Chapter 32
Thirty-Two
DALTON SAW brISTOL to her apartment door following dinner. He was always a gentleman—opening doors, letting her go first, speaking kindly.
Or, rather, he appeared to be one. But he couldn’t be further from that end of the spectrum. He was evil rather than light and goodness, as she’d first believed. How na?ve had she been? How’d she not seen it?
Because he covered it unbelievably well. Pretending to be the honest restaurateur, the wonderful host to all who entered, greeting prominent and celebrity guests who dined at one of his six locations.
“I had a wonderful night,” he said. He caressed her face. “I’m so glad you’re home.”
Home was a foreign concept. Though one she’d been starting to feel in this apartment and with Dalton before prison. Now it was a lie, just like every other “home” she’d had.
“Me too,” she finally said.
He narrowed his eyes. “Are you okay, princess?”
“Of course.” She tried to laugh it off. “Why do you ask?”
“You were awfully quiet during dinner . . . and now.”
“Sorry.” She let her shoulders droop. “I’m still adjusting to being out. But,” she said, moving closer, “I’m so glad to be back with you.”
He smiled and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. “Good night, my angel.”
“Good night, my love.” The words burned on her lips.
Unlocking her door, she swung it open but looked back at him before entering. “See you soon?”
“Tomorrow.” His smile widened. “How about eleven o’clock? Let you get some rest and relaxation time first. I’ll schedule a massage for you, nails, the whole shebang.”
“That sounds lovely.” That she wasn’t lying about.
“And I’m planning a surprise for when I get back from my business trip.”
She loathed surprises. They rarely ended well. And he’d already pulled off the greatest surprise possible. What could possibly come next?
“Oooh. I can’t wait to see my surprise,” she lied.
“See you then. Sleep well.”
“You too.” She blew him a kiss, like always. Man, this was the hardest con of her life, and she’d had some doozies, but this . . . Pretending to be in love with a man she now abhorred was painful and beyond awkward.
Dalton disappeared into the elevator. The doors slid shut, and she slumped back in her open doorway, closing her eyes. How was she going to manage this without losing her mind? Not to mention being very careful not to tip him off. How was she going to get away with asking more questions than usual?
“Excuse me, miss. I just moved in next door, and I could use a flashlight. My electricity appears to be off.”
“It’s probably the breaker. It happens a lot,” she said, opening her eyes.
Aubry stood right beside her.
“What—”
He covered her mouth and signaled for her to hush, then tugged her across the hall into an apartment.
He let go of her and shut the door.
“What is going on?” she asked.
“I found several of these in your apartment.” He held up a minuscule bug. Just like the one she’d placed on Dalton’s belt buckle. He’d been spying on her. For how long?
“Did he have hidden cameras as well?” She was half joking, half serious.
“Thankfully, no. Or he would have seen us sweeping for bugs.”
She swayed. How close was he to being onto her, and how did that surprise tie in? Or at all? The queasiness in her gut rocked her.
“Here,” Aubry said, sliding a chair up to the back of her legs.
She slumped down in it, letting the chair support her weight. “I can’t keep doing this. How much longer?”
“I don’t know. . . . I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?”
“For what he is. For what you’re having to go through to help nail him.”
“Sweet comment, but you’re the one making me.”
He strode around her chair to face her, sincerity blanketing his face. “I’m not making you. The Bureau is.”
“So you’re saying you wouldn’t send me in there if you were in charge?” She narrowed her eyes. “I thought you were in charge.”
“I’m in charge of the op in the field, but I don’t call the big shots.”
“That’s reassuring,” she said with typical snark. “Then who does?”
“My boss. Special Agent Evan Baxter.”
“He’s not even here.” She’d never even seen the man. “How can he possibly know what shots to call when he’s not here?”
“I report to him.”
“So you are in control.”
He cocked his head. “How do you figure that?”
“Because he acts based on what you report. Isn’t that right?”
He raked a hand through his hair—freshly washed hair if the dampness around the neck of his T-shirt was any indicator, and he smelled like Irish Spring. That was something she hadn’t smelled in years. He cleared his throat. “I think we’re getting into negative territory.”
“Oh, heaven forbid. Let’s stay positive.” She cheered with her arm. “My boyfriend is a criminal. And not any criminal. No, he’s a sex trafficker, drug dealer, and murderer. Aren’t I lucky?”
He pulled a chair from the table, spun it around, and straddled it in front of her. “He’s vile.”
