Becoming Rain (8 page)

“I guess it's not you that he has a problem with,” I murmur, trying for a relaxed tone.

There's another awkward moment, and then Warner sticks his hand out. “Hi, I'm Jack. Rain's brother.”

Brother! Good call.

“Luke. I live in the building next door.”

I have to pause for a moment as the two of them shake hands. Warner, a guy in a faded Boston Red Sox T-shirt, pretending to be my brother when he's the FBI agent who wants to lock Luke in a small, windowless room and pressure him until he cracks. Luke, in a fitted black golf shirt, pretending to be just a regular neighborhood rich guy, when he's the criminal that the FBI is betting their entire case on.

If this weren't a risky situation, I might laugh.

Was Luke listening at the door? He very well might have been, to figure out if he had the right condo. How much would he have overheard? I quietly play back my conversation with Warner, trying to remember exactly what words were used.

I'm guessing all those same thoughts are going through Warner's head. That's why he's not budging. I need him gone, before Luke decides his surprise visit was a bad idea and hightails it out of here.

“You'd better go, Jack, or you'll miss your plane.”

Warner's back stiffens, his entire body unnaturally still. He's weighing his options. If I'm not in danger, then this is a blip but no big deal. If Luke did in fact overhear our conversation, puts two and two together, and something happens to me . . .

But Luke—standing there with his arms now crossed over his chest, that self-assured smirk sitting on his lips—doesn't look like a guy who just figured out that he's under investigation.

Finally, deciding something, Warner stands aside, gesturing for Luke to enter. “Like I said, I'll be landing just after two, okay?” Warner makes a point of tapping his chest as soon as Luke has walked past him.
Get the wire on
, he's saying.

“Yeah,
okay.
And you'll call Dad for me?”

Dad. A.k.a. my
surveillance team
. They're going to have to scramble to get into place.

“That's the plan.”

Warner leaves, and I'm alone with my target in my living room, his eyes casually scanning everything. “Give me a sec?” I don't wait for Luke's answer, heading for my bedroom. I throw on a pair of tight jeans and a fitted sweater—enough to appeal to him—some makeup, and then fasten the necklace and switch on the wire. Everything that could be considered incriminating is locked up in the safe, so I don't rush too much.

Except for my camera, I suddenly realize. It has a candid picture of him that I took one day at the food carts.

Shit.

Panic seizes me. I struggle not to run out of my bedroom, and sigh with relief when I find Luke holding a tennis ball in the air, teasing a now-frantic Stanley, his profile lean and muscular. “He's not so bad.” He laughs. “He'll do just about anything for this ball, won't he?”

He'll do what he needs to do. Just like me.

“So . . . this is a surprise.”

Luke finally relents, tossing the ball right into Stanley's waiting mouth. “I like surprising people.”

“How did you know which condo was mine?”

As soon as I ask the question, I remember that I shouldn't have. His gaze rolls down, over my chest, my waist, my thighs, and back up. He must be thinking about last night. He's obviously impressed, given he's here now. Maybe a little too much. If he mentions anything about my blinds being opened, Warner's going to know what I did. I don't want him to know.

I reach up, ready to cover my necklace and muffle Luke's answer. “The invoice at the garage. I called Miller and he gave your address to me.”

I know that's a big, fat lie. The two-minute read I got off Miller tells me he would tell Luke to fuck off if he called for that.

“You looked pretty shocked when your brother opened the door. I got the impression he wasn't too happy to see a guy there.”

“Jack can be a cranky asshole sometimes.” That was for Warner's benefit, when he listens to this recording. Then I add, “You know how it is . . . protective brother.” Ironically enough, I don't really know how it is. Or at least, I didn't. My brother never stepped into that role until much later in life, when he got his shit together. I didn't need it by then. Before that, he didn't have much time for a kid sister. He was too busy getting mixed up in the wrong crowd, getting arrested for dealing pot. I was only six when our dad kicked him out.

“Yeah, I get it. I have a younger sister.”

