Go-Between (8 page)

“Jesus, Em. I wish you'd listen to me.”

“I'm listening,” she said. “I'll make the call.”

He seemed to relax, the line of his shoulders softening. “Okay. Keep me posted.”

“I'll try. It might get a little complicated.”

“It doesn't have to be. Do what Sam says. He'll take care of you.”

Right, she thought.

“I'm going home tomorrow,” she said. “To take care of a few things. I should be back in a few days.”

She hesitated. She wanted to make some gesture, something to show him that she cared. She'd seen women actually press their lips against the window, but she wasn't going to do that.

Instead, she flattened her palm on the Plexiglas, just for a moment.

It still felt fake. Like a scene from a bad prison movie.

He watched her do it. Stared down at his own hands held flat on the counter. “Be careful,” he said.

She wasn't sure, but she thought he seemed ashamed.

“I will. I'll see you as soon as I can.”

Once she got out in the hall, she tore open her second wet wipe and cleaned her hand with it.

Stupid. You're so stupid.

The words repeated in her head like the world's worst mantra. While she stood in the shower, washing the stink of the jail away, while she lay on her hotel bed, not able to sleep, until she finally gave up and took an Ambien.

Seeing him in jail that first time, the rush of affection and fierce protectiveness she'd felt, now she thought it had been like she was acting out a part in a romance novel—save the handcuffed, wounded hero.

This time, seeing him, the thrill was definitely gone.

The jail was a horrible place, full of petty indignities. It was about waiting in lines, filling out forms, screaming into a spittle-flecked speaker, having to pee in an overflowing, shit-smeared toilet that no one seemed to care enough to clean. Watched every step of the way by guards, some of whom wore leather gloves padded with buckshot. It was horrible and stupid and mundane, like some kind of nightmare version of a prom at a poor public high school, men and women lined up on opposite sides of the glass.

If I really care about him, I'm going to have to see this through, she thought. There's no quick fix. What were the odds that Gary or Sam could just snap their fingers and make it all better? Or if they could, that either of them were willing to do so?

She lay there, the Ambien slowly dissolving the knots in her head, and thought about it. How she really felt. Did she love Danny, really, without the fantasy? Considering who he was, and all the things he'd done?

He'd done good things as well, she told herself. She'd believed him when he'd talked about the missions he'd flown. They hadn't all been criminal.

But what was the point of rationalizing it? That was what
he'd
done, what had helped him keep doing his job, until the bad things had piled up too high and tipped the balance.

Did she owe him? On the one hand, he'd saved her ass. On the other, her ass wouldn't have needed saving if she'd never met him.

Though she'd probably be bankrupt and living in her sister's spare room.

She was finally dozing off. Once, twice, a fragmented thought broke through her drift towards sleep, jerking her awake, and she was irritated with herself for not being able to control her thoughts, for depriving herself of the relief that sleep would bring.

Jesus Christ, I'm in love with a criminal.

And not for the first time.

That
hadn't ended well, either, she thought, before she finally fell asleep.

Chapter Eight

She got into Arcata
at 4
p.m.
She'd left her car at the airport, with a fleece jacket in the trunk, which was a good thing, because it had to be thirty degrees cooler here than it had been in Houston.

She made it home before 5
p.m.
The house smelled stale and cold. She resisted the temptation to take a nap. It had been a long day of travel, and her shoulders ached with fatigue, but there were things she had to do.

Call Sam.

She didn't want to. But she'd promised.

Funny. Danny had told her to memorize Sam's number, and she thought that she had, but she was still afraid of forgetting it. So she'd written the number down on page 122 of her Alice Waters
Art of Simple Food
cookbook, on the margins of a recipe for pan-fried pork chops.

She flipped through the cookbook to page 122.

There it was.

What phone to call him from? Emily's? Michelle's? A burner?

She had a sudden flash from the night she'd met Sam. They'd flown over the border, landed on a dirt airstrip somewhere in New Mexico. Danny by that time was shocky, pale and drenched in sweat, wavering on the edge of consciousness at times, the blood on his shirt dried to rust. He'd called Sam. “Hey, Sam,” he'd said. “Hey. Can you pick us up?”

She shuddered, thinking about it. It had been a bad night.

A burner.

She retrieved the new burner phone from her luggage that she'd bought in Houston at a Best Buy and plugged it in to charge. Went out to the garage and got the other phone, the one she hadn't used to call
Danny
the night he was arrested. She'd tossed that one before going through security at SFO.

