Force of Nature (5 page)

The man had also missed a spot while shaving—a small patch near his left ear. No one else would notice it—at least those who didn’t know Max as the meticulously, obsessively well-groomed person that he was.

To Jules, who’d worked with him for years, he looked practically slovenly.

And yet his hands were steady, his eyes clear. He no longer seemed as if his head were on the verge of exploding, despite the gravity of the news he was here to share with the President.

“President Bryant will see you now, Mr. Bhagat.”

“Sir.” Jules had his own tie off and held out to Max before noting that it was, because of its pattern of teensy, barely recognizable SpongeBobs, perhaps even more inappropriate for a meeting with the U.S. President than that tie stained from Emma’s epicurean euphoria.

And sure enough, Max waved him off. “Put it back on. You’re coming in with me.”

“Excuse me?” His voice actually cracked.

But Max had already disappeared into the Oval Office, leaving Jules standing there under the impatient and somewhat disdainful gaze of the President’s secretary.

So he put his tie back on, straightened his collar, brushed the invisible dust from his jacket, and walked…onto the set of
The West Wing.
Except this was the real thing.

And the bald-headed man with his shirtsleeves rolled up and tie loosened was the real U.S. President.

Who probably wouldn’t even remember that phone call Jules had made to him on his private line—the number somewhat illegaly obtained—during an international crisis a few years back.

There was a meeting already in progress—several members of the President’s staff were sitting in a circular grouping of couches and chairs.

“How’re Gina and the baby?” Alan Bryant was asking as he shook Max’s hand. “Emma, right?”

“Thank you, sir,” Max said. “They’re both doing well.”

“Mr. Cassidy, how’s the leg?” Bryant shook Jules’s hand just as warmly. “Sit, please sit.”

So much for his not remembering. “Fully healed, sir,” Jules reported as he and Max both sat down. “I’m back to speed.”

“Nice tie,” the President said, squinting at it more closely. “I’ve got a granddaughter who adores that show. I’ve watched it with her—funny stuff.”

“Yes, it is.” Was he really discussing SpongeBob with the leader of the free world?

“I’ve gotta get me a tie like that. Where’d you get yours?” the President asked.

Jules glanced at Max, who was busy opening the sealed file—no help was coming from him.

So okay. His President had asked him a question, he was just going to have to answer it truthfully. “I was on vacation in Provincetown,” Jules admitted. “In Massachusetts. Cape Cod. There’re stores there with…campy stuff.” To hell with that. If he was really out, then he was out in the Oval Office, too. He explained. “Gay-friendly stores.”

Max glanced up at that, but Jules didn’t look at him. It was entirely possible that, after this meeting ended, Max would inform him that he’d just exploded his career.

If so, so be it. Jules was who he was.

But Bryant was smiling. “Oh yeah,” he said as he reached down and opened one of the drawers of a nearby cabinet. “I’m familiar with Provincetown. My favorite nephew and his partner—spouse now—have a summer place there.” He took out a mahogany tray that turned out to be filled with a colorful array of new ties, and held it out to Max, as if he were offering hors d’oeuvres. “I’ve got a pack of granddaughters. One’s about the same age as your Emma. Her aim, too, is unerring.”

“Thank you, sir.” Max took a tie and put it on, slipping his soiled one into his pocket.

Jules took one, too, replacing it with his. “I’m happy to donate SpongeBob to a good cause,” he told the President.

“Unnecessary, but sincerely appreciated,” Bryant told him with a smile, but then morphed into the man Jules had seen on TV—gravely serious. “You’ve got bad news for me, I gather.”

“I’m afraid so,” Max said, handing him the contents of that file.

“Let’s have Mr. Cassidy give the report,” Bryant said, “since you’re obviously grooming him as your replacement.”

What the…? Was Max really?

Jesus yikes.

Again, no eye contact from his boss, the bastard, who told the President, “Cassidy’ll also be in charge of this investigation.”

Another piece of breaking news that left Jules speechless.

Of course, now Max did look at him, but only because he was passing him the proverbial microphone.

Not that this wasn’t completely typical behavior from his legendary boss—surprise the leaping bejeezus out of him, then make him give an impromptu presentation—his first in front of the U.S. President and his staff.