I know he does. Ana Boone. Twenty-one. Blond hair and blue eyes, looks like a Russian porcelain doll. Drives a Maxima, supplied by her uncle. Enrolled in an esthetician's program.

“You guys don't look at all alike,” he muses.

“I know. I'm much prettier.”

He smirks. “I take it you didn't grow up together?”

I feel the frown zag cross my forehead. Why is he assuming that? My mind, still in an odd state of slow motion, scrambles to . . .
Right,
Warner's accent. “No, we didn't. He's actually my stepbrother. Related through marriage.” We'll need to tweak my official cover story to keep track of these changes. I was supposed to be an only child.

Luke begins nodding to himself, as if that makes sense. “Is he out here on business?”

He's asking way too many questions. This isn't good. A good undercover profile is simple. Not completely boring, but it doesn't spark questions or thoughts or curiosity from the target.

“He lives in Portland now. Thought he'd swing by on his way out of town to check up on me. He brought me scones.” I lift the bag for further proof. Needing the subject to change, I ask, “What brings you to my doorstep at . . .” I pick up my phone, “ . . . ten a.m.?”

Luke doesn't answer right away, instead simply staring at my face. Like he's deciding what he wants to say. A boyish smile finally curls his lips. “You owe me a meatball sandwich. I've come to collect.”

It's so playful, so flirtatious, so genuine, that I can't keep the grin away. “You couldn't wait until tonight?”

“Nope.” He pats his stomach. “I'm starving.”

“And what if I'm not free?” I fold my arms over my chest, deciding how “hard to get” I should play with my target. With each passing minute, I'm more comfortable with this situation; less inclined to believe that he heard anything at the door, and more on the path that he's simply hoping to put in enough time during the day to get laid tonight.

He grabs Stanley's leash from the bench by the door. “But you are. Come on. Let's go.”

I ball my hands into fists, hiding my chipped polish. I guess I'm not getting my nails painted again before tonight's date. Or a blow-out. I've
never
just walked into a salon and asked for someone to blow-dry my hair, unless I was there for a cut and color already. It seems absolutely ludicrous to pay someone fifty dollars when I can do it myself, for free. At least, that's what I told myself before I had it done for this cover.

I've been going twice a week, since.

“And where exactly are you leading me?” That's for the team's benefit. How long will it take to get them in place? Do I go with him? Or should I send him away for an hour, until I get the go-ahead?

“Well . . . I'm assuming you don't have what you need in your fridge.” He strolls over to look inside my refrigerator. The cartons of leftover Chinese food and Warner's beer answer for me. “So?” He flashes me a chemically whitened smile, one that I'm betting works well to get him what—and who—he wants.

As if in answer, my phone beeps with an incoming text.

Dad's ready. Go.

I guess that answers that.

“It's your favorite kind of weather outside, too. If you'd open the blinds, you'd know.” He hits the button on the wall and the blinds revolve to allow dim daylight into one side of the living room. “That's my condo over there. I live right across from you.”

“Seriously?” I plaster on my best mock-surprise face and then focus on sticking my feet into my Hunter rain boots, trying to play it off. “Talk about a small world. That's crazy.”

I catch his secretive smile as he passes by me and I follow him out, locking my door behind me. I watch my target's sleek movements and rigid muscles as he moves ahead of me, Stanley trotting beside him. A thrill courses through my limbs. By my turn of luck in this case, I tell myself. Definitely not because of Luke Boone.

■ ■ ■

I've been a cop for over four years now, two of those undercover. I'm used to back alleyways and seedy motel rooms as meet spots for my cases. Pockmarked targets named Jorge and Bruce, who bathe in cheap drugstore cologne and think complimenting a woman's breasts should prompt her to take her shirt off. I'm used to walking through the front door of my small apartment after a day of work and climbing into a long, hot shower, happy that I'm only pretending, that my life's road hasn't led me to such a sad, sordid reality.

Now I'm standing in front of an adorable meat shop in downtown Portland with a gorgeous target to my left, admitting to myself that I've felt nervous flutters like this only once before . . . when I was seventeen and going on a first date with the high school quarterback.

