Her diversion worked like a charm. Perhaps one of the few benefits of having a convicted felon of a brother known as the Twitter Terrorist was that she would never lack for non sequiturs in extracting herself from unwanted conversation.
Corinne reached out and squeezed her hand. “No one has stood by Kyle’s side more than you, Jordan. But we understand. We can talk about this some other time. And try not to worry—Kyle can handle himself. He’s a big boy.”
“Oh, he definitely is that,” Melinda said with a gleam in her eye.
Jordan smiled. “Thanks, Corinne.” She turned to Melinda, thoroughly skeeved out. “And, eww—Kyle?”
Melinda shrugged matter-of-factly. “To you, he’s your brother. But to the rest of the female population, he has a certain appeal. I’ll leave it at that.”
“He used to fart in our Mr. Turtle pool and call it a ‘Jacuzzi.’ How’s that for appeal?”
“Ah . . . the lifestyles of the rich and famous,” Corinne said with a grin.
“And on that note, my secret fantasies about Kyle Rhodes now thoroughly destroyed, I move that we put a temporary hold on any further discussions related to the less fair of the sexes,” Melinda said.
“I second that,” Jordan said, and the three women clinked their glasses in agreement.
Jordan took a sip of her wine, breathing a sigh of relief. Three more days—that’s all she had to make it. Then everything would be back to normal.
Six
IT IS A truth universally acknowledged that an FBI special agent in possession of great skill and talent is likely to engage in trash talk every now and then.
Nick—being possessed of said skill and talent—was, on that Thursday night, partaking in this practice, along with his coworker Jack Pallas, Davis’s supposed other “top” special agent. The two of them had just finished working out in the state-of-the-art gym located on the building’s second floor that was open twenty-four/seven. Some agents fell out of shape after graduating from the Academy, but not in Davis’s field office. He held his agents to high physical standards and, as he bluntly told everyone in their welcome-to-Chicago speech, expected to see their asses in the gym.
Sweaty in their T-shirts, Jack and Nick grabbed towels from the shelf as they entered the locker room. They’d completed a seven-mile run on the gym’s indoor track only moments earlier. While subtly trying to outpace and outdistance each other, they’d caught up on various odds and ends that Nick had missed during the six months he’d worked undercover on Fivestar. Eventually, their conversation turned to the arrests of Roberto Martino and the other members of his organization, and the investigation into Xander Eckhart.
“I hear you’re taking orders from Seth Huxley nowadays,” Jack said as they edged their way through the crowded locker room. The end of the workday, not surprisingly, was the gym’s busiest time, with most agents squeezing in a workout before heading home. “How’s that going?”
“If by ‘taking orders’ you mean providing my much-learned undercover expertise as a favor to our boss, then I’d say it’s going great.” Nick feigned confusion. “What I’ve been trying to figure out is why Davis had to bring me in on this case in the first place. I could’ve sworn another agent was already running the Martino investigation . . . Oh, wait—that would be you, Jack.”
Jack took a seat on the bench in front of their lockers. “I’ve been a little busy these days. Thirty-four arrests in the last four months, McCall. That’s a new record for me.”
Nick stripped off his damp T-shirt, baring his chest. “Try twenty-seven arrests in the last week. That’s a new record for the office.”
“You’re still seven arrests behind me, buddy.”
Not for long, if Nick had anything to say about it. “It’ll only be five after Eckhart and Trilani.”
Jack scoffed at this. “Eckhart is a money-laundering case. Anything from Financial only gets you half a point.” He stood up and peeled off his own T-shirt, revealing several scars, electrical burns, and a bullet wound on his chest.
Having worked on and off with Jack for several years, and given how they were both regulars at the gym, Nick had seen the other agent’s scars before—souvenirs of the two days Jack had been tortured by Roberto Martino’s men. Two days where he’d given them absolutely nothing in exchange. The scars were a quick reminder not only of the pride Nick felt in being a special agent in one of the toughest FBI field offices in the country, but also of the grudging respect he had for Jack. All trash talk aside, they understood each other’s commitment to the job.
Davis wasn’t getting any younger, and when he retired as special agent in charge, either Nick or Jack likely would be asked to fill the position. Neither was entirely sure he wanted it, although the satisfaction that would be derived from beating out the other for the job provided strong motivation to at least consider the possibility.
Nick ignored the scars on Jack’s chest, as was expected. He stripped off the rest of his clothes and slung a towel around his hips. “You know, it’s interesting what you said a moment ago about taking orders. From what I hear, you’ve been taking a lot of orders yourself these days. From the new U.S. attorney.” Actually, what he’d heard from several sources around the office was that Jack had been assigned to protect the new U.S. attorney as part of a murder investigation and had dived off a three-story stairwell to save her life. Also according to these sources—who had spoken only on condition of total anonymity—the two were now living together and Jack had subsequently “mellowed” a bit from his former days.