Jules cleared his throat. “The photo you’ve been given, sir, is that of Yazid al-Rashid al-Hasan. Our code name for him is Tango Two, due to the amount of time he’d spent as Osama bin Laden’s right-hand man back in the late 1990s. We believe he’s heading to the United States, with the intention of carrying out a major attack on an East Coast city, probably New York, possibly Atlanta.

“We believe his point of entry will be the Gulf coast of Florida via South America. We’ve been watching a mob boss named Gordon Burns, who’s based in Sarasota—we believe his organization may have been responsible for smuggling another al Qaeda operative into the country, although we’ve uncovered no hard evidence to date. We’re working to find out the logistics—where, when, how.

“We have an agent inside,” Jules continued. “Peggy Ryan has been working as a live-in housekeeper at the Burns estate for the past two months.” And wasn’t she going to love it when she found out that Jules had just been assigned agent-in-charge of an investigation she was working, when just last year he’d been working for her? Especially when she’d transferred down to Florida to get away from him. “As of yet, she’s found nothing, but she’s one of our best and—”

“Cassidy doesn’t know this yet, but I was notified about an hour ago”—Max interrupted him—“that Agent Ryan missed her last check-in.”

And
that
was not good news. Peggy may have been homophobic, but she was a good agent—always meticulous with safety procedures such as check-ins. Although, good agents missed check-ins all the time, for a variety of reasons. Support staff generally waited to panic until an agent failed to file two consecutive reports.

“Under other circumstances,” Max continued, “we’d obtain the necessary warrants and shut Burns’s operation down. But apprehending Tango Two is a higher priority.” He was still addressing the President, but his message was also aimed at Jules. “As much as we would like to provide assistance to our missing agent, we can’t risk doing so at this time.”

Those words weren’t easy for Max to say. Jules knew that. Although he and Peggy had never gotten along, she and Max were friends.

“If we merely shut down Burns’s operation,” Jules added, “it’s likely that Tango Two will find a different route into the country—a route we may not know about.”

“Can’t we just continue to track him?” the President’s chief of staff asked.

“Well, we could, sir,” Jules said, “provided we knew where he was. Last report had him heading for Spain.”

Due to its proximity to Algeria, Spain had been, in the past, one of the jumping-off points for terrorists heading into the United States—a fact that the President and his staff knew well.

Jules stood. “If there are no other questions, please excuse me. I need to get to work, locating my missing agent.”

As Annie went into the dank darkness of Screech’s, she said a silent prayer of thanks to the unlikeliest pair of patron saints—Tommy Fista and, yes, Lillian Lavelle.

Alvarado Private Investigations’ newest client had swayed into the outer office early this morning, like some kind of stereotypical private-eye film noir fantasy.

Auburn hair surrounded a heart-shaped face with full lips. Predatory heat simmered in cat-green eyes. Painted nails, do-me shoes, and matching condom-size handbag—she had all her accessories in order. As for that skintight dress from Cleavage “R” Us…It was almost too funny for words.

Almost.

Ric, the big dick, didn’t exactly laugh as Annie showed Lillian—if that was really her name—into his office. In fact, his eyes appeared to have glazed over.

And Lillian, upon first sight of Ric rising to his feet to greet her, had actually gasped.

And okay. Yeah. With his tie loosened and the top button of his white shirt undone, long sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, Annie’s new boss—and her brother’s best friend from their high school days—was scary handsome. With his thick dark hair, deep brown eyes, and that face like a movie star, he was TDH to the max. But he was also about twenty years too young for someone as overripe as Lillian Lavelle.

Ric offered the woman his hand, they shook, and of course she held on way too long. Not that he particularly seemed to mind. Annie settled in, leaning against the filing cabinet in the corner, ready to take notes, but Lillian aimed her artfully made up eyes in her direction.

“This problem I’ve come to discuss—it’s a very delicate matter,” she told Ric in her hint-of-Southern-honey voice, focusing now on her hands, clasped demurely in her lap. “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer at least the illusion of privacy.”

And instead of giving the woman his usual speech about how Annie was an essential part of his team, how she’d be taking the notes that she’d type up for him later, Ric gave Annie a dismissing nod.

