Something About You (13 page)

“All clear,” he said as he approached.

Cameron stepped out of the doorway, knowing that physical distance was her best defense against him right then.

Jack noticed her quick retreat. “Don’t forget to lock the door behind me,” he said tersely.

He walked out the door.

JACK HURRIED DOWN the steps, trying to figure out when, exactly, he had become such an idiot.

He’d almost kissed her. And if Phelps and Kamin hadn’t pulled up when they had, he would have.

Clearly, a bad idea. On this, at least, they seemed to agree.

He’d been momentarily caught off guard by that look she’d given him when she’d gotten off the bike—whatever the hell that had been—but now he was focused once again. She was his witness. More important, she was Cameron Lynde, and that meant hands off. The last time he’d gotten too close to her, he’d gotten burned. Big time. Not something he wanted to go through again.

He liked being back in Chicago. Being a solitary person, he didn’t have a ton of friends, but his younger sister and two-year-old nephew lived close to the city. He planned to stay in Chicago for good this time, and that meant no screw ups, particularly in cases where Cameron was involved.

Jack walked the perimeter of the house and confirmed that all the windows and doors were secure. When he finished, he closed the front gate and headed over to the unmarked car parked at the curb. He had no idea how much Kamin and Phelps had seen, but they weren’t smirking or gawking as he walked up, so he took that as a good sign.

The window of the passenger side unrolled as he walked up. Jack knew he was in trouble as soon as he saw the older cop’s expression.

Kamin grinned approvingly. “So that’s why you wanted to drive her home from the restaurant.”

Phelps leaned across the seat. “Does this mean she’s not going to the wedding with Max-the-investment-banker?”

So much for hoping they hadn’t seen anything.

Twelve

ON THE WEST side of the city, Grant put on his game face as he approached the bar with the red neon side that blinked “Club Rio.” He felt naked without his gun and shoulder harness, but only a man with a death wish would attempt to bring a piece into this kind of place.

He opened the door and the loud rhythmic beat of salsa music spilled out. Almost immediately upon stepping inside, a bouncer dressed in black and wearing an ear wire frisked him. He asked the bouncer where he could find Mr. Black—that was all his contact had told him, to ask for a Mr. Black. The bouncer nodded in the direction of the few empty booths in the back of the club.

Grant chose the booth in the corner and took a seat. It was doubtful that anyone would hear him and “Mr. Black” over the music, but given the stakes and the purpose of his visit, he didn’t want to risk having any eaves-droppers. A waitress came for his order, and he asked for a whiskey neat. He didn’t plan to drink it, but appearance was everything in situations such as these and he didn’t want to look overly nervous or suspicious.

After the waitress came back with his drink, he sat back in the booth and feigned interest in watching the dancers out on the floor in the center of the club. In the middle of the second song, a tall, thin man in his forties showed up at his table. He wore an open-neck white cotton shirt that hung loosely over dark jeans and had shortly cropped bleached-blond hair. His arms, exposed by his rolled-up sleeves, were covered with tattoos. Not exactly the image he’d had in mind.

“Are you Mr. Black?” Grant asked.

“Good guess,” the man said in a slightly raspy voice. He took a seat across the table. “I hear you’re looking for information about an FBI investigation, Mr. Lombard.”

Grant decided against asking how he knew his name. “I heard that Roberto Martino might be able to assist me.”

Mr. Black lit up a cigarette and exhaled smoke across the table. “Mr. Martino doesn’t assist people, Mr. Lombard. People assist him. Tell me something—does Senator Hodges know you’re here?”

Grant also decided against asking how they knew who he worked for. “He doesn’t need to know. His chief of staff sent me,” he said, playing up the charade that he was there only on Driscoll’s orders. Not that anyone was likely to find out about this meeting. Club Rio was not a bar that told its secrets.

“Why should I care about Senator Hodges’s chief of staff?” Mr. Black asked.

“He has the ear of a very influential man. Having a connection to Senator Hodges could be useful to your boss one day.”

Mr. Black considered this as he took another drag of his cigarette. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Perhaps you’d be more interested to learn that Senator Hodges and Mr. Martino share a common enemy.”

“Martino has many enemies. You’ll have to be a lot more specific.”

“Jack Pallas.”

Grant caught the quick flash of recognition in Mr. Black’s eyes. “So you know him.”

Mr. Black nodded. “Yes . . . I know Jack Pallas. Although he had a different name when I knew him.” He appeared far more interested now. “What do you know about Pallas?”

“I know that he got inside your organization,” Grant said. “That he betrayed Martino and took out several of your men in the process.”

Mr. Black paused for a moment. “What is it you want, Lombard?”