“Vile. Excellent word. And I get to spend time with him and kiss him.” She still had the heebie-jeebies from doing so, but she couldn’t arouse suspicion by refusing.
She just hoped she could stall him on intimacy.
That’s where she drew the line. They couldn’t ask her to do that.
But how would Dalton react? What kind of excuses could she give?
“Hey.” Aubry waved his hand in front of her face. “You okay?”
Why did people keep asking her that? She wasn’t okay, but no one cared. “No, I’m not the least bit okay.”
He swallowed—something she’d said had set his person on edge. Tense, squared shoulders, tight jaw. “I know it’s uncomfortable,” he began.
“Understatement of the century.”
“I know it’s got to be horrible, but think of the women you’re helping.”
“If we catch him, and he doesn’t catch me first. He’s a master con, or he wouldn’t have fooled me in the first place.” But the women. They had her there, and Aubry knew it. Held it over her head. But she couldn’t just walk away from them. Had she finally found her conscience? Annoying little thing.
“If anyone can match him, it’s you.” Aubry stood and paced the space. “You’re a world-class con.”
She was, and it was time she reminded herself of that. She needed all her concentration and skills to outmatch scum—but brilliant scum—like Dalton.
“How did it go tonight?” Aubry flipped on the stove light.
The glow was intimate, but it wasn’t like that between them. She was his informant. No matter how nice he appeared. They were all using her, and she’d let them.
“The evening was simply lovely,” she quipped, finally answering his question.
“How did it really go?”
“If I’d still been completely na?ve, it would have been a lovely evening.”
“But now?”
She cleared her throat. “Could I have a drink?” she asked.
“Of course. What would you like?” He held the fridge open and stepped to the side so she could make her selection.
“Oddly enough, I’ll take apple juice.”
A bemused smile fell on his face, and he lifted his chin. “Why oddly enough?” he asked, handing her the cool plastic single serving.
“I just haven’t had apple juice since I was . . . since I was younger.” No need to know how much younger and how little she got of the treat. Most drinks her parents kept around weren’t for child consumption, so they were stuck with water. Stale, often lukewarm water.
“You were saying, now . . . ?” He retook his seat, luring her back into the conversation.
“Now . . .” She exhaled. “I’m picking up on things.”
“What sort of things?”
“Small things.” Sometimes the smallest breadcrumbs led to the biggest payoff.
It really was the little things in a con, though Agent Man wouldn’t understand.
Only a true con got the beauty and intricacy of pulling off a master job.
And she’d thought she’d put that all behind her.
. . . Warmth bit at her eyes. She sniffed.
“You will not cry.” Her mother’s words radiated through her mind, but the instruction had served her well over the years.
“Can you give me an example?” Aubry asked, pulling her from her thoughts.
She sniffed again and took a sip of the apple juice before responding, just to give her voice a minute to settle from the quaver climbing up her throat.
“Miquel,” she said, thankful her voice had complied.
“He manages all Dalton’s restaurants, but we know he kills women as well, or at the very least, orders them killed, right? ”
Aubry rubbed his chin. “Yeah.”
“Well, I got to thinking tonight, during our dessert in the office . . . What if Miquel holds a bigger stake in all this?”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know. I just get the strong feeling Dalton trusts him with everything, so maybe he’s one to watch.”
“So dig deeper into Miquel?”
“I would.”
Aubry paced again, his brow furrowed. “Combining his role as manager and his connection to the women . . .” He continued talking more to himself than to her. “Knowing where they’re being kept, and it sounds like moving them around . . . He could run the inner workings of Dalton’s empire well.”
She cocked her head. “Do you always think out loud?”
A half smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Not always.”
He sat down, popped the top of the grape Fresca he’d grabbed from the fridge, and took a sip. “We haven’t paid much attention to Miquel or dug below the surface with him yet. Good suggestion. He may be the key to unlocking Dalton’s operation. You never know.”
“Right.” She smiled at his trusting her enough to take her suggestion. “Let me know what you find. There’s definitely more going on with Miquel than I’m privy to. Whenever I bring him up, Dalton diverts the subject.”
“Interesting.” Aubry took another swig of soda.
“Look,” she said, leaning forward. “I’m in this, and the fact is you need me, so I expect to be kept in the loop, not just be bait on the line.”
He rested his soda on his thigh and studied her a moment. Really studied her. “Fair enough. I’ll tell you what’s pertinent.”
“And who decides what’s pertinent?” she asked, hand on her hip.
“I will.”
Now she really studied him. “How about we make a deal?”
He exhaled. “Why don’t I like the sound of that?”