The area code for Sam's number was 703, Virginia, but that didn't mean anything much. She had no idea where Sam's base of operations actually was.

“Hi, Sam? This is
. . .
this is Michelle. Danny's friend.” She hesitated. “Is this a good time?”

“Let me call you back.”

Sam had the hint of an accent. She wasn't sure from where. His last name was Kolar, but who knew if that was his real name? At times she thought she'd imagined the accent, or that maybe it was just an inflection he'd picked up from foreign-born parents. Or that it was some kind of disguise.

Five minutes later, her burner rang. He was using a different number now. A burner of his own, maybe.

“Is there a problem?” he asked.

“Yeah. You know Gary, right?”

A brief silence on the other end of the line.

“Just tell me what happened.”

She kept it short. Didn't talk about her visit to Houston, or Gary's job. Just that Gary had been responsible for Danny's bust.

Sam knew who Gary was. He had to. She hadn't heard everything Daniel had told him that night in New Mexico, but he had to have told Sam about Gary.

“So, Gary,” Sam said when she'd finished. Then silence. She waited.

When it was clear that he wouldn't speak first, she asked: “Is there anything you can do?”

Another pause. “What does Gary want?”

She felt the acid churn in her gut. This was what she'd wanted to avoid. “I don't know, revenge?”

Sam chuckled softly. “Is there something he wants you to do?”

She was afraid to tell him the truth, but she couldn't come up with a good enough lie.

“So you know Gary,” she said.

She listened to the silence on the other end of the line. He wasn't going to answer. “I'm afraid if I tell you that he'll find out,” she finally said. “And that you won't be able to protect me.”

“A legitimate concern. But Danny told you to call me, didn't he?”

She couldn't say what she wanted to. Which would have been something like, “Yeah, and he also thought that smuggling pot into Texas was a great idea.”

“Gary wants me to take a personal assistant job,” she said. “For a woman named Caitlin O'Connor. She has a non-profit called Safer America.”

She thought she heard the clicking of a keyboard, but she couldn't be sure.

“Interesting. And what did you tell him?”

“That I'd do it.”

“All right.” Another pause. “We'll work with that, then.”

“What does that
. . .
what do you mean?”

“Just that you're cooperating, that's all. It gives us a few different options. Negotiation. Compromise.”

She didn't believe him. She'd been around these people enough now that she knew there was almost always a hidden agenda. Another option. “Or something else?”

“Perhaps.” If she could have seen his face, he would have been smiling. She was sure of it. “For now, just go along with him. Let's keep this conversation between the two of us. I'll do some fieldwork, and we'll see what makes the most sense, how we should play this.”

“What about Danny?”

“I'll work that angle too. Find out who else aside from Gary might be backing the charges, if I can. See what can be done.”

After that, Michelle drove to Evergreen.

She still had a restaurant to run.

Joseph, the executive chef, the guy who'd designed the menu and the recipes, was working tonight. She didn't expect that he'd be working there much longer. The line cooks had learned his recipes, and one of them, Guillermo, was a natural talent who was coming up with ideas of his own. Joseph was getting bored, she could tell, and was ready to move on to the next project, maybe a bigger place in another town, maybe his own restaurant, though she doubted he wanted to take that step. He was a hired gun, and she'd known that from the beginning.

Which made him the perfect person to talk to now.

Six o'clock. The early
dinner crowd had drifted in, the ones who came for happy hour, half-priced wine by the glass tonight. All the bar seats were taken, and between that and the tables, two-thirds full, Matt was having a busy night.

“Emily, hi!”

Helen, her head waitress—not an official title, but that was how Michelle thought of her—waved from the back of the restaurant. She worked more hours than anyone else on the serving staff. Helen was in her late twenties and had dropped out of Humboldt State a year ago. Michelle hadn't asked why. It wasn't any of her business, and anyway, someone shares something with you, sometimes they want an exchange of confidences in return.

What she knew was that Helen worked hard, that she was smart and reliable.

Michelle headed in her direction.

“Everything going okay?”

“Yeah, you know,” Helen said with a shrug. “We missed you.”

“That's nice of you to say.”

Helen stood her ground. Clasped her hands together. She was stocky, brown skinned and freckled, her caramel-colored hair done up in two braids that swirled around her ears like elaborate cinnamon rolls.

“Seriously. We're running low on some produce, and it's like, we can still get it if we switch up our suppliers, but I don't know, I'm thinking it might be time to adjust the menu.” She suddenly seemed embarrassed. Twisted her clasped hands. “Somebody just needs to decide.”