“Pallas is the lead agent in a murder investigation that implicates Hodges. The FBI is hiding something from us. The senator’s chief of staff has asked me to find out what that something is. He would, of course, be very grateful for your help with this matter. As the senator’s primary advisor, he would hope to be able to return the favor some day.” Sure, he’d embellished on Driscoll’s orders, but the way Grant figured it, if Roberto Martino ever came to collect on the favor, that would be Driscoll’s problem, not his.

As if silently beckoned, a waitress appeared out of nowhere and set an ashtray before Mr. Black. He flicked the ash off his cigarette then rolled it against the ashtray, rounding off the cherry. He took another drag, and Grant could tell he was considering his offer.

“Look at it this way—by helping us out, you get to fuck with Pallas’s investigation,” Grant added. “Whatever it is he’s hiding, it’s important enough that he doesn’t want anyone to know about it.”

Mr. Black eased back in the booth with a humorless grin. “You seem pretty confident that we’ll give you this information just for the hell of it. I think you’ve overestimated Martino’s dislike of Pallas.”

“Have I?”

Mr. Black said nothing at first. After another drag of his cigarette, he stood up. “Wait here.”

Grant slowly exhaled. Assuming he didn’t return with a couple of goons and a car with a plastic-lined trunk, it looked like he might be on his way to getting some answers.

Mr. Black returned a few minutes later. He tossed a folded piece of paper onto the table. “This man will help you. Meet him at this address at ten o’clock on Saturday night. You now owe us, Lombard. Not some chief of staff or anyone else—you. So I hope whatever information this man has, it’s worth it.”

Grant felt the anger rise in him, although he refused to show any reaction. He hoped the information was worth it, too. He was counting on it.

He unfolded the paper and saw a name and an address. He looked up, sure he was being played. “This can’t be right.”

“It’s right.” Mr. Black walked away from the booth and disappeared into the crowd.

Grant glanced back down at the paper in his hand. This was a surprising turn of events. He didn’t know the man personally, but of course he recognized the name. Anyone connected to U.S. politics and law enforcement, especially in Chicago, would recognize it.

Silas Briggs.

Thirteen

JACK CHECKED HIS watch as he and Wilkins stepped off the plane. The delay in their flight had put them over three hours behind schedule. The joys of air travel.

Granted, he’d already been in a bad mood before the flight delay. Davis had called to check in while he and Wilkins had been waiting to board, wanting an update on the investigation. Jack knew Davis was getting pressure from the director, which meant Davis was pressuring him. And, unfortunately, Jack hadn’t had much to report.

They’d spent the last three days interviewing witnesses and not learning much in the process. First, they’d tracked down Mandy Robards’s old clients and ex-boyfriends, looking for anyone who might’ve been jealous over her liaisons with Senator Hodges. They’d gotten zero leads on that front. Although Mandy seemed to be a favorite amongst her clients for her professional skills, none of them—nor any of her ex-boyfriends for that matter—seemed particularly troubled by the fact that she had sex with other men. Few, if any of them, appeared to have any significant emotional connection to her. She did what she needed to do as part of her job—quite fantastically, apparently—but had made very few personal attachments along the way.

In an odd way, Jack related somewhat to the picture painted of Mandy Robards. Some jobs required a certain level of detachment; a turning off of emotions in order to do the things that needed to be done. That was one of the reasons his outburst to the reporter about Cameron had surprised him more than anyone—he rarely lost his cool, even under the most high-pressure of situations. She, however, had the most infuriating ability to get under his skin.

And “infuriating” was apparently the theme of the week. Lately, it seemed like Jack couldn’t take two steps without bumping into somebody who clearly had nothing better to do than to seriously piss him off. His trip with Wilkins had been one frustration after the other.

Yesterday they’d flown to New York to follow up on the list of individuals who might hold a grudge against Hodges, a list based primarily on his recent appointment as chairman of the Senate Committee on Banking, Housing, and Urban Affairs. Hodges was a staunch proponent of increased regulation and oversight of financial institutions—most notably Wall Street investment banks and hedge funds. His first initiative as chairman had been to open a series of Senate investigative hearings into improper trading practices and the stock market collapse, an act that had made him extremely unpopular with Wall Street CEOs.

Jack hadn’t thought he could possibly find a more difficult team of lawyers to deal with than those representing Hodges. This trip to New York had proven him wrong. While he and Wilkins had eventually been able to meet with most of the hedge fund and investment bank CEOs on their list, getting face-to-face time with them hadn’t been easy. Most had eventually caved because of Jack’s persistence, others because of Wilkins’s charm. A few stubborn ones, however, just flat-out refused to speak to anybody from the FBI. All in all, it had been a long couple of days.

While he and Wilkins were in New York, he’d had one of the investigative specialists at their office pull together a file of photographs of all the people they had interviewed over the last week. The original plan, before their flight had been delayed, had been that he and Wilkins would drop by the office to pick up the file, then swing over to Cameron’s place to show her the photographs. Jack hoped she might recognize someone she’d seen earlier in the evening, prior to the murder—perhaps someone she’d noticed in the lobby, the restaurant, or even better, on the thirteenth floor.

