Something About You (5 page)

“Agent Pallas! Agent Pallas!” The reporters shouted over each other, trying to get to him.

Jack ignored them and headed toward the front door. The female reporter from the local NBC affiliate, whose interest in him lately seemed to go beyond a mere professional level, fell into stride alongside him with her cameraman in tow.

“Agent Pallas—we just got word about the Martino case. As the FBI agent in charge of the investigation, what do you think about the fact that Roberto Martino will continue to walk the streets of Chicago as a free man?” She shoved her microphone in Jack’s face.

Maybe it was due to extreme sleep-deprivation. Or maybe it was because of the fact that (according to the psychologist he had been ordered to see every week) he had some lingering “rage” issues related to his undercover work and capture. Or maybe, possibly, it had something to do with the fact that he’d been tortured for two days by the guy. But before he realized what he was doing, Jack fired back a reply to the reporter’s question.

“I think the assistant U.S. attorney has her head up her ass, that’s what I think. They should’ve assigned the case to somebody with some fucking balls.”

Every television station in Chicago led off their six o’clock evening news with his tirade.

And then they re-aired it again, on the ten o’clock news. Of course by that point, word had spread to the national correspondents that a Chicago FBI special agent had verbally bitch-slapped an assistant U.S. attorney on live camera, and then his comments were everywhere: CNN, MSNBC, the Today show, Nightline, Larry King Live, and everything in between. Not to mention that the footage earned the dubious distinction of being the most downloaded video on YouTube for the entire week.

Needless to say, Jack’s boss was not pleased.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Davis demanded to know when he hauled Jack into his office the following morning. “You’re the one with your head up your goddamn ass, Pallas, making a comment like that on national television!”

Things pretty much went downhill from there. Some feminist group began making noise in the media, claiming that Jack’s comment about assigning the case to somebody with “balls” was—taken literally—a sexist statement that only a male prosecutor could’ve handled such a tough case.

Which is when the Department of Justice stepped in.

Despite his initial outburst over the situation, Davis worked for two days to appease the DOJ. He emphasized that Jack was Chicago’s most talented and dedicated agent and suggested, in terms of a disciplinary action, that Jack issue a formal apology to Ms. Lynde and the U.S. attorney’s office and be put on six months’ probation. The lawyers at the DOJ said they would take Davis’s recommendation under advisement.

That Monday morning, Jack got into the office early to start working on his apology. He knew he’d been out of line, both with the comments he’d made to the reporter and the things he’d said to Cameron before that. Admittedly, he’d handled the situation poorly. Very poorly. On top of the shock and frustration he’d felt when hearing her news, the fact that he’d come to trust her had only increased his anger. But at this point, he hoped that they could somehow figure out a way to get past the situation and move on.

He had left the door to his office open while he worked, and after a few minutes of staring at a blank computer screen—apologies didn’t exactly come easy to him—he was surprised to hear voices coming from Davis’s office. He’d thought he was the only person in that early.

Davis sounded angry. From across the hall, Jack couldn’t pick up much of the conversation, other than to hear his boss say the words “bullshit” and “overreacting.” Since Jack didn’t hear anyone else speak, he wondered if Davis was on the phone. But regardless of whomever Davis was talking to, Jack had a pretty good idea who he was talking about. He got up from his desk and headed to his door when—

Davis’s office door flew open and Cameron Lynde stepped out.

Catching sight of Jack, she stopped in her tracks. A look crossed her face, one that Jack knew well. Over the years, he’d seen that expression many times when someone saw him approaching.

Caught.

Cameron covered the look quickly, and coolly met his gaze across the hallway. She turned and left, saying nothing.

When Davis stepped out of his office next, he also saw Jack. He shook his head somberly.

That afternoon, the Department of Justice issued an order that Special Agent Jack Pallas be transferred out of Chicago immediately.

Jack had a feeling he knew just who he could thank for that.

“WHATEVER YOU’RE THINKING about, you’d probably be better off leaving it in the past.”

Jack glanced over and saw Wilkins staring at him. “I wasn’t thinking about anything.”

“Really? ’Cause the car stopped three minutes ago and we’ve just been sitting here in front of this house.”

