Choked Up (14 page)

It took four drafts to get the right tone.

I sealed the letter and put it in the front pouch of my rucksack. I had no address for Stannislav Renko. Not yet.

 

Ragnar was waiting in the truck. He drove me home in a cocoon of country music and confusion. I didn't need to be clairvoyant to know something was about to happen with Stannis. And, just like Mant's note, I couldn't say a damn thing about it.

Hank protected me from his gray world. Locked it away in a box of silence so I never had to lie to my family. Or even myself. I just had to leave the box alone.

No sweat. Being with Hank was more important than any secret.

He'd marveled once at the blind faith I had in him. “I could never be okay with not knowing,” he said, voice so gravelly I could feel it in my chest.

I looked down at my hands in my lap. My arms felt like they weighed a thousand pounds. Almost as heavy as my conscience.

I didn't have the guts to tell Hank I was a cop. Because . . . well, I had more reasons than I could count, and “coward” pretty much topped the list.

Ragnar pulled into the driveway. Hank was leaning against the garage door, arms folded, superhero mouth in a laconic grin.

Ragnar honked his horn twice and drove away.

“Hi,” I said to Hank.

“Hi, yourself.” He held out his fists. “Choose.”

I tapped his right hand. He opened it. Car keys.

He took the garage door opener from his pants pocket. “Number two.”

I pressed the middle button. The door opened on a pitch-black Dodge Challenger SRT Hellcat. “Whoa. Did a little shopping today, I see.”

“Like it?”

“What's not to love?” The V-8 alone was a big F.U. to the carbon footprint wussies who wouldn't recognize exhilaration if it put them in a headlock and ground its knuckles into their skulls. “Where's the Super Bee?”

“In storage. Try number one.”

An obsidian Ford Mustang Shelby GT500. Another modern-day muscle car. I gave a low whistle. “Are you planning a race?”

“If you'd rather drive the Shelby—”

“What?”

Hank squinted at me. “
What
what?”

I held up the keys. “You're letting me choose your new car?”

“No. Yours.” He slung his arm over my shoulders.

“Hank—”

He gave me a playful swat. “Let's tear it up.” He trotted to the passenger side of the Hellcat and reached for the door.

My vision blurred.
I hate myself.
“Hank, it's one thing to let me drive your cars, but this is something else entirely.”

“No,” he said. “But I realize you think it is. Get in.”

I did, feeling like a heel. I put my hands on the wheel, breathing in the new car smell. “An automatic?” I said, unable to disguise the happy in my voice.

“Tested faster than manual.”

“How'd you know I'd pick that hand?”

“I didn't. Top of the bluffs?”

I smiled and started the car. And it was glorious. I touched the gas and it leapt into life as though it had been stung. Flying around the hairpin curves, the steering was, as my brothers would say, talkative. The Hellcat was a heavy, road-gripping beast.

There was no way I would accept a $68K muscle car. As much as I coveted it. But that was a talk for another day.

“We'll hit the track,” Hank promised as I came to a stop. “Soon.”

I parked and we got out of the car. Hank leaned his forearms on the roof and stared across at me, his face strangely vulnerable, the hard lines of his jaw blurred by his thick scruff. “I need to be in Central America for the next five days.”

Oookay.
“I'll miss you.”

“I need you to take the week off. Stay protected.”

I tapped the hood of the car. “This a carrot?”

“No. You can't drive it until I come home.”

I sighed. “Hank . . .”

“Mant's a threat. You will be safe.”

Wow. That was pretty final.
“You let me go to work with Ragnar—”

“Because Mant would come for me first. And I won't be here.”

I walked around to his side of the car. “I need to go to work. I'll lose my mind if I don't.”

His jaw tightened.

I put my hand on his arm. “Besides, I promised my mom I'd go home the next time you went out of town.”

“No.”

A breathy laugh slipped from my mouth. “I'll be in a house with four cops. And you can surround me with Ragnar and Chris—heck, hire a small army for all I care.”

