Girl Undercover 4 & 5: Ariel & Financial Devil (17 page)

On the other, I was disappointed that it didn’t look like Cardoza was involved in this matter after all. Finally succumbing, I’d asked Ian if Cardoza’s name had come up at any point since he’d begun his investigations. He’d only looked at me funnily, then shook his head and told me there was absolutely no evidence indicating the incarcerated drug lord was involved with Ron or any of his clients.

I sighed as I walked along the quiet street. Even without having done any further investigation about exactly what kind of business Ron did with this man, I knew it could be no good; surely he got a piece of the action for laundering Coleman’s mountains of cash. Which meant I’d been wasting Dante and Jose’s time by sending them on a wild-goose chase down in Texas.

I should call Dante and tell him what I’d found out so he and Jose could go back home. Sticking my hand into my pocket, I got out my phone. But before I could place the call, I changed my mind. I’d wait until tomorrow, after Ian and I had audited Ron and Coleman’s lunch meeting to be absolutely sure. We would both go to the restaurant and eat lunch at the same time as the two men. When we saw where they were seated, Ian would bribe the maître d’—heavily—to make sure the latter dropped a hidden recording device on their table that would record their entire conversation.

Surely the two men would discuss specifics they didn’t want anyone but themselves to hear, especially not people at the FBI. The good FBI people, Ian had specified. The ones that weren’t part of the conspiracy.

Then, when we’d gotten the device back, we would hand it over anonymously to the authorities in addition to all the data Ian had collected from the chatroom so they could nail these two bastards. We just had to make sure we handed it over to the right people or they might not care enough to crack this trafficking ring, Ian had stressed. Though, of course, that shouldn’t be a problem; he claimed to be well aware who was good and who was bad at the Bureau. Ever since they’d set him up, he’d kept close tabs on them.

When Ian had gone on and on about that last part, I had just nodded and smiled. Humoring him was the best way to deal with him when he launched into these tiresome tirades. As long as we caught these guys, I was happy. I didn’t doubt for one second that the people at the FBI would do the right thing.

Ian having discovered Davis aka Coleman was great for another reason too—working toward getting him and Ron behind bars would give me the space I needed after what had happened between us. By the time we were done, enough time should have passed for us to have pretty much forgotten about that night. That light tension that still lingered between us should be gone and it would be easier to move on. For both of us.

Even as I was thinking this, before I could stop them, thoughts of what we’d done suddenly assaulted my mind with a power too strong to ignore. I could taste the hot kisses we had shared, feel the expert way Ian had touched me, smell him as he’d smelled that night. The orgasms he’d brought me made me shudder I could recall them so vividly. The way he’d mumbled my name, looked at me with such passion made me tremble now. It was with extreme willpower that I managed to force the intense memories to go away. As wonderful as it had been, I couldn’t allow myself to think about it, relive that night. The last thing I wanted was for it to happen again. Feeling this strongly about it suggested I was dangerously close to falling for Ian the way I had fallen for Nick. Only an amateur and a fool would make the same mistake twice and I was neither. I would prove to myself that I wasn’t by maintaining my distance emotionally from Ian.

If I didn’t, I didn’t think I would ever solve the mystery behind Nick’s murder. And I owed it to my husband to make sure that I did.

Chapter 6

Ron was seated alone at a corner table in The Standard Grill main dining area, an iPad in his hands. I’d taken a walk throughout the huge, trendy restaurant when Ian and I couldn’t locate him in the popular bar area or in the bustling café that also had tables where patrons could eat, finally spotting him.

I let out a discreet sigh of relief. Step one in our plan—locating the subject in the spacious eatery—was completed. Thank God we’d have the foresight to make a reservation in the main dining room and not just counted on the men choosing the other eating areas that were on a first-come, first-served basis.

I wasn’t worried that he would recognize me from the gym. I was wearing a wig of afro style, black hair and my red glasses in addition to being out of my trainer attire and instead sporting an elegant blue pantsuit with heels to match Ian’s designer suit. Ian always dressed nicely, but today he’d outdone himself, looking extra sharp.

When I’d made sure it was indeed Ron seated at that table, I headed back to the bar area where Ian was waiting for me, next to the main entrance. He hadn’t bothered to change his appearance in any way other than wearing that unusually nice suit. Neither he nor I worried if Ron would recognize him or not. The Standard was a popular, upscale restaurant, so it wouldn’t be suspicious if another gym member was having lunch there.

Ian glanced at me with eagerness as I approached the little table where he was seated, waiting for me while drinking red wine.

“Are they there?” he asked quietly.

“Just Ron,” I replied in a low voice. “Did you see Davis enter?”