Shaking the stupid out of me, I ask, “What do we do with Stanley? He doesn't take well to being tied to a post.” I'm just guessing, seeing as I've known the dog for all of three days. But the last thing I need is him going Jekyll and Hyde again and attacking an unsuspecting passerby.

In answer, Luke scoops up the chubby dog, tucking him under his arm, as if he weighs nothing at all. “No worries. I know the owner, Dmitri. He won't care.”

Dmitri.
Sounds Russian.

I remember a case that the Washington MCU was overseeing a couple of years back, involving Ukrainian mobsters. They ran a butcher shop in Columbia Heights. It's probably just a coincidence. “Kozlov's Butcher Shop,” I read the sign out loud, assuming Bill or one of the other guys on my detail right now will make note. I haven't seen them tailing us. Not that I would. They'd never risk being made by getting close enough to be spotted, not like in the movies, where they make surveillance teams look like complete tools. “I haven't been in here yet.”

“I've been coming here since I could barely walk. My grandpa used to work here. He and Dmitri were best friends. ”

Right.
Luke's grandfather. Oskar Markov. Warner gave me the rundown. Luke, his sister, and their mom moved in with Oskar and his wife, Vera, after Luke's father took off. They all lived together until Oskar's death from lung cancer ten years ago, two years after his wife's. Both heavy smokers. Somehow Luke didn't get the message, because he still lights up. I wonder if that has more to do with addiction or the simple fact that Rust still smokes too.

I trail Luke in, inhaling the garlic-permeated aroma. It's obviously an old store and family-run, based on the dated black-and-white checkered linoleum floor and the rows of black-and-white pictures of men in white butcher's aprons covering one side. The owner isn't too concerned about design, and yet there is something decidedly charming about it. Something you'd expect in an ethnic suburb and not in the trendy downtown core.

Jars of pickled herring and borscht line the front of the meat counter, and a wiry gray-haired man with thick-rimmed glasses stands behind it. “Luka!” he exclaims in his thick Russian accent. “I wouldn't recognize you, if not for your deda's
eyes
.
”

This must be Dmitri.

Luke dips his head, his usual confident smirk replaced with a sheepish grin. “I'm sorry, I've been busy.”

“How is your mother? And Ana?”

“They're good. They send their love.”

“And you're taking good care of them?”

“Of course, Dmitri.”

“Good boy.” Gray eyes flicker to me, prompting Luke to introduce us.

“Dmitri, this is Rain.”

Dmitri nods, first at me, and then at Stanley, whose flat nose is twitching from all the various scents. “Yours?” he asks Luke.

“No.”

Another glance at me. “I didn't think so.” Dmitri wipes his hands on a rag and then grabs a slice of salami and tosses it right into Stanley's waiting mouth. “What can I get for you today?”

Luke taps on the glass in front of the tray of ground meat. “Half a pound each of the beef, veal, and pork. That's what you said, right?” He looks to me for an answer.

“Yeah. I mean, it depends how hungry you are.”

Dmitri slaps double that onto a sheet of butcher's paper, wrapping and taping with the expertise of a man who's been doing this for fifty-plus years. He tosses the packages onto the counter without weighing them, with a casual wave.
No charge
, he's saying. “Tell your uncle to swing by, okay? And soon. Nikolai has some business for him.”

Luke shares a look with Dmitri and a spike of adrenaline hits me. I'm guessing Nikolai and Rust Markov aren't going to be discussing meat grades.

“Rain, the market right next door should have whatever else you need.” Luke pulls his wallet out and begins rifling through an impressive stack of bills. “I'll meet you there in five.”

He wants to talk to Dmitri alone.
Crap.
Is it about this thing with Nikolai, or something else? “I'm not sure how Stanley will take to me leaving,” I say, looking for a reason to stay.

“Ah, he'll be fine,” Dmitri answers, tossing another piece of meat the dog's way. I have a feeling he's right. I could step outside and get hit by a bus right now and it wouldn't faze my guard dog, his eyes glued to the meat counter.