“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.”