He stared at me until I couldn't bear it a second longer.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “I'll stay the week at your place. Let Ragnar drive me to work every day. Spend Friday and Saturday at my house. Everyone's home on the weekend. You can pick me up on the way home from the airport.”

“I don't like this,” he said. But he lumped it. And left that night.

 

Tuesday, at the office, same time, same way, the gorilla oversaw delivery of a massive tower of fruit and nuts. Wednesday, bricks of Belgian chocolate. Stannis's gifts were giving my social status a leg up. I now had a temporary seat at the Bettys' table, and a creeping sense of dread of what today would bring.

The gifts were equally disconcerting and disturbing. So much so, I was almost looking forward to my debrief with Danny Kaplan after work.

The break room was filled to capacity. At 12:40, the gorilla sat down across from me. He glared at the Bettys, who after twenty long seconds got the hint, gathered their lunches, and lumbered off to gather at the microwave.

“Mr. Renko would like to see you.”

“When?”

“Friday night. Dinner. Nine. He will send car. Address?”

“Uh, I'm not sure I can make it.”

The gorilla stared at me, unblinking. “Address?”

Oookay.
I scrambled around for a napkin and pen, scribbled my parents' address, and handed it to him. He removed a small red leather box from his suit coat pocket and placed it on the table. It was decorated with an unmistakable pattern in gold leaf.

He pushed it in front of me with two thick fingers.

I flipped the lid.

Diamond earrings. Not little ones, either. Danglers, exquisite and delicate. Each a strand of five alternating pear and round-cut diamonds suspended in white gold.

I tried to clear my throat, but I couldn't get any air to or from my lungs.

The gorilla leaned forward and slapped me on the back. I started coughing.

“Dress pretty,” he said. “Mr. Renko likes pretty things.”

I rode up the fourth elevator at Silverthorn Estates Assisted Living for my debrief with the insect-waisted, wasp-vicious Danny Kaplan, careful to push both the fourth and fifth buttons at the same time. Two tiny lights went on in the upper right-hand corner. The Kimber Solo and Swiss Army knife in my backpack had been detected.

I swiped my way into Special Unit and ran into Officer/Nurse Anita Erickson. “Heads up, Rook. Kaplan's spitting nails. A word to the wise, get in and get out as fast as you can.”

Terrific.
“Anything in particular?”

She grimaced. “We seem to have misplaced a field agent.”

I knocked and entered Ms. Kaplan's office. There were no chairs in front of her shiny red desk today. Instead they were tucked in tight to the conference table. She didn't look up from her laptop.

She was wearing a navy suit coat over a white shirt with cuffs so sharp I checked her wrists to see if they were bleeding.

I stood at full attention in front of her desk, concentrating on keeping my breathing even. There'd be no riding the next-level-bullshit train of prerehearsed excuses. Not today.

Four minutes later, Ms. Kaplan closed the laptop with a snap. “Ahh, Miss McGrane.” She rolled back her chair ever so slightly and snarled, “Seán Ó Rudaí. What the hell were you thinking?”

Whoa.
My eyes popped.
Don't hold back.

“You joined the Special Unit of the Bureau of Organized Crime, not a secret spy club with a password and a magic decoder ring. Everything within Special Unit is classified on a need-to-know basis. Young Mr. Ó Rudaí far exceeded your clearance level on Operation Steal-Tow.”

“Your existence in the BOC is contingent upon my assessment, your grandstanding for Walt Sawyer notwithstanding. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, ma'am.” I winced inwardly.
She's gonna love what's coming.

“Your report?”

I handed her the binder containing my summary, spreadsheet, GPS marked and labeled map, along with individual sets of photos taken by the Parking Enforcement Agents that week. “I've been transferred,” I blurted my shame. “Desk duty.”

“Brilliant.” Her smile could have cut glass. “How could you possibly have let this happen?”