“Okay,” Michelle said. “Thanks.”

She went into the kitchen.

Joseph was there, working
on the finishing touches of a salmon dish; Copper River, she thought. She caught a whiff of the fish through the general smoke and chaos of the kitchen and suddenly realized how hungry she was. Had she even eaten today?

“Hey, Emily,” Joseph said, glancing at her for a moment, then returning his attention to the garnish.

“When you can, would you take five and meet me in the office?”

He paused for a moment and actually looked at her, his expression some combination of concerned and annoyed. Maybe he thought she was about to fire him.

“Nothing bad,” she said with a quick smile. “Just some business.”

Someone had been watering
her plants, at least.

She sat down at her desk, booted up her computer and logged onto the restaurant's receipts and inventory system.

Receipts were connected to the registers out front, so it was fairly easy to see how business had been in her absence. Not bad. Not bad at all.

Inventory and expenses were a different matter. As much as she wanted to standardize it all, different vendors had different ways that they liked to do things. You could have one artichoke grower at the farmer's market who used an iPad and then a winemaker who only took cash or checks and wrote out all his receipts by hand.

And of course, the restaurant did a lot of cash business as well. Pot dealers like Bobby tended to have an excess of it.

“Shit,” she said aloud. Bobby. He had to know by now that something had gone very wrong on Danny's run. What should she do about it? What made the most sense?

A perfunctory knock on the door. Joseph entered without waiting for her response.

He really is kind of a prick, she thought. But a lot of chefs were like that.

“Hey.” He came over to her desk, pulled the guest chair beneath him, the legs scraping the battered linoleum floor, and sat. He was a big guy, in his thirties, curly red hair, big belly, big, thick hands that were scarred from knives and grills and hot oil.

“How's it been?” she asked.

“Good.” A shrug.

“Glad to hear that.” She hesitated. How to put it? “So I imagine that you're getting ready to move on,” she said.

Joseph's head canted back and he frowned, like he was surprised that she was that perceptive. She supposed that was understandable, given Emily's cover story: a hobbyist with money to burn (thanks to her boyfriend in the pot trade; “Jeff's” sideline was pretty much an open secret in town, or at least a well-trafficked rumor) who'd decided to buckle down and get serious about her dream of owning a restaurant. Which wasn't that far off from the truth, really, except for the “dream of running a restaurant” part. It was more
that she'd had to do
something,
and a photography business or gallery hadn't seemed like much of a moneymaker. And she did know about food. About wine. About how to create an atmosphere. She'd hired a consultant to help set the place up, to teach her the basics, but he'd left a couple of months after the opening. “You don't need me from here out,” he'd told her. “You've got a knack for this business.”

Who knew?

“Yeah, well, things run pretty well,” he said. “It's a good group.”

“That's good to hear.” Again, she hesitated. Then plunged ahead. “Because the thing is, I'm having a family situation. An emergency. That's why I had to go out of town. And unfortunately
. . .
it looks like it's going to be dragging on for a while.”

“Sorry to hear that.” He actually did seem sorry. He looked down at his lap, at the grease stains on his apron, maybe. “Parent?”

“What?”

“You know.” He shrugged. “Aging parent.”

It was as good an excuse as any. “Yes. My dad.”

He shook his head. “Fucking drag.”

“Yeah.”

Joseph shifted in his chair. She didn't know much about his personal story, next to nothing, really, but this seemed to be an issue that had some resonance for him. Might as well play it, she thought.

“We're not a big family,” she said. “And there really isn't anyone else in the position to help. So, it's pretty much landed on me.”

“I know how that goes,” he muttered.

She nodded. “So I'm going to have to be out of town a lot for the next few months. And what I was wondering was, if you'd be willing to
. . .
take on a little more of a managerial role while I'm gone. I'll pay you for it.”

Now Joseph looked alarmed. “The paperwork and stuff, it's not really my thing.”

“I know that,” she said quickly. “I mean as an executive chef. For the administrative end, I was thinking about promoting Helen. She seems really organized to me, and like she has a sense of the big picture.”

The truth was, Helen already was a de facto manager during the times that Michelle wasn't there. She did everything but the accounting, and there was no reason that she couldn't do that as well, at least do enough of it to keep things running for the next few months.

“Yeah,” Joseph said slowly. “Yeah, she's good.”

“We'll need to find another server. Do you know anyone?”

“I can find someone,” he said.

She'd called Sam. Had
Evergreen squared away, to the extent that it could be.