“What do you think?” Wilkins asked as they strode through the United terminal, heading toward the overnight parking garage where they’d left his car the morning before. He checked his watch. “It’s seven fifteen. Think it’s too late to head over to Cameron’s? I told her we’d be there hours ago. She said she had plans this evening—she might not even be home anymore.”

Jack glanced over. “What kind of plans?”

Wilkins shrugged. “She didn’t say. Why?”

“No reason. Just asking.” Jack pulled out his cell phone and called Kamin. After the fiasco on Wednesday, he’d gotten both his and Phelps’s numbers so that he could reach them at any time.

Kamin answered his phone and confirmed that Cameron was still home. “Should be here for a while—she’s got a few girlfriends over and they look to be settling in,” he said.

Jack thanked him and hung up, not wanting to give the cop any chances to comment on what he’d nearly seen Wednesday night. The “nearly” part was key in Jack’s mind—if he’d actually kissed Cameron, he’d have to acknowledge that fact, even if only to himself. But when it was only nearly a kiss, he could go on pretending that nothing had ever happened. Which was exactly what he planned to do.

“Why don’t you just call Cameron and ask if she minds if we stop by?” Wilkins asked.

“Because she’ll say no, and I can’t do this tomorrow,” Jack said. It would be his first day off since he’d gotten back to Chicago and he’d made plans to take his nephew to the Shedd Aquarium. “And Monday she’ll be back in her office and I’d prefer not to talk there. No one’s supposed to know she’s working with us on this case.”

“If you want to see her, Jack, it’s okay to just admit it.”

“Sure, I want to see her—so that she can look at these photographs.”

Wilkins patted him on the shoulder. “You keep sticking with that story, buddy.”

SOMETIMES, BEING A stubborn SOB really came back to bite him in the ass.

This was one of those times.

Jack stood outside Cameron’s house, eyeing the scene. From what he could see through the windows, there had to be at least fifteen or twenty women inside.

“I thought you said she had a few girlfriends over,” he said to Kamin. The two of them, along with Phelps and Wilkins, stood in a row against the undercover car, watching from the street as another woman in her late twenties/ early thirties, wearing jeans and high heels, and carrying a pink gift bag, walked up the front steps of Cameron’s house and rang the doorbell. A slender, stylishly dressed blonde woman answered the door. There was a flurry of loud squealing and hugging, then the door shut and all was quiet again.

Kamin shrugged. “At the time, it was just a few girlfriends.”

“You didn’t think it was worth mentioning on the phone that she was having a bachelorette party tonight?”

“Didn’t realize you were planning on racing over here, Agent Pallas.”

Jack shut up, realizing he’d set himself up for that one.

“What do you think the pink bags are for?” Wilkins asked, his voice filled with wonder.

Phelps stood next to him, similarly wide-eyed and awe-struck. “It’s a game. Each girl buys a pair of underwear, something she would normally wear herself. The bride has to guess who brought which pair. If the bride guesses wrong, she has to do a shot. If she guesses right, the other girl drinks.”

“Cameron was afraid Amy would think the game was tacky, but the cousins insisted, see?” Kamin said.

Jack glanced over. “You guys sure are getting into all this.”

Phelps grinned. “When a girl like Cameron talks about underwear, you listen.”

“How about you, Jack? Could you do it?” Wilkins asked.

“Do what?”

“Twenty pairs of underwear. Think you could figure out which pair belongs to Cameron?”

Jack had been interrogated at knife-point, gun-point, pretty much at all-points a man could think of, but hell if a question had ever made him squirm as much as that one.

Because now he was thinking about her underwear.

“I don’t see why I’d have any particular insight into that,” he answered gruffly. “Think you could figure it out?”

“No, but I didn’t try to kiss her three nights ago,” Wilkins said.

Jack glared at Kamin and Phelps. “You two tell all sorts of tales, don’t you?” He nodded to Wilkins. “We should get going.”

Wilkins shook his head. “No way. We came to show Cameron those photographs, and that’s what we’re going to do.”

Jack pointed to the house. “You can’t seriously be thinking about going in there.”

Wilkins’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Oh, I’m going in all right. And you are, too, partner.”

“You thought going into a purse was sacrosanct? Infiltrating a bachelorette party is way beyond that.”

Wilkins rubbed his hands together eagerly. “I know. And I’ll never have an excuse like this again.”

“You’re an FBI agent, Sam,” Jack reminded him.

“I’m also a single man, Jack. And inside that house are twenty gorgeous women who are drinking and showing off their panties. It’s a no-brainer.” He pushed off the car and headed toward the house.

“Easy for you to say, good cop. I’m the one who’s going to catch hell for this,” Jack grumbled as he followed.

Wilkins grinned. “I know. That’s what makes it so perfect.”