An Eye for Danger (45 page)

"Sure, sure. But can I put this on the magazine's AmEx?"

"Don't push your luck, buddy." Relieved, I hung up. My assistant wasn't just keen, but alive and well. And eager to play James Bond. God help us both.

I dialed another number and prayed Howard wouldn't mind a blind date.

"Good morning," I said, avoiding names and specifics like Sam taught me. "Hope you remember me... That's right, the dog lady, and you're the cat guy. Because you've been so helpful, I'd like to send you to a thank-you lunch... Oh, trust me, this is a very special, career-changing meal."

***

Sam rolled up with a luggage cart and loaded two empty cardboard boxes he'd absconded from the clothing salesman's shipment. With his handsome new blue coat curved over his shoulders, Sam looked unruffled despite shooting a man dead the same morning. A normal day for a danger junkie like Sam.

I nodded to the boxes. "Hope you're not planning to hide me in one of those."

"Don't give me any ideas." With the cart in tow, he herded me toward an elevator, completely ignoring the cops like they didn't exist, tugging me when I tensed. "Relax. No one's looking for an arrival."

"So where's this partner when we need backup, or is he our mole?"

"That's who tipped me off about your cards. We're trying to track whoever's tracking you. And no, neither of us work for the bad guys."

"The security guards have my photo."

"Nope. Had my partner fax Troy's mug to airports and train stations. Right hand doesn't know what the left hand's doing."

He smiled and kept me snug in his arms as we loaded onto an elevator, the stacked boxes blocking the camera from witnessing our minor make-out session. For a moment, my head sank against his chest. If this man could melt concrete off my heart, strip three years of shellac from my body, and rewire my nervous system to handle gunfire, what the hell was I dreading him for? Besides a hideous past that might catch up with me, that is.

You got him back, Jules, don't blow it this time.

When we emerged into the parking garage, Sam scanned for cops while I searched for a Bureau-style SUV.

"Hop on." Standing on the back of the cart, he pumped with one leg and raced down the aisle like a teenager.

I laughed out loud. In that moment, I realized how strangely elated I'd felt the last hour. I'd never really appreciated being the survivor—after my parents died or Luke died or I almost died—and even now I didn't feel grateful or relieved. But euphoric. Alive.

I ran to catch up with Sam, when a twinge hit my side and I doubled. Pain radiated fast, like fire spreading inside my abs.

He looked back, jolted to a stop. Straightening, I shook my head to keep him at bay.

"Just girl stuff," I called, but he'd already ditched the cart and closed the distance, his gaze raking over the car rows as he took my elbow and escorted me down the aisle. The pain subsided enough I could walk with a little dignity. "I'm fine, Sam. Don't be such a worry-wart."

As we rounded the last dark SUV, I spotted my white Land Cruiser. The man was incorrigible. And thank God for that. I remembered Sam and his partner hauling me to the hospital in my own truck.

He jiggled keys at me.
My
keys. "Don't give me that look. You kept her garaged. I should arrest you for cruelty to a classic."

I shook my head and admired the gleam of the fresh wax job. "Guess I shouldn't complain. He looks great."

"
She
cleans up nice. Fixed her up after my stay at the clinic. Been driving her ever since."

Since the clinic?
"Good God, never trust a cop."

A dog barked, an open mouth fogged up the back window, a tail wagged furiously.

"Max!" I caught the unfamiliar license plate on my truck as I approached. "You're going to explain that to me," I said to Sam. "Another day."

He popped the hatch and Max assaulted my face with his tongue bath.

Sam interrupted and encouraged us into the passenger seat. "Keep your head down. That means you, too, little buddy."

Once Max jumped into my lap, Sam slammed my door and climbed behind the wheel.

I pushed Max's bony butt into the back seat, where he sat at attention, ready to roll. I agreed: we couldn't drive fast enough to escape airport guards and NYPD cops and security cameras and, ironically, jet planes I couldn't board to fly a million miles away from all the Troys in New York.

Behind the driver's seat was a black duffel bag I assumed was Sam's. Change of clothes or more munitions, I pondered but dared not ask.

"Let's find the nearest beach with a margarita," I said, pulling state maps from the glove compartment as Sam headed toward the exit ramp.