Jack looked around to get his bearings—shit, they were just sitting there. Nice to see his exceptionally fine-tuned special agent powers of observation were intact. He blamed their witness in the backseat for this. She distracted him. It was time to put an end to that.

He called over his shoulder. “You’re free to go, Ms. Lynde.”

No response.

He turned around.

“She’s out like a light,” Wilkins told him.

“So do something about it.”

Wilkins peered into the rearview mirror. “Yoo-hoo, Cameron—”

“Yoo-hoo? That’s really FBI-ish.”

“Hey, I’m the good cop. I make it work.” Wilkins turned back to the task at hand. “Cameron—we’re here.” He glanced over at Jack, whispering. “Do you think she’d mind if I call her Cameron?”

“Right now I think you could call her anything and get away with it.” He even had a few suggestions on that front.

“Okay, time for plan B,” Wilkins decided. “Someone needs to go back there and wake her up.”

“Sounds good. Hope that works out for you.”

“I meant you.” When Wilkins saw Jack’s expression, he gestured innocently. “Sorry. I have to stay here and man the wheel.”

Grumbling under his breath, Jack opened the car door and stepped out, catching his first good glimpse at Cameron Lynde’s home. Or at least, the place that was supposedly her home.

He stuck his head back into the car. “Are you sure this is the right place?”

“She said 3309 North Henderson. This is 3309 North Henderson,” Wilkins said.

“Yeah, but this is . . .” Jack turned around and tried to decide how best to describe the sight before him.

“One hell of a nice house,” Wilkins said approvingly.

That pretty much covered it. As Jack stood there on the street, the elegant house rose grandly before him, three stories above the ground. There was an arched portico framed by columns that flanked the entranceway. Sprawling ivy adorned much of the house, and a garden wrapped around the right side and stretched all the way back to the garage. He guessed the place had to be sitting on at least a city lot and a half.

The first question that popped into his head was how a government-salaried prosecutor could ever afford a house like that.

Wilkins appeared to be of a similar mindset. He leaned over the seat and peered through the passenger-side window. “What do you think? Rich husband?”

Jack considered this. There was a rich somebody, because she certainly couldn’t afford that kind of house on her own. Either that, or he hadn’t been that far out of line when he’d made the crack three years ago about her being on Martino’s payroll.

Wilkins read his mind. “Don’t even go there. That’s exactly the kind of crap that got you in trouble last time.”

Jack pointed to Cameron, still conked out in the backseat. “The only place I’m ‘going’ is back to the office, as soon as we fix this situation here.” He grabbed the handle and opened her door. “Let’s go, Ms. Lynde,” he said in a commanding tone.

No response.

“She’s still alive, right?” Wilkins asked, turning around to look.

Jack leaned into the backseat. He lowered his face toward Cameron’s and listened for sounds of breathing. “She’s alive.” He nudged her shoulder. “Come on. Wake up.”

Still no response.

“Maybe you should kiss her.” Seeing Jack’s glare, Wilkins grinned slyly. “Hey—it worked for that one dude.”

Jack turned back to Cameron and considered his options. He could poke her a few times. Tempting. Douse her with ice-cold water. Extremely tempting. But then knowing her, she’d slap him with a battery charge and he’d be back in Nebraska by sundown. Which left him with only one option.

He reached past Cameron and tossed her purse over the seat. “See if you can find her keys,” he told Wilkins.

“Are you kidding? What if she wakes up and sees me rummaging around in there? You don’t touch the purse. The purse is sacrosanct.”

“Either find the keys or get back here and carry her yourself.”

Wilkins eyed the purse for a moment, then reached in. “It’s worth it. I gotta see you try this. Ten bucks says she wakes up and clocks you before you hit the front steps.”

Jack gave that about seventy/thirty odds as well. He told Wilkins to pop the trunk, then grabbed her suitcase and ran it up to the front door. When he got back to the car, he took the purse and set it on Cameron’s lap. He got the keys from Wilkins and put them in his own pocket. Without further ado, he scooped her up into his arms and eased her out of the car.

