Читать книгу: «Evie Ever After», страница 2

CHAPTER TWO

“YOU’RE HOME?”

Nic’s husky voice usually cheered me. Usually. I sighed. “Such as it is.” I glanced around my sparsely furnished apartment, despising every square inch. It lacked charm. Warmth.

Arch.

He’d turned down my invitation to spend the night. It wouldn’t have bothered me so much, but by the time we landed and he drove me home it was long past midnight. I just assumed he’d sleep over. He begged off.

“I have some things to do, yeah?”

At three in the morning?

If I’d been more alert my imagination would’ve soared. Instead, I’d zombie-walked into my bedroom and passed out. Partly because of the hot sex and chilled champagne. Mostly because I was mentally and physically exhausted. I remember thinking I could sleep for days.

I slept for four hours.

“For how long?” Nic asked.

“Four hours.”

“What?”

Ouch. Okay. Maybe it was a bad idea calling a night owl at the crack of dawn.

“You’re only going to be home for four freaking hours?”

“What? No. I slept for four hours.” Thanks to a recurring nightmare. A mish mosh of memories stemming from my first mission with Arch. A mission I’d bungled. As a result a man was dead. A bad man, but dead is dead. I worked my tight jaw and stirred sweetener into my nuked tea. “This conversation isn’t going well. Maybe I should call back later.”

“Screw that. I’m coming over.”

“Now?”

“If Arch is there, boot him out. I want some private time.”

“He isn’t here.”

“Is he still in the picture?

“Yes.”

“Beckett?”

I flashed on the kissing incident, something Nic knew about because she’d flown to Indiana thinking I was having some sort of meltdown and ended up participating in the takedown of the man scamming my mom. Her dealings with Arch and Beckett had been tense. Even so, I suspected she was attracted to the latter, which was why I was doubly embarrassed that I’d told her about the spontaneous lip-lock. “Just friends,” I said. “Coworkers.”

“Uh-huh.”

Okay. So admitting to her that I was a little confused about my feelings for Beckett had been a mistake. I just should have scribbled my worries in my journal.

Oh, wait. I did.

“Nic—”

“I’ll be there in twenty.”

“I’ll call Jayne.” What the heck? Arch had given me permission to tell them about Chameleon. No time like the present.

“Hold off on that, Evie.”

“Why?”

“Jayne’s been…weird.”

“More weird than usual?”

“Tell you when I see you.”

“But—”

She’d already signed off. Great. Leave me in suspense why don’t you?

I didn’t have time to shower and dress, so Nic was going to have to take me as is. Striped lounge pants, Star Wars T-shirt, fuzzy purple slippers. Trust me, she’d seen me in goofier getups. The mad scientist I’d once portrayed for an electronics sweepstakes came to mind. Oh, and the time I appeared as a mermaid, which would’ve been sexy except for the lobster on my head. Not a live one, of course, but still. Larry was his name. Larry the Lobster. These days he resides in a plastic chest of drawers along with a gazillion other props. Sherlock Holmes pipe and hat. Minnie Mouse ears and gloves. Clown nose, cigarette holder, flapper headband, pom-poms…

I plopped on my boring gray sofa and sipped my Earl Grey tea. I contemplated ditching those props to make room for, I don’t know, something useful? I also thought about the various costumes, wigs, and accessories crowding my closet. A glitz and goof collection I no longer needed since I had retired (not entirely of my own choice) from entertainment.

Making a living on stage had never been easy, but I’d survived and even thrived at times for more than twenty years. But then the gigs were fewer and farther between and it only got worse. I learned I wasn’t even being considered. “They’re looking for someone younger.”

Ouch.

Still, I persevered. Until that fateful day when I flashed my breasts. A moment of righteous defiance. So unlike good-girl me. But I was desperate. Standing on that casino stage, auditioning for a gig I was more than qualified for, being ignored simply based on my age, I saw my good-girl life flash before my eyes. I envisioned someone shoveling dirt over my career. My personal life was already six feet under. Losing my husband to a twentysomething hard-body was bad enough, but being robbed of my livelihood, my passion, simply because I’d had the nerve to turn forty?