Sam pushed the map below dash level. "This isn't a camping trip, Jules. You need to do exactly what I say, when I say it. You too, Max," he said into the mirror. "No kidding. Sacrifice your egos if you have to, but I'm running this op."

I rolled my eyes and dropped the seat back a click.

"And no rolling your eyes."

I turned my head to Max and rolled my eyes. He started panting, which looked a lot like laughter.

Meanwhile, Sam dialed his cell phone, smiling coyly at me as he pressed the door locks. "Hey, got a hot delivery for you. Clear the decks. We're coming in."

***

Deep into the Bowery district, we pulled into the driveway of a four-bay garage protruding from a building a half-block long and freshly painted black with no signage. The garage doors all sat shut. Sam honked twice, waited, then once more.

My feet dug into the floorboard, as I assumed federal agents would be waiting inside, anxious to take me into custody. Sam hadn't spoken since the call, and I'd kept my head below visual for the toll booths and cameras as he'd instructed, convincing myself that I'd already decided to trust him, and flying back into Manhattan was no time for reneging. That, and I couldn't jump from a speeding vehicle.

Now that we'd landed, however…

One of the garage doors slid open and Sam gunned it inside. The door was quickly closed and stadium-style lights thrown on. A brace of teenagers scattered, their soured faces stepping back from my truck like it reeked of dog crap. Wearing greasy T-shirts and jackets, they came in all shapes and colors, most not old enough to be federal agents, let alone out of high school on a weekday.

The white Escalade, BMW 750 and Land Rover in various states of disassembly in the other garage bays told me the real story: we'd entered a chop shop.

"Stay inside till I signal you," said Sam, like I was going anywhere in a room of thieves.

"No way, brother, back it out," yelled a man waving both arms over his head as Sam approached him. He had a boxer's swagger and wore a Knicks cap backwards. "No way I'm working on that dump."

He looked about twenty years older than any kid in the room, and his black stubble cut through a golden tan like this cave wasn't his usual place of business. Big biceps, small ears. And striking blue eyes like cobalt glass. These Bowery boys were no spindle-legged geeks.

The other boys, in all sizes and from all races, leaned cross-armed on equipment or stood tall to look tough, while watching him and Sam take offensive stances. Clearly blue-eyes was top dog.

Sam didn't remove his sunglasses, which I assumed he'd recovered from the hotel. I sank down in my truck, keeping my eyes on Sam but expecting the situation to go south fast. Max kept his head high, whining on both our behalves.

"Crew's gotten bigger," said Sam, scanning his host. "Too bad their boss is an asshole."

"What the fuck, Sam? Come riding in all hotshot, crash my garage so I gotta drop real dope to do your bidding. I don't think so. That badge don't make me your bitch. You don't ever ask favors from me like this. Ever."

"That's right, James. I never ask. For nothing." Sam pulled off his sunglasses and called out to the others. "Anyone else gonna stiff me? Who here have I not helped beat trouble when it pounded down their door? Alex, Peter." A couple of the guys tucked their heads. "I see. Loyalty don't swing the other way. So much for family." Sam spat on the ground at James' feet. "Thanks for nothing. Brother."

This was Sam's family?

Sam got as far as opening the driver door. His face had reddened like I'd only seen occur when Stone pissed him off.

"Okay, okay. Just cool down a sec." James smiled, playing salesman. "Don't need to get all defensive play on me. Just tell me what you want and I'll work you in, give you a good deal."

Sam stepped into James' face. "A good deal? Don't dick me around, James. I'm not some asswipe customer for you to screw. I need it now. Today. Your best work, your best crew."

"Alright now, don't get all jacked up on me. I'm just playing. Why so tense, man, you in some kind of trouble? Bro, it's me. Tight lip, tight ship."

Crew members grunted in agreement, like they were of one hive mind.

Sam looked at me and then at the crew, seemingly ready to spill his guts. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, and I realized his breathing had never come down since the hotel shootout.

"Just do it," he said. "Color, wheels, plates, everything. No questions."

"Now we're talking." James slapped his hands together. "Pimped out for the ladies, or rocking the square?" He swished his hips and the crew laughed.

That's when I knocked on the windshield. I couldn't stand the idea of my '98 Land Cruiser with mag wheels and knee-high in chrome. I needed an escape vehicle, not a bracelet.