She settled against him, still sleeping, and her head fell against his shoulder. He carried her to the house, thinking that out of all the possible scenarios he had envisioned if he ever again ran into Cameron Lynde, this definitely had not been among them. He wondered what her neighbors must be thinking at the sight of him carrying her up the front steps in broad daylight—if any of them had the friggin’ telescope they’d need to see across her little urban estate, that is.

Jack glanced down. She looked so peaceful right then, and for a split second, he found himself sympathizing over the long night she must have had. She’d held up amazingly well, all things considered.

With one hand, he opened the wrought iron gate and carried her up the stairs to the front door. Because of the size of the house, he thought it was a pretty safe bet that she lived with someone, and he wondered if that someone was about to come rushing out, all concerned, and scoop her away from him.

It didn’t happen.

Jack reached into his pocket, pulled out her keys and opened the front door. Still no half-crazed-with-worry boyfriend/husband/lover. He looked down at Cameron, snuggled up against his chest. Not that he cared, but whoever the guy was, he was kind of an asshole for not noticing that she’d been out of contact for the last ten hours.

“Cameron, wake up.” His voice sounded oddly soft. He cleared his throat. “You’re home.”

She stirred this time, and Jack set her down on the stoop, quick to put space between them. She stood there for a moment, groggy and uncertain, and peered up as if seeing him for the first time.

“You.”

“Me.”

She blinked, then threw an arm into the air, slurring her words tiredly. “Go. Pish off.”

Now Jack was more than happy to pish off, but first he needed to make sure she was safe. She was his key witness, after all. He tossed her the purse, which she barely caught, and set her suitcase inside the front door.

“Your keys are in the lock—don’t forget them. Are you alone here?” He asked this last question solely out of professional responsibility. “You’ve had a strange night—you might not want to be by yourself.”

He watched as she pulled her keys out of the lock and put them back in, then pushed on the door and stared in confusion when she found it already open.

“Yeah . . . now I’m thinking you really shouldn’t be here by yourself,” Jack said.

Despite being out of it, she had no problem managing to throw a dirty look his way. “I’ll call Collin,” she mumbled. Then she stepped inside her house and slammed the door in his face.

So.

There was a Collin.

Jack did a quick check to make sure the house looked secure. Then he headed back to the car and climbed in.

Wilkins held out his hands. “Well?”

“We’re good to go,” Jack said.

“You sure we should just leave her here alone?”

“She’s going to call Collin.”

“Oh, that’s a relief. Who’s Collin?”

Jack shrugged. “No clue. All I know is that she’s his problem now, not mine.”

“Ouch. That’s a little harsh.”

“Actually, I was going for a lot harsh, but I might be off my game,” Jack said. “Been a long night. Don’t forget the coffee on the way back into the office.”

Wilkins grinned as he threw the car into drive. “You know, I think I’m gonna learn a lot from you, Jack.”

Jack wasn’t exactly sure where that was coming from. But of course it was very true. “Thank you.”

“You’re a man who speaks his mind—I respect that. And I bet you respect that in others, too.”

Ah. . . . now he saw where this was going. “Just spit it out if there’s something you want to say, Wilkins.”

Wilkins stopped the car at a four-way intersection. “Your problems with her are your business. I just need to hear you say that those problems aren’t going to affect the way we handle this case.”

“They won’t.”

“Good. And for my own personal edification—do you plan to be grumpy and taciturn every time her name comes up?”

Jack studied his partner silently.

Wilkins smiled. “I pushed it with that one, didn’t I?”

“Common rookie mistake. The one question too many.”

“I’ll work on that.”

“See that you do.” Jack turned back and looked out the window, enjoying the familiar view of all the sights he hadn’t seen since leaving Chicago three years ago. After a few moments, he broke the silence. “And another thing: you’re not supposed to actually tell witnesses about the glowering thing. It ruins the effect.”

“So you do that intentionally?”

“Oh, I’ve been working on my glowering skills for years.”

Wilkins looked away from the road in surprise. “Was that actually a joke there?”

“No. And keep your eyes on the road, rookie. Because I’ll be really pissed if you crash this car before I get my coffee.”