That’s when I snapped. That’s when my inner bad girl came to my rescue and told those baby-faced executives what I really thought about their obsession with youth over talent. Okay. So maybe I torpedoed what was left of my entertainment career, but I unwittingly blew open the door to a new and exciting profession in fighting crime. The transition had been swift and adrenaline-charged, the stuff romantic action-packed movies are made of…only this was real life. My life.

And I was about to tell all to Nic, who only knew a little, but way more than Jayne.

As promised she showed within twenty minutes with—bonus—two mambo cups of Dunkin’ Donuts java. Way better than Earl Grey. “How do you do it?” I asked as she passed me a cup and lounged on the sofa.

“Do what?”

“Primp, dress, make a pit stop for coffee, and drive here in under half an hour?”

“It’s not like I live in another town.”

“No, but…Never mind.” I curled into the opposite corner of the sofa, trying to think of a time when I’d seen Nic look anything short of fabulous. I couldn’t. She was one of those natural exotic beauties—kind of like Halle Berry only with Penélope Cruz hair. A head-turner I’d love to hate but couldn’t because underneath her lithe beauty and cynical personality, Nic was a marshmallow. Not that I’d ever said that to her face. Even though we were polar opposites we had an understanding. She was she and I was me and Jayne was, well, a whack-a-doodle.

“So what’s going on with you?” Blunt. Typical Nic.

“I’ll fill you in. But first, tell me what’s up with Jayne.” Evasive. Typical me.

“When’s the last time you spoke to her?”

“Yesterday. Briefly. I feel bad now. I blew her off. But at the time I needed to be pumped up and she was a total buzz kill.”

“She’s been a neurotic spaz for weeks. That’s why I didn’t want to invite her over this morning. I wanted to give you a heads-up before you told her something that might send her into a tailspin. She still thinks you’ve been hired to sing at the Chameleon Club—period. She doesn’t know about the undercover work with Arch and Beckett.”

And Nic didn’t know Arch and Beckett worked undercover for the government. Yet.

“Jayne’s convinced your fate is at risk,” Nic continued. “Karmic payback for something she screwed up in a past life.”

“That sounds like Madame Helene talking.” Jayne’s crystal gazing, star-reading psychic. Nic and I had tagged along once and had both decided she was full of hooey. She was also a name-dropper, a favored psychic of B-headliner celebrities, and local hotshot execs—or so she claimed. Call me a nonbeliever. Pegging the psychic as a fake had only hurt Jayne’s feelings and since then we’d kept our opinions of Madame Helene to ourselves. Well, at least I had.

Exasperated, Nic twisted her thick, long hair into a makeshift bun. “That manipulative phony has Jayne wrapped around her cosmic-ringed fingers. I shudder to think what kind of money our friend has shelled out in an effort to predict the future. Her bimonthly visits are now up to once a week, not including phone calls.”

My stomach turned. “I had no idea.”

“That’s because you haven’t been around much lately.” She winced. “Sorry. That was harsh.”

I forced a smile. “Harsh, but true.” I’d cruised the Caribbean then flown off to London, then, after only being home a couple of days, jetted to Indiana. Granted, I’d been working, but I’d also been having a pulse-tripping adventure and whirlwind affair. My life was on the upswing whereas Jayne’s was spiraling out of control. Chagrined, I palmed my heated cheeks. “I’ve been so self-absorbed, I didn’t realize…”

Nic waved off my apology. “Forget it. You’ve been on your own emotional roller coaster. It’s just that the past few days…I think it’s time to step in, Evie.”

“What, like an intervention?”

“Someone has to be the voice of reason and it’s not Madame Helene. We have to cure Jayne of this obsession. Sure, she’s always had a new age spirit, and we’ve always supported that because, hey, to each his own. But now it’s escalated into something scary. I’m worried about her. Financially and emotionally.”

I felt sick. How could I have been so oblivious? “Maybe Arch and Beckett can help.”

“By having them expose Madame Helene for the fraud she is?” Nic traced a finger around the cup’s plastic lid. “I thought about that. Maybe.”

