuously slides through their surveillance detail like a bar of wet soap.

Frankly, there's no solid evidence that Luke Boone has any involvement with this ring. Only speculation. Enough to get a sixty-day warrant from the judge. I need to spend time with him to get a better read. Surveillance tapes and reports give me only background. They help me to speculate about what he might respond best to.

So far, all of our speculations have been wrong.

Closing the file, I pack everything back up into the hidden safe and pull out my personal phone, checking it for any messages. My parents are aware that I'll be away for an indefinite amount of time on a case. That's all they know, though, and that's all I can tell them. As far as my mother is concerned, I'm only ever sitting at a desk, working behind-the-scenes detail. If she knew what I was actually doing—the kind of danger I put myself in on a daily basis—she'd beg me to quit with tears in her eyes and Sicilian prayers rolling off her tongue.

If they could see me now . . . This loft is a far cry from the small, semi-detached house they've owned for the past thirty-one years, complete with the original stiff-backed floral couches and the large vegetable garden they tend to in the backyard. It's nothing special, and yet it's their dream come true after immigrating to America from a small town outside Palermo, Sicily, with nothing but one suitcase of clothes and my grandmother's white linen tablecloth. It took almost ten years and at least four honest jobs between the two of them at all times—my mother in bakeries, my father as a janitor—to scrounge up enough money for the down payment.

My brother Dino, older than me by eleven years, remembers those years being tough. Socks with darned toes and jeans with patches in the knees, used toys for Christmas, summer vacations at local parks. Cold winters, to save on electric bills.

By the time I came along—an accident when my parents were in their mid-thirties—they were living in luxury by comparison.

Still, it's nothing like what I'm living right now.

No calls from the family tonight, which doesn't bother me. I talk to them enough. A few texts from my girlfriend Aubrey, telling me about the upcoming girls' weekend that I won't be going to because I'm 2,300 miles away. It bothers me a little bit but I'm used to it. I miss a lot of birthdays and holidays and getaways because of my job.

What I still haven't gotten used to is not seeing a message from David, my latest ex-boyfriend. Nine months of messages all day—every day—until I came home with a black eye and busted lip from a takedown and he decided that he can't handle being with a cop.

I really liked this one, too. I thought he might be different. Stronger.

I thought I'd prove my police college instructor and that author with her PhD label wrong. That keeping a relationship in this field isn't as hard as they made it out to be. I still have that stupid paperback that they handed us in class, about loving a cop. It's at home, collecting dust. At first I thought it was a joke, until I started flipping through the pages and digesting everything I should expect in the years to come. How the long shifts and overtime coupled with the daily hazards earn this field high divorce rates. How the things I see every day make it hard for me to carry on a normal dinner conversation. How I'll have a difficult time meeting men to begin with because of all the trust issues I'll develop, dealing with liars all day long. With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I pushed it off as a stereotype that wouldn't fit me. I hoped that being aware of the challenges would prepare me enough to avoid them.

The dozen or so failed relationships since then have proven that little pocket book not so stupid after all.

My mentor—a staff sergeant in her early forties, who's been divorced twice now—only validated it by warning me to expect a whole lot of heartbreak before I find the right relationship.
If
I ever do. Dating a female cop may be a fantasy involving handcuffs and wild sex, but marrying one isn't a reality most guys can stomach. The day she told me that, three days after David ended things, I went home and cried into a bottle of red wine.

With one last gun check—a habit more than anything else—I lock everything back up into the safe and head for bed. My mind is still spinning, in search of the way into Luke Boone's life. I have only a few shots at this before accidental run-ins become too much of a coincidence.

Another glimpse past my bedroom blinds finds him now stretched out on his back, a flurry of cars racing across his television screen. His arm is wrapped around his dog's body, and he's stroking its belly with slow, affectionate movements.

When I look at him, all I see is just another twenty-four-year-old guy. A guy I might meet at a party or at the club. A guy my friends and I would definitely notice, would probably drool over. Who I'd gladly give my number to. A guy I'd go home with if I had one too many drinks and needed a release.

A guy I wouldn't believe could be involved in something that left two children without a father.

But that's the thing with so many of the worst kinds of criminals. They don't wear signs, they don't don a uniform. They're hiding in plain sight. It's my job to reveal Luke for what he truly is, which will reveal the man we're really after—his uncle.

But how?

Women. Dogs. Cars. Three things that seem to grab Luke's attention.

I'm an attractive, smart, confident woman—you have to be both smart and confident in a job like mine or you could end up dead—so I have that going for me. You also have to be a little crazy, but I hide that well. Maybe the issue isn't me; maybe it's the surroundings.

I need to find a better place to meet. A place he can't possibly miss me.

Yes.

I hit “one” on my phone's speed dial. Warner picks up almost immediately.

“Hey, I think I have an idea.” I smile. “But it involves messing around with that beautiful car of mine.”

Chapter 3

■ ■ ■

LUKE

“Why the hell did R&S just drop a '78 Corvette in our parking lot?” Miller hollers, bounding through the office door like a grizzly bear about to attack.

“Because I asked them to.” R&S, the auto body shop we refer all of our clients to, finished with the car early and offered to bring it here for no charge. I wasn't going to say no to that.

“Last I checked, we don't run a storage lot.”

As much as I want to match his angry tone, I temper mine with a smile, knowing my lax attitude will get under Miller's skin more. “I forgot to tell you: I'm expanding our business.”

“Oh
really
 . . . And does Rust know about this?”

“He knows what he needs to know.” I pause. “Relax. I'll have it off the lot by the end of the day.”