So Annie had left.

Twenty-seven and a half minutes later—not that she’d been counting seconds—he’d buzzed her back into his office.

Where Lillian was using a rhinestone-studded compact mirror to reapply her bloodred lipstick.

She smacked her perfect lips together, murmuring “I can’t thank you enough.” She leaned forward in her copious sincerity, which gave her captive audience—Ric, seated behind his desk—a perfect view of that world-class cleavage.

The woman’s lack of subtlety was audacious, and again Annie almost laughed out loud.

She coughed instead, covering her mouth with her fist.

Ric shot her a glance—amazing that he could drag his gaze away from the hypnotic feast of plenty in front of him. He politely rose as Lillian, too, ascended from her seat.

Her every movement was graceful, fluid, hinting of perfectly choreographed sex.

“We’ve already discussed payment,” Ric told Annie as he handed her a file marked
Lavelle
in his ridiculously messy handwriting. “And I’ve taken her contact information.”

She bet he had.

There was nothing to do then but show the woman to the door.

But Lillian Lavelle was not to be hurried. Annie felt like a Mack truck next to her as she swayed her way out of Ric’s office.

Always observant, Ric was paying close attention—no doubt in an attempt to solve the mystery of exactly how Ms. Lavelle could be forty-something years old, yet still have such a freakishly perfect ass.

As Annie watched, the older woman turned to give Ric one last smile before she left his line of sight.

She then sped up, thank God, leaving only a trace of her perfume in the outer office as the front door closed behind her. Pierre had lifted his head as she’d passed his dog bed, and he now watched Annie, his brown eyes anxious.

“It’s all right, puppy boy,” she told him. “The mean lady is gone.”

With a sigh, he settled back down. All was right in his world.

Annie lowered the temperature on the window air conditioner, making it kick on, getting the air moving as she took the file to the receptionist’s desk.

“She was…rather dramatic,” Ric said, and she glanced up to see him in his favorite position—leaning against the door frame, thumbs in the front pockets of his faded jeans, left foot crossed over his right.

“Was she?” Annie asked, forcing herself to look down at the file folder, scanning the ridiculously sparse notes he’d taken during their twenty-seven-minute interview.

The case was a relatively easy one. A simple locate-the-whereabouts of Lillian’s deceased daughter’s former roommate, Brenda Quinn. Brenda most likely wasn’t trying to stay hidden. She’d merely dropped out of Lillian’s life, leaving no forwarding address, when Lillian’s daughter, Marcy, had died. According to Ric’s chicken-scratches, the client had made several cursory searches via the Internet, and come up cold.

She’d given them a photo of two young women on what looked to be the local public beach, out on Siesta Key. They were both in their early twenties, dressed in bathing-suit tops and shorts, hair pulled back into ponytails. Both were pretty—one dark, one fair. They were mugging for the camera, looking over their shoulders, showing off what looked to be matching tattoos—some mystical-looking Chinese characters that probably said
kick me
—on the small of their backs.

“Which one is Brenda?” Annie asked.

“On the left,” Ric told her. “The blonde.”

Annie looked at the photo more closely, trying to see any trace of Lillian in her dark-haired daughter’s face. Maybe a little around the mouth and chin…

As for the blonde, she had another tattoo on her right arm—three intricately drawn, intertwined calligraphy-style letters—a
G
, a
B
, and a
J.

According to Ric’s notes, Marcy had died just about eighteen months ago. And okay, the final comment he’d scribbled was
daughter dead from drug overdose.
That had to suck.

But then Annie spotted the rate of pay for which Ric had agreed to take this case. “A hundred dollars a day? Are you out of your mind?”

He turned and went back into his office, obviously unable to meet her accusing stare. “Her daughter’s dead, she’s on a limited budget, it’s going to take me fifteen minutes on the Internet to find Brenda…”

Annie followed him. She’d spent some time over the past week that she’d been here trying to talk him into taking her on as a partner—paying her with a percentage of the money that she helped him bring in. Currently, she was on salary, and aside from that reward he’d gotten along with the excess blood in his urine, he hadn’t earned nearly a quarter as much as he’d paid her last week.