Nic was a skeptic and she was hugely skeptical of the two new men in my life. She questioned their wisdom for drawing me into what she considered a dangerous profession. Also, I’m pretty sure she hadn’t swallowed the story Beckett had fed her about him and Arch being freelance fraud investigators. Even though it was sort of true. Maybe she’d trust them more when she learned they worked for the government.

“Remember when Beckett told you he and Arch were fraud investigators?”

She settled back and nodded. Even though she looked relaxed, I could tell she was braced for a jolt.

“It’s more complicated than that,” I said.

“Go on.”

“You can’t tell anyone.”

“Go on.”

“It’s big-time hush-hush.”

Her green eyes sparked with annoyance. “What the hell, Evie? Do you want to spit and shake? Draw blood?”

“All right. All right.” I took a deep breath then spewed. “Beckett wasn’t lying when he said he’s an ex-cop. He used to work in bunko. That’s a unit that—”

“Investigates scams. I know.”

“Right. Anyway, he saw too many grifters slipping through the system. According to Arch, con artists are hard to prosecute because technically there was no crime. They don’t steal people’s money. They persuade the mark to give it over—a willing participant as opposed to a victim.”

Nic smirked. “Convenient reasoning, given his past.”

I bristled in his defense. “Arch only targeted the rich and greedy. He never conned anyone who couldn’t afford the loss.”

“And that makes it right? You must really love this guy if you’re trying to rationalize criminal behavior. You’re the straightest arrow I know, Evie.” She frowned. “At least you used to be.”

I felt like I’d fallen from grace in her eyes and it didn’t feel good. “Of course it doesn’t make it right,” I snapped. “But it does separate a scam artist from a scum artist. Scum artists prey on the vulnerable, the needy. They don’t think twice about wiping out the savings of an elderly person or a lonely widow or…well, Arch would never do that. I mean he never did that. Past tense. Arch is reformed.”

“So he says.” Her frown deepened and I realized I’d only made matters worse.

The old me wanted to change the subject, to avoid confrontation. The new me, the me who was determined to fight for what I wanted, dug in my heels.

I wanted Arch.

I wanted this job.

Dammit, I wanted a new life.

I just hoped it didn’t mean losing old friends. Or my integrity.

I chugged java and braced myself for Nic’s aggressive opinions. If I could obliterate her concerns, easing Jayne’s mind would be a cinch.

“I’m serious, Evie. How do you know Arch doesn’t pull a con here and there on the side? How do you know he isn’t scamming you?”

“I just know.” Only I didn’t. There were several aspects of Arch’s life that he was unwilling to discuss. Take the mysterious “Kate” for instance. A woman from his past. A woman who’s number was programmed into a special cell phone that he used for private stuff. Stuff he didn’t want me to know about. Although he’d sworn his relationship with the woman wasn’t romantic. All I’d gleaned was that they shared a mutual interest and it had something to do with grifting. I’d agreed not to press for details because it would mean sharing my own private stuff—thoughts, dreams, and rants I’d scribbled in my diary. In particular, I wasn’t keen on him seeing the comparison chart I’d jotted listing his and Beckett’s pros and cons. Let’s just say Arch hadn’t come out the wiser choice.

“No need to get defensive,” said Nic.

“I’m not defensive.”

She arched a brow and I ached to scratch.

“Okay. Maybe I’m a little sensitive where Arch is concerned. It’s just that he’s trying to do the right thing and that can’t be easy given his upbringing.”

“What do you mean?”

“His grandfather was an art forger. His mom was a grifter and so was his dad. Arch was the result of an on-off-on again long-term affair. His dad split for good before he was even born and, yes, he knew about the pregnancy.”

“Prick.”

“My thoughts exactly. Well, almost. I called the man cold.”

“What does Arch call him?”

“Practical.”

“You’re kidding.”