I get Miller's signature nose flare in return, and then his voice drops to a low hiss. “Rust has been very clear about that coming to this doorstep. This garage runs one hundred and ten percent clean. You need to get it off this property
now
or your uncle will have your head.”

Miller seems to have jumped to the conclusion that I'm into something below board. Quite presumptuous of him. I could save him all this stress and just tell him the truth—that the car is a legal side project I've been working on with my friend Jesse for some extra cash.

Cash that I can say
I've
earned.

I'm more curious about what Miller knows of Rust's “other” business. Is it more than I do? I know so little that it wouldn't be hard. But it pisses me off to no end that this fucking asshole might know something that I don't.

I lock my hands behind my head and grin. “Nope. I don't think I will.”

Miller doesn't waste another second, charging for the phone. He lifts the old-school receiver up and points it toward me in warning. “Don't make me call Rust down here.”

I shrug. “It's almost lunch. I wouldn't mind grabbing a bite with him.”

A sneer curls his lips as he punches the keys with his fat index finger. I don't even bother to hide my eye roll as he glares at me, earpiece jammed against the side of his head. “Rust, Miller . . . you need to get down here . . . It's urgent . . . About what?” He shoots another scowl at me. “Your nephew, that's what . . .'kay.” He slams down the receiver.

“Anyone ever tell you that you have anger-management issues?” It thrills me to no end that I can actually say that now. For the year that I was working in the garage, Miller rode my back every day, making my life hell. Now that Rust has moved me inside, making my future position as manager and eventual owner of this garage all the more obvious, Miller can't get away with the same crap. But he still tries.

“I'm actually going to enjoy watching him hand your ass to you.”

“What is it exactly that you have against me, Miller? Is it that I'm younger? Better looking? Smarter?”

“Have you ever actually worked a day in your life?” he snaps back.

I pretend I don't notice that the tension in the office has grown to choking proportions as I sort through invoices and answer customer calls, ignoring him. When I spot Rust's navy Porsche Cayenne pull up outside the window twenty minutes later, I throw a lazy salute and stroll past Miller, glad to get away from him.

I find Rust standing with Tabbs and Zeke, two of his longest-standing mechanics here, hovering over the classic, his fingers sliding across the killer paint job that R&S completed for me.

“Hot damn, Nurse Boone!” Tabbs bellows, using the stupid nickname they slapped me with one week into working here. “This for you?”

I fish the keys out of my pocket. “Why? You wanna buy it?” One turn of the key has the engine purring low and steady. Not loud enough to drown out the bell that announces Miller barreling out the door. With groans, Tabbs and Zeke head back to their respective work to avoid his wrath.

“Is this what that loan was for?” Rust slides his sunglasses off to level me with bright blue eyes that match mine.

I nod. “Picked it up for three G's. The widow just wanted it out of her garage. Had it restored to original spec.”

“Who did the work?”

“Who do you think?” Rust knows Jesse. He used to work at the garage too.

“He's still around?”

I level a stern glare at my uncle. “Only for these types of projects. And only through me.” Rust knows what I'm talking about without me having to say it out loud. Jesse'll never get mixed up with the likes of Rust's “business associates” again. I wouldn't want him to, after what he's been through.

Rust's hand finds his chin, giving it a thoughtful scratch. “You keeping it?”

“Nah . . . though I could definitely use a new car.” It'd be an upgrade from the '07 Mustang GT convertible I'm driving now. The first car I ever bought myself, that leaks when it rains. Rust's strange like that; on the one hand, he spoils me with things no twenty-four-year-old could possibly need, like a Rolex watch and gold cufflinks. But the basic necessities, like a roof and transportation? He makes me work for those. Before he handed me keys to the swank condo that I now live in, I was sharing a shitty apartment with Jesse. I think it's a life lesson—to make me see what it's like to struggle like a normal person so I'll work harder to avoid it.

“I talked to Sully already. It's going on the block this Saturday. Should be able to make a solid return on it, given it's an anniversary model and the mileage is low. And I'm lining up two more deals like this as we speak. May need you to front me some cash, though.”

Rust's brows spike but he says nothing. Sully is
his
associate, an auctioneer who sometimes helps sell cars for RMT. I don't know if it bothers Rust that I went behind his back, but I've gotten to know Sully pretty well. And, other than his bankrolling the loan for me, I wanted to do this without Rust's involvement.

I stifle my smile as Miller ambles over.

“Miller . . .” Rust gives a single nod.

The big man jerks his chin toward the car. “I warned him to get it out of here.”

Rust's lips twist in thought, his eyes shifting between Miller and me. Deciding something. “If Luke says it's fine, then it is. I trust him not to do something stupid.” Slapping my shoulder, he adds, “Smart investment. These are the kinds of things I want to see.”

Finally
. Rust's praise doesn't get thrown around often. I don't miss the grumble of annoyance from Miller. Rust chooses to ignore it, instead turning his attention to the white Audi RS 5 turning into the lot.

“That's an awfully new car to bring here,” he muses.

“Probably still under warranty,” I add. Why would someone bring a brand-new Audi here and not straight to their dealer? There's one not ten miles away.

The car rolls to a stop and a pair of pink heels appears from the open door.

“Never seen her before,” Miller mutters as a young brunette climbs out. I wonder if she even knows she has a warranty. Miller takes two steps toward her, but Rust's words stall him. “Luke, why don't you find out what she needs.”

I smile. There's a rule around here—Miller is the only one who talks to the new customers.

Until now.

“Gladly,” I say, heading toward her.