Becoming Rain (34 page)

But Warner's calls usually come when there are bigger breaks. Like, a few months ago, when they handed a search warrant to Vlad Bragin's wife and she in turn handed them a pair of Vlad's pants and black gloves that, upon testing, revealed gun residue and Rust's blood. When asked why she was willing to cooperate, she told us it was because she married an asshole.

Sometimes all it takes is a bitter wife.

While it's not a smoking gun, it's another piece of the puzzle. Several others have fallen into place, including GPS tracking on Vlad's Suburban that proves where he was and when, such as at the location where Rust's body was found on the night of the murder, as well as street camera surveillance that captures him driving that night.

They're closing in on him for the murder. As for the stolen cars, the corrupt jeweler documented and recorded much more than he likely was supposed to. Perhaps for the day he got caught and needed big-ticket leverage.

Warner snorts. “Actually, no, smart-ass. Have you looked at the news today?”

“No . . .?”

“Check out CNN. International news.” He goes quiet, and I know he's waiting for me to tune in.

I open the browser on my iPad, following his instructions. “Holy shit!”

I quickly read the news article, with the picture of the wealthy, attractive man in the inset, my eyes zeroing in on the scar bisecting his lip that I've seen in person before. “Human trafficking?”

“It's disgusting. Do you know how many children they found in one of those ships?”

Though there's not a lot of information, and I always question the accuracy of anything I read produced by a reporter, according to the article, a complex investigation has been running for seven years, with evidence of human trafficking surfacing from many countries. Aref Hamidi was arrested and charged while visiting China.

“This is going to create a huge, international mess. China will give him the death penalty.”

Which is exactly what he would deserve. It almost seems too good to be true. Like perhaps it was orchestrated. Otherwise how would Aref be stupid enough to get caught?

There's only one person I can think of capable of coordinating such a takedown.

“Makes you not so bitter about the asshole getting away on our case, right? I mean, it would have been a slap on the wrist compared to what's coming his way.”

“It does,” I murmur softly, my mind spinning with absurd, improbable speculation. “I wish there was more information. Can you find anything out?”

“I'll just wave my magic wand . . .”

I roll my eyes. “Seriously, Warner, don't we have any pull on getting dirt?”

“ ‘We.' You're cute. You know as well as I do that there's shit going on over on that side of the world that the FBI will never catch wind of.”

“Is his wife involved?”

“I don't see her mentioned, and they would have mentioned something like that. She has ties to Iranian royalty, after all. I hope she kept some money, because I'll bet everything gets seized.” An entire empire . . . lost, for no reason other than greed.

Thoughts of the mysterious Elmira Zamani fade to the background as someone more important to me comes to mind with Warner's words. “Speaking of seizing assets . . .” I pause, waiting for Warner to fill in the blanks. He knows who I'm asking about. He's just been reluctant to tell me anything about Luke.

“Everything's been released. The kid hired good lawyers and, since we have no proof beyond hearsay that 24 was involved, we couldn't hold his assets anymore.”

I take a deep breath. I'm not sure if I'm happy about this or not. That means Luke has a ton of money at his disposal now. All money earned through dirty dealings. And he fought the Feds to get it. What does that mean? Seven months later, where is his head at?

“Anything else . . . interesting?”

There's a long silence. “Yes.” Warner hesitates. “Betty-Jo Billings received a check made out to cash by an anonymous donor last week. She called the police, because it was a lot of money, and she thought it was fraudulent.”

“How much money?”

“Like, if you were to sell a million-dollar condo and your Porsche 911 . . . that much money.”

My heart skips a few beats. “He . . .”

“He's renting a small place downtown. He's in the garage, from morning until night. Goes home, jogs with his dog. Spends a lot of time at the Japanese Gardens. At first I thought he was getting into something again, but he just goes to sit on a bench. Alone.”

“You're still doing surveillance on him?”
God, please tell me they don't suspect him of something else.
“Did Sinclair tell you to do that?”

“Nope. It's unofficial.”

I swallow. “Then why?”

Warner sighs. “Because I know you too well.”

I smile. “Thanks, Warner.”