I hugged my knees to my chest. “That’s what I mean. He had a skewed sense of right and wrong right out of the womb. He views his father’s choice as practical because, according to Arch, emotional attachments compromise a grifter’s judgment.” The conversation played through my head word for word. It had been a rare moment. Arch was a closed book, yet one night on the cruise ship, when I’d been obsessing on my own troubles, he’d revealed a page of his life and I’d been stunned.

I was still stunned.

“Doesn’t that worry you?” Nic asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Evie. Come on. Arch is condoning the behavior of a grifter who ditched his family for his career. How can you trust your heart to a man with iffy morals?”

Trust, as it happened, was the key sticking point between Arch and I. As he’d pointed out in another of those rare honest conversations, it went both ways. I wasn’t the only one worried about getting my heart broken.

“For what it’s worth,” I said, “when I asked Arch what he would’ve done were he in his father’s shoes, he responded, ‘I’m not my father’s son.’”

“So you’re telling me that although Arch has a twisted sense of right and wrong, he does have a sense of decency. A bad boy with a good heart.”

I smiled. “Exactly. I know you’ll find this hard to believe but he’s actually quite vulnerable.”

Nic snorted.

I wasn’t offended because I knew it was a tough pill to swallow. The man was six feet of hard muscle. He smoked Marlboros, had a tattoo and cussed a blue streak. Not to mention he socialized and tangled with bad sorts. Vulnerable didn’t fit the picture but that’s because people only saw what he wanted them to see.

I flashed on a memory and cringed. “Oh, crap.”

“What?”

“I just remembered, Arch told me about his family in confidence.” He’d given me permission to talk about Chameleon, not his personal life.

“Why does it have to be secret?”

“Because he said the more people know about him, the more vulnerable he becomes.” I thunked my forehead. “I can’t believe I betrayed him.” Again.

“Calm down.” Nic leaned over and squeezed my knee. A sweet gesture from a non-touchy-feely person. “I think your man is being paranoid, but we’ve all got our quirks. I won’t repeat what you told me about his family. Not even to Jayne.”

I massaged my pounding temples. “I hate keeping things from her, but I did promise Arch.”

“I understand.”

“I just wanted to give you some insight. I know you don’t like him—”

“I like Arch, Evie. He’s a likable guy. I just don’t trust him.”

That made two of us.

“Maybe I’ll feel differently when I get to know him better.”

Ditto.

“Moving on. So, do we break it to Jayne that you’re working with a team of fraud investigators before or after we save her from Madame Helene’s evil clutches?”

“Tough call. I’d like to get Arch’s take, if that’s okay. He understands the psychological aspects of the mark and the con artist. I don’t want to make the wrong decision only to have Jayne turn on us instead of Madame Manipulator.”

“Makes sense. Can you talk to him about it ASAP? I really want to get on this.”

“I’ll have an answer today.”

“Good. Great.”

There was a pregnant pause while we both regrouped. I didn’t know what was on her mind, but I’d yet to share what I’d wanted to reveal in the first place. “Back to Arch and Beckett’s profession.”

Nic shifted and caught my gaze. “Ah, yes. Big-time hush-hush.”

“Brace yourself.”

“Spit it out.”

“Chameleon isn’t a freelance investigative agency,” I blurted. “It’s a covert branch of a government agency. You know, like the FBI.”

“You’re working for the freaking FBI?”

“No, the AIA.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Artful Intelligence Agency.”

“Still never heard of it.”

“Me, neither. But they exist. Don’t ask me what they do, but Chameleon falls under their umbrella.”

If I were Nic I’d be pacing the floor just now, venting and spewing rapid-fire questions. She just sat there, assessing. “You’re telling me Slick is a G-man?”

Slick was her moniker for Beckett. One he didn’t care for because she usually said it with sarcasm. I had no sympathy because he called me Twinkie. “Yes,” I said. “Beckett’s a federal agent.”

“What about Arch?”

“Nope. Beckett’s the only official member of the AIA. He answers to the director, a hardnose named Vincent Crowe, and everyone on the team answers to Beckett. Well, except Arch. They’re partners. Sort of.”

“Complicated relationship. I got that. Complicated further by you.”

I smirked. “Thanks for reminding me.”

