After Jordan hung up the phone, she stared at it for a moment. “I just lied to my father. That was the one line I hadn’t crossed in all of this.”
Nick came up behind her and rested his hands on her shoulders. “You weren’t lying when you told him your brother is okay. He is okay.”
She shrugged away from him. “Tell me what’s going on. Why is Kyle in the emergency room?”
“The story being run in the media—which they believe to be true—is that Kyle was stabbed by another inmate during a fight that broke out at lockdown,” Nick said.
Jordan fought back the panic that rose in her throat. “And the truth?”
“The truth is that your brother was barely nicked by an undercover agent in a carefully orchestrated operation that now provides us with a plausible excuse to remove him from MCC.”
Her head was swimming. “Wait—is Kyle in on this?”
“Of course not,” Nick said matter-of-factly. “That hasn’t changed—no one can know about our arrangement until the Eckhart investigation is over.”
Our arrangement. Right. “You should’ve told me.”
Nick held up his hands. “I know—I f**ked up. Big time. I saw you with the douchebag and then you and I started arguing, and . . . then we were doing a lot more than that. I just forgot about everything else. I’m sorry.”
Jordan exhaled, not able to process the “everything else” part right then. Making sure her brother was okay was priority number one. “I need to get to the hospital.”
Nick held her eyes. “Can I come with you?”
She shook her head. “My dad will be there. He’ll want to know who you are, and I’m not ready to have that conversation.” Frankly, she didn’t know what was happening between her and Nick. She certainly couldn’t explain it to her father.
In response to her answer, Nick’s expression turned more businesslike. He nodded. “Of course. You should be with your family.”
He left after that, and Jordan stayed in the back room until she heard the chime ring against the door. She took a moment to collect herself, then grabbed her coat and headed to the hospital.
Twenty-two
XANDER SURVEYED THE dark, seedy interior of the bar, thinking he definitely wasn’t going to find a decent glass of wine in this place.
Why Mercks had suggested they meet at this shithole was beyond him. Then again, everything about the text message he’d received earlier that day from Mercks had been odd.
WE NEED TO TALK. NOT YOUR OFFICE—LINCOLN TAVERN ON ROSCOE AT 10 P.M. DON’T SPEAK TO ANYONE ABOUT THIS.
First, it was strange that Mercks had sent him a text message—they’d never communicated by that method before. Second, why couldn’t they meet at his office? They always met in his office. The place was a fortress.
Xander found a table near the back of the bar and took a seat, hoping to go as unnoticed as possible. God forbid he was recognized and anyone found out he’d set foot in this place. The mortification would kill him—if whatever skeevy brew they had on tap didn’t kill him first.
“No wine list?” he asked sarcastically when a middleaged waitress with bleached hair approached his table. A far cry from the sleek, pretty young things who waited tables and tended bar at his clubs and restaurants. “I’ll take a gin and tonic. Clean glass, please.”
He ignored the waitress’s look as she headed back to the bar. He shrugged out of his coat, set it carefully over the back of the chair next to him, and glanced at his watch. He frowned when he saw that Mercks was late. He’d hoped to make this a quick meeting, whatever it was about. He wanted to make it back to Bordeaux before the eleven o’clock crowd rushed in. Thursdays were always good nights for them, and he loved being at Bordeaux, watching, mingling, and proudly soaking it all in.
He lived the good life—hell, the great life. And the icing on the cake would be Jordan Rhodes. With her money, his knowledge of nightclubs and restaurants, and their mutual passion for wine, they could be an unstoppable team. She was perfect for him—she just needed to see it. Hopefully Mercks had some positive news on that front.
A few minutes later, Mercks finally showed up. “Sorry. Traffic on the Drive was worse than I’d expected.” He set a black leather shoulder bag on the chair next to him. “My usual,” he said to the waitress when she approached.
“You come here regularly?” Xander looked around, appalled. “Why?”
“Because nobody asks any questions here.”
“Of course they don’t. They’ve got about three working brain cells between them.” Xander pointed to a man slumped over the bar. “I don’t think that guy’s even alive.”
“Don’t worry about them. Focus, instead, on the question you should be asking,” Mercks said.
Xander scowled. He never liked games. “What question is that?”
Mercks said the words with emphasis. “Who is Nick Stanton?”
Xander sat forward, interested. “You found something? I knew it. No one’s that clean. He’s a con artist, right?”
“I suppose you could say that’s true, in a sense.” Mercks pulled a file out of his briefcase and set it on the table. “See for yourself.”
Xander opened up the folder and saw a photograph on top. As unexpected as the image was, it took him a moment to process what he was seeing: Nick Stanton wearing a bulletproof vest over a long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans, standing in front of a blue and white squad car as he spoke to two uniformed policemen. It appeared to be some kind of crime scene. The squad car had the letters NYPD blazoned prominently across the side.