I stare at the picture of Aref on my iPad long after I hang up the phone, rereading the article several times, Googling Elmira's name, looking for more news on her, finding only socialite-type posts and pictures about the beautiful wife of the heir to Hamidi Enterprises.

My gut tells me that Elmira suspected what I really was—the stunt involving Luke's car had to be her way of outing me. The hows and whys have remained a mystery to me.

But now . . . I frown, staring at her face, remembering her ageless beauty, her cool disposition, her shrewd gaze. She knew just what to say, what to do . . .

They always say a good undercover can spot another.

I'd like to say that I'll track her down one day and ask her who she really is, but my guess is that I will not cross paths with Elmira—or whatever her name is—ever again.

So instead, I'll have to thank her silently. That's fairly easy; all I have to do it is think of Luke Boone.

Epilogue

■ ■ ■

LUKE

The office walls rattle as someone—probably Tabbs—tests out a broken muffler by revving the engine in the bay.

“Fuck,” I mutter, my ears ringing. I'm going to be deaf by forty if I have to listen to that every day. I glance up at the clock with a sigh. Already five. I was planning on ducking out early today and taking Licks for a jog along my usual trail. It's much nicer in daylight, especially right now, when the Japanese cherry blossom trees are in full bloom.

But the day has turned to dusk while I've been slaving away. The garage is a lot of work for one guy to run—especially when that one guy never saw himself spending six days a week in a tiny office, listening to broken mufflers and smelling engine oil. But I think I've got the place running smoother than Miller ever did.

It's for the best that he “disappeared” with his wife and daughters. I could never have kept him working here, but I would have felt guilty firing him because of his family. And because, out of all of us, he's the only one who had a truly redeeming reason for being involved in that world. A world that feels increasingly farther away.

I pick up the newspaper to read the ad I ran for a part-time office manager. It's been four days and, though I've had a lot of applicants, none of them are what I'm looking for. I guess I'm picky. I even tried to get Jesse to come and work for me. He laughed in my face.

A sudden and loud roar of pain has me running toward the bays, hoping to all hell that my employer insurance premiums are paid up.

“Son of a bitch. He bit me!” Tabbs roars. “Get that ugly mutt out of here!”

I round the corner in time to see a little dog square off against Tabbs like a bull, his giant ears turning back and forth like satellites.

My heart stops. If Stanley's here . . .

“I swear, he never bites.” Rain stands in the bay door, her short black leather jacket zipped up to her chin to ward off the early evening chill.

Her hair's a few inches shorter than the last time I saw her, a year ago, but otherwise she looks exactly the same.

Beautiful.

And smiling broadly.

I don't waste a second. I take quick steps toward her and pull her into my arms. She comes willingly, her hands finding their way around my waist. She smells like roses, just like I remember. “What are you doing here?”

She points over her shoulder with her thumb. “I'm having a problem with my clutch. I thought I'd bring it here.”

“Right.” I chuckle and play along, throwing an arm over her shoulder. “Let's see this car.”

“It's not so much a car as a Jeep.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” I murmur with awe, circling the matte black beauty. “Solid grill guard, four-inch lift kit . . . what are those, thirty-eights?” Definitely trail tires.

“Would you like some time alone with it?”

I chuckle. Passing the front, I notice the plates are from Oregon. “You rented this?”

“No.”

I frown. “I'd like to think you know better than to steal.”

“Funny.” She pauses. “I bought it.”

My heartbeat speeds up. “Does that mean . . .”

Maybe she sees the excitement in my eyes because she breaks out in a smile. “Portland was my first choice for assignments, and Sinclair pulled some strings to make sure it happened.”

So many thoughts and emotions are racing through me that I'm left with my mouth hanging open, unable to speak. Just staring at her.

“So . . . are you seeing anyone?” She cringes as she says it, offering a very rare and brief glimpse of what Rain looks like when she's nervous. “I mean . . . what are you doing tonight?”

I can't help scanning her top-to-bottom—she's even more fit than she was before. It's been so freaking long. I've gone out on a couple of dates since she left, but none of them came close to holding my interest. And I never knew how to talk about myself, how to let anyone in.