“This is an awful lot to take in, Evie.”

“I know.”

“It’s bigger than I first thought. More dangerous. And it plays right into Jayne’s fears about a friend getting burned.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I’m sorry I haven’t been here for you and Jayne.”

She quirked a lopsided smile. “Yes, well, you’re here now and we’re going to help our friend.”

I reached over and squeezed her hand. She squeezed back and my throat got thick as I thought about another friend in potential need.

“Any other bombs you wanna drop?” Nic asked.

“No.”

“Anything you want to talk about?”

I swallowed and met her gaze. “I’m worried about Beckett.”

CHAPTER THREE

Philadelphia International Airport

“I’M ON THE GROUND.”

“How’d it go, mate?”

“Mission accomplished.” Milo Beckett navigated the crowded terminal, fighting exhaustion and self-disgust. He’d manipulated and intimidated con artists before, but he’d never lost his composure. Then again, Turner wasn’t a professional grifter. He was a former pro athlete with an arrogant streak and, as it turned out, an explosive temper. A dirtbag who cheated at sports, cheated the IRS and cheated at cards. Still, making him disappear for the sake of a politician’s career left a bad taste in Milo’s mouth. He’d spent several hours trying to put the ugly episode out of his head. Finally, he’d resorted to rationalizing. I sold my soul to the devil for the greater good.

Evie Parish, a virtuous soul who kept him connected to innocence and the pursuit of dreams, would view that rationalization as copping out or selling out. She’d certainly disapprove of the tactics he’d employed to accomplish the senator’s goal. He hated that he cared. He wished he could stop thinking about that pleasurable but ill-timed kiss. He’d sent her away in order to focus on what he had to do. He’d sent away the entire team to shield them should his plan curdle. The separation had been an unexpected relief. The dynamics of the tight-knit group had been strained ever since Evie had tripped into their lives.

Now that they were in between cases everyone could go their separate ways. Maybe time apart would help ease the friction. Or maybe this was the end of Chameleon. He’d been contemplating leaving the AIA anyway. Screw his pension. His vision for the team had been compromised over the past year and he didn’t see things improving under the leadership of the new director. Although maybe Crowe would get off Milo’s ass now that he’d completed his unofficial directive.

Temples throbbing, he hustled toward baggage claim, anxious to get on with his life. The sooner he reported to HQ, the sooner he could decide his future.

“Still there, Jazzman?”

“Yeah.” He’d called Arch out of courtesy. Next he’d call Samuel Vine, aka Pops, a trusted friend and the bartender and caretaker of the Chameleon Club. Word would trickle down to the other team members that he was safe and on home turf. “How’s everyone doing?”

“Evie’s fine.”

“I meant the entire team.”

“Sure you did.”

Milo didn’t argue. Truth was he did worry more about Evie because, unlike the rest, she wasn’t trained in self-defense. Unlike the rest, she didn’t have skin as tough as a rhino’s. Not to mention he was infatuated with the good-hearted fireball.

“The Kid booked you a rental car,” Arch said, skating past further talk of the woman who’d put a kink in their already complex friendship.

“He texted me the info.” Woody, aka The Kid, was Chameleon’s computer geek. A wiz at all things technical. His role in the Mad Dog Turner sting had been vital as they’d relied on high-tech surveillance equipment to cheat a cheat.

“I assume Senator Clark was pleased when you handed him that briefcase packed with his wife’s lost fortune, yeah?”

“‘Impressive’ was all he said. About the money anyway.” Milo had driven to Senator Clark’s estate directly after he’d handled Mad Dog. “Mostly he wanted assurance that I’d protected him from future scandal. I’m sorry to say I was able to give it to him.” He reached in his jacket pocket for a packet of Tylenol.

“Want to talk aboot it?”

“What do you think?” He popped the pills dry, wincing when his hand bumped his split lip—compliments of Turner. Just then Milo noted two suits wearing dark shades. “Shit.”

“What?”

“Trouble coming my way.”

“Bad sort?”

“My sort. Gotta go.”

“Call me if you need me, mate.”

“Right.”