Sam held up a hand to calm me, then said to James, "Low end. Black. Make it disappear. And run like a horse. But I need eyes and ears. The works."

James frowned as he watched Sam return to the truck. "Sure, man, whatever you need." He saved the sneer for me.

Covering my head with Sam's overcoat, I exited the truck. Sam set a protective arm over my shoulder.

"Keys?" Sam reached toward James.

"Beer's in the office," said James, nodding his head to a side room and stepping backwards. As in away from me. "Make yourself at home."

"The office. Your apartment's not welcome to me now?" Sam stared till James dug out his keys, his chest deflating, and popped them in the air. Sam caught them and added, "We'll need clothes. Money, gas, new IDs. And no, no more questions."

James wrenched his face to one side and looked at me with even greater disgust than before. The guy had a talent for looking bitter.

Sam stepped into his face. "You gotta problem with her, you gotta problem with me. Understood?"

"No, no problem. I got your back." James waved to his crew and wouldn't look at me again. "Yo, stop staring and get your asses back to work."

The boys swarmed my beautiful truck and I swallowed. Sacrifices had to be made.

***

Sam jogged up a skinny stairwell from the garage bay to the second floor. Decades of boots had worn indentations into the wood planks, now splintered and cracked, and I treaded them carefully, while Max nearly ran me over to catch up with Sam.

At the top of the stairs, a wider hall revealed a bank of old fir doors. Here the smell of butane, spent oil and car paint was replaced with peppered lamb and cheap perfume. Through a doorway to our right, a young woman with black hair set a ceramic pot on a wooden table covered with a yellowed grandma-lace tablecloth.

Sam stepped left and unlocked a door to a studio apartment and pulled me inside, away from the aromas. I couldn't believe how the food allured me, despite our lives being in danger. Nothing like imminent peril to build an appetite, I mused.

The studio had a different smell: man sweat. A kitchenette ran along the window wall, a card table sat in the middle with two fold-up metal chairs, and filling the back corner was a sheetless king-size mattress with a raspberry comforter piled in the middle. For a good-looking guy, James lived in a female-unfriendly dive.

Seconds later, James came up. "Alright, let's get the details straight and the boys rolling."

James' review of me never ended. I'd already dropped the overcoat and hat, to Sam's chagrin, so he could easily ID me now.

"Hey." Sam snapped his fingers and James' attention moved back to their automotive conspiracy, in which I clearly had no input.

A young woman with the same motor-oil hair as James bounced behind him to see his mystery guests. Sam gave a quick jerk of his chin to acknowledge her.

"Hey, Sammy boy." She slapped James' chest with the back of her hand and leaned in a provocative pose with her hand cupping over her hip. She had small breasts and wide thighs wrapped in silver-studded jeans. "You didn't tell me our boy's back in town. Looking good, Sammy." Her gaze shot to me and her smile twisted into an unconvincing welcome.

"No introductions," Sam said, pulling off the car coat. "You don't see me, you don't see her." Like they weren't going to see the bullet holes decorating his suit either. "And no more visitors. Not even your parents."

"What the hell's going on that I can't know who's in my own house?" the woman said.

"Malta," James snapped and came up with his hand. "Cool it." He turned back to Sam. "My sister's a nosy brat, but knows how to keep her mouth shut. Mom's with the grandkids down the street, and Dad's in Atlantic City spending her retirement money. Some things never change, eh, brother?"

Sam gave a seething laugh and the men shared their first smile.

Taking Max's leash from me, Sam looked to Malta. I body-blocked Max's departure. "He can't crap in here," Sam said.

"Uh-uh. I ain't no dog walker," said Malta. She held up lavender-painted nails with embedded crystals. "I got my own job, my own money now. New salon. Unless you want a mani-pedi, pick up your own trash." She flinted a look my way and spun to leave.

"Hey," said James, pinching the back of her black sweater. "Sam asks you to walk the dog, you walk the fucking dog. And you don't pay rent here, so it ain't
your
house." James patted his leg and I was surprised to see Max go willingly. He handed the leash to Malta and pushed her out the door.

"We shouldn't be imposing on you like this," I said, daring to speak directly to James, though I was more worried about Sam's response. "We should leave them alone, Sam."