“I thought this couldn't happen. I mean . . .” I'm nervous too. Or excited. Or petrified that she's only here to say “hi” because she's in town.

But, then, why would she ask to be located here?

“How is this happening?”

She reaches out, beckoning my hand. I take it, and then yank her into me, earning her slight gasp. She runs her knuckles against the light stubble along my jaw. “You look different.”

“Yeah . . .” I gaze down at my dark jeans and T-shirt. I've kept the Rolex, but only because it's one of the few things, besides the garage, that I have left from Rust. “I'm living a more simple life.”

“I like it.” Her palm slides along my chest and stomach. My nightly workout routine has only gotten more obsessive since she left.

“Seriously . . . how is this happening? I thought you couldn't get involved with someone like me.”

“Someone with a beautiful heart? Someone who paid a price for his mistakes?” Her face grows serious. “I know what you did for the Billings family.”

I duck my head, my cheeks burning. “How'd you find out?”

“Because I'm an FBI agent. You can't hide anything from me. Remember that.” She winks, taking my hands and walking backward, pulling me to the passenger side. “Hey Tabbs! Can you lock up?” she hollers.

“Sure thing, Boss Lady!”

I climb into the passenger seat, Stanley perched on my lap. “I guess I'll just leave my car here until tomorrow?” I say, hopeful.

She glances at the silver '74 Porsche 911 that I paid Jesse to fix up for me. I actually love it more than the last one. Probably because I feel like I earned it. “I can drive you, on my way into the office.”

“So . . .” I cover her hand, weaving my fingers between hers as she shifts gears. There's so much I want to say, to ask. What has she been doing in the last year? Is she seeing anyone else? What exactly is she looking for? “What's new?”

“A lot. But I'll tell you what's not new.” Her face grows serious, causing a moment of panic in my gut. “The fact that you still don't cover your windows at night.”

I smirk. “You've been watching me?”

“Kind of hard not to.” Excitement flashes in her eyes “Wait until you see where I'm living.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Getting into the head of an undercover police officer is difficult when you're not an undercover police officer. Telling a story that balances the excitement of fiction with legal realities is also difficult. Fortunately, I had a lot of help from a real undercover. I hope that Clara has done the profession and this world justice. Please note though, that this
is
fiction. As such, some liberties need to be taken to keep the plot flowing and readers interested. Characters like Sinclair and Clara—and their choices—are pure fiction. They are
not
based on what
does
happen or what
has
happened. They are based on what
could
happen. Because crazy things happen all the time.

I first want to thank my readers and the bloggers who continue with me on this journey. You know who you are—grabbing my books when they come out, chatting with me on social media, sharing my stories with friends, family, and your reading communities. You all keep making this dream possible for me.

To Sven Halle, for allowing me to interrupt your dinner to ask about sailing along the West Coast.

To Heather Self—always jumping to read my drafts in whatever shape they may be in, and providing sound input.

To my publicist, KP—for putting up with not hearing from me for weeks at a time because of a deadline, and then having me fire off question after question at all hours of the day and night through every method of communication available.

To my agent, Stacey Donaghy—for sitting in Pickle Barrel with me for hours, brainstorming this complicated story. For actually wanting to brainstorm with me for hours. And for leaving my face hurting from all the laughter.

To my editor, Sarah Cantin—for letting me run with this complicated story and tolerating the many, many,
many
revisions that went along with it.

To my publisher, Judith Curr, and the team at Atria Books: Ben Lee, Ariele Fredman, Tory Lowy, Kimberly Goldstein, and Alysha Bullock—for continuing to package my stories so beautifully. The cover on this one is truly perfect.

To P—for suffering through all those bottles of wine and dinners out to discuss this plot. I know it was a real hardship. Okay, maybe the 700+ texts were a bit much, but you were a real trouper, answering each and every one of them without ever asking why I'd want to know such absurd things.

To Lia and Sadie—for asking me almost daily why I write books. Some days—when the words aren't flowing and the plot isn't working and all I want to do is watch five episodes of
The Walking Dead
back-to-back—answering that question is what keeps me going.

To Paul—for dealing with the never-ending deadlines. And for not punching any more of my author friends in the face.