Thirty minutes later, Milo stood in Vincent Crowe’s office, clueless as to why he’d needed a personal escort to HQ. Agents McKeene and Burns had dodged the question. Didn’t matter. This couldn’t be good.

“Take a seat. Director Crowe will be in shortly,” McKeene said on his way out.

“Thank you.” He waited until the door shut then added, “Agent Ass-Kisser.”

McKeene and Burns were new men, company men. Brownnosers who made Milo’s balls twitch. He didn’t sit as directed. He hitched back his suit jacket and stared out the window, watching pedestrians navigate Independence Square on a sunny spring day.

For the most part, the new director of the AIA operated out of Philadelphia instead of Washington, D.C. A source of curiosity to Milo, although he’d never asked why. Crowe had been his boss for a month. Their relationship had been adversarial from the get-go. Because of a botched land investment sting in the Caribbean, and because Milo had been unwilling to explain why the team had operated outside of AIA jurisdiction, Crowe had put Chameleon on suspension. They were still on suspension. The mission they’d just completed had been unofficial. A favor.

Two weeks ago, Crowe had summoned Milo to this same office to inform him of Senator Clark’s plight. His wife, an obscenely wealthy gambling addict, had lost a bundle to Frank “Mad Dog” Turner, pro athlete turned restaurateur, in a series of private high-stakes poker games. She swore she was cheated. Senator Clark enlisted Vincent Crowe to clean up his wife’s mess. Crowe assigned Chameleon to infiltrate the game and win back the senator’s money and then, to ensure there wasn’t a scandal that could jeopardize the senator’s political aspirations, to make the cheat disappear.

Milo had balked. Chameleon was his brainchild and he’d formed the elite group to champion Everyday Joes, not the rich and powerful. In his opinion Clark should have contacted Gamblers Anonymous instead of the AIA. But Arch and the team had talked him into taking the case, thinking if he refused he’d be damaging his career. Milo didn’t give a flying fuck about his bureaucratic career, especially when it interfered with the work he really wanted to do. But he did care about the members of his team and if they wanted to stay tight with the AIA, he wasn’t going to screw up that connection. Against his better judgment, he’d agreed to help the senator.

At least he’d had the opportunity to bail Evie’s mom out of a swindle just prior to roping Turner. A win for the Everyday Joes. Unfortunately, it had also been a win for Arch. Even though something simmered between Milo and Evie it was Arch she loved. Leaving the better man, or at least the safer choice, shit out of luck.

The door opened and closed and Milo turned.

Crowe crossed to his desk. He didn’t look happy.

At least they had one thing in common.

“We have a problem, Agent Beckett.”

“Sensed that when you sent McKeene and Burns, sir.” He didn’t mistake the escort for a courtesy ride. The men had been cool and tight-lipped. Upon entering HQ, the receptionist and the five desk jockeys had greeted him warmly, which led him to believe few were privy to whatever was going down.

Crowe, a slouch-shouldered man with a puffed-up ego, settled behind an antique desk. The air crackled with arrogance and tension as he leaned back in his leather chair. “When I told you to silence the man who bilked Mrs. Clark, I didn’t mean literally.”

Milo eased into a chair as he felt the rug being pulled out from under him. “Are you telling me Mad Dog Turner is dead?”

“Are you telling me you didn’t do it?”

“Hell, no. Sir.”

“Sources say otherwise.”

“What sources?”

“My sources, Agent Beckett. Did you think I was going to send your arrogant ass and hotdog team to handle something as sensitive as the senator’s case without insurance?”

“You had agents spying on us?”

“I prefer to think of it as keeping tabs.”

Milo’s blood pressure rocketed. He eased a kink from his neck, breathed. “I won’t bore you with the details. I assume you’ve already heard them. But I will tell you that when I left Turner, he was alive.”

“And should anyone ask, I expect you to stick to that story. Don’t worry Agent Beckett, we’ve cleaned up your mess. For the senator’s sake and the sake of the AIA.”

Fuck. “You don’t have any proof—”

“Yes,” Crowe said, “we do.”