“Well . . . uh . . .”

She tossed the report onto a corner of the desk and folded her thin arms across her chest. “You're still able to collect data from the other meter maids, correct?”

I nodded.

“Continue on, then.” She opened the laptop and began typing rapid-fire. “That'll be all.”

I sucked up my guts and said calmly, “No, ma'am, I'm afraid it won't. Friday night, I helped Stannislav Renko elude a VICE bust at a strip club. I've received a gift from him every day this week, culminating in these.” I opened the Cartier box and set it on her desk.

I had her attention now. Or at least the earrings did.

“Go on,” she said.

“He wants to see me tomorrow night at nine o'clock.”

“Pull up a chair.”

I brought back a chair, sat down, and explained what happened Friday night.

“So Stannislav Renko wants a girlfriend.” She sounded amused.

“Not exactly. When I went in to warn him, I found the mayor of Chicago performing . . . er . . . fellatio on him.”

She went quite still. “Coerced?”

“Uh, no. Consensual. So, I'm not sure why he's sending me presents.”

“I knew you were Catholic. I didn't realize you were raised in a nunnery.” Kaplan scoffed. “A blow job doesn't necessarily delineate a definitive sexual preference.”

“Your unauthorized interview and feckless rescue to keep Renko off the radar has jeopardized this entire operation.”

My face turned to stone.
I may have to lie here and take it, but I wasn't gonna smile about it.
“Do you want me to cancel the meet with Renko, ma'am?”

Kaplan fingered the thick strand of Mikimoto pearls at her throat. “It's clear Renko is wooing you on the pretext that you can provide inside police information. That's not something I can or will facilitate.”

Guess I'll be scuttling my brothers' police work all by myself.
“I'll manage.”

“If Renko is after more than police information, your Mr. Bannon may become a liability.”

“He won't.”

“If he does, I will request the necessary assistance to remove him from the situation. Special Unit has a long-standing relationship with the NSA. They appreciate our tip-offs on mercenaries and other undesirables.”

My hands went numb.
Now you're just getting nasty.
I flexed my fingers, careful not to let them curl into fists, as I might lean over and punch her in the face.

“Don't you want to be a field agent, Miss McGrane?”

“You're free to resign, of course.”

Like hell.
“No, thank you, ma'am.”

“Well, then. Let's hope you possess the necessary intellect to stay alive in this job. All signs point to the contrary, although I expect we'll find out soon enough.” Kaplan raised her shoulders in a shrug so tight it could have broken her back. “Enjoy your date with Mr. Renko, Special Agent McGrane.”

 

I must have been wearing my distress on my sleeve, because when I went to Edward Dunne's office to requisition more Visa cards, he took one look at me and whisked me off into his private quarters at the end of the Onyx wing for green tea and ginger snaps.

Nestled into two chintz overstuffed armchairs with a spindly-legged mahogany table between us, he poured the tea and I poured out what went down with Danny Kaplan.

“You're convenient and far closer to the Steal-Tow epicenter than anyone else we have, which is why Danny leapt on you like a two-dollar tart.” Edward shook his head. “Of all the times for Walt to go on holiday. You're a wee bit
unseasoned,
shall we say, to go up against one of the best of the Slajic clan.” He took a sip from his china cup. “Walt will pitch a ruddy fit when he finds out.”

“Sawyer wouldn't have recruited me if he thought I couldn't handle it.”

Edward gave a doubtful chuckle. “You don't
handle
evil, my dear. You kill it.”

Maybe I was in over my head
. “Swiping intelligence from my brothers isn't what bothers me. Roles reversed, they'd do it themselves.” I leaned forward. “Danny threatened to go to the NSA about Bannon if this doesn't play out.”

“Aye. A Class-A bitch, Danny is. The only cork in the bottle'd be Walt tellin' her not to.”

“Will he?”

“I don't know.” Edward clucked his tongue in sympathy. “Mightn't matter if he did.”