“Not yet. But I’m guessing it should only be a matter of time.”

“Yes. Or he’s already here, but is in the bathroom. Either way, we should tell the hostess I’ve arrived so we can be seated.”

Ian had told the hostess his lunch date had yet to arrive for our reservation in the main dining room while I was taking a round throughout the restaurant with its three eating areas. Before we committed to a table for the area we had originally requested, we wanted to make sure the two men would be there. If we were lucky and got a table close to theirs, we would be able to watch them as they ate, perhaps glean important information.

Being in the same area, it would be much easier for us to determine who their waiter was. After some thought, we had figured it may be safer to bribe their waiter instead of going for the maître d.’ In addition to needing money more, the waiter would have more chances to drop off a hidden recording device on the table without the men noticing. When we knew who it was, one of us would take the person aside and offer him or her $1000 for working with us, $500 first and the rest after we got the device back.

Davis was still missing by the time we were seated at a table that gave us a somewhat good vantage point of Ron—if we leaned sideways and stretched our necks to get around the wide pillar blocking our view. It didn’t take long until we saw who their waiter was. He was a skinny, short man with an earring and a purple streak in his spiky hair. His face was delicate, almost feminine. He gesticulated heavily the way a typical gay man does as he spoke to Ron, smiling nervously all the while.

Ian was still studying the man as I turned to him.

“Do you think he’s just jittery by nature or high on uppers?” I asked.

Still watching the waiter, Ian replied, “Let’s hope those uppers involve having had too much coffee in that case, not anything stronger than that. You can’t trust junkies.”

Yeah, you should know
, I thought, having suddenly remembered that, according to the articles I’d read about Ian, he himself had once been a druggie. Who knew, maybe he still was.

“Very true,” I said. “Should we try the maître d’ instead then?”

My eyes went to the sixty-something man currently conversing with a couple seated at a table not far from where we sat. Upon seeing how stiffly he moved and how pinched his dull-skinned face was, I already knew the answer to my question—even if we were dealing with a waiter with a drug problem, we were still better off than if we dealt with this old fogey.

“No, let’s stay with the waiter,” Ian said.

“Okay. Who’ll talk to him—you or me?” Before coming to the restaurant, we had decided that, if the waiter was a man, I should approach him and if it was a woman, Ian was more likely to have success. None of us had considered the possibility of the waiter being gay—from the looks of it, this one probably was.

“I’ll do it,” Ian said and got to his feet. He paused. “There’s Davis.”

I looked in the direction he’d turned his head and spotted a broad man with slicked-back, dark hair and a face that reminded me of a horse. He looked exactly like he had on the photo we had seen online, which must have been at least five years old.

“I’ll be right back,” Ian said. He walked after the waiter, who disappeared around a corner. I kept my fingers crossed it would be as easy convincing the waiter to help us as Ian had made it sound when he’d first brought up the idea. Ian would slip the waiter a note and a fifty-dollar bill when walking past him. The note contained the following message:
Please meet me by the men’s room. I need your help and will pay you $1000 for it.

Our own waiter, a cheery man with a skeletal face, appeared and I gave him our drink and food orders, already knowing what Ian wanted.

About five minutes later, Ian returned and slipped into his seat.

“That was quick,” I said. “How’d it go? Is he gonna do it?”

Ian smiled. “Yup. It all went very smoothly. He took less than a minute to get down to the restroom. Even when he went to get a shaker, he was back in no-time.” Our plan consisted of a tiny, dime-sized recording device being attached to the bottom of a salt or pepper shaker. What with so many people being carb-conscious these days, attaching it to the bread basket was much too risky. Not so with the salt and pepper shakers; no one ever asked to have them removed from the table.

“Really?” I said. “Wow. He didn’t hesitate even for a second?”

“No. He was extremely cooperative. I’m guessing he needs the cash badly.”

“Hmm. That’s a good sign.”

“It sure is.”

“I can’t believe he didn’t ask any questions.”

Ian shrugged. “Maybe he’s used to getting propositioned.”

“He must be or it’s almost too good to be true. Do you think he’ll be able to do it without screwing up?”

Ian exhaled and pushed over his half-full wineglass so that it ended up next to my arm.

“If he can manage to exchange the salt and pepper shakers on their table without them paying attention, it should be fine.”

“Let’s hope he can,” I replied and adjusted the wineglass, moving it a little closer to the edge of the table. Since we were both right-handed and my right arm was next to the side of the table that wasn’t against a wall, we had decided that I would take care of this part of our plan. Also, I was a woman, Ian had added. Women are clumsier than men. I had just looked at him when he’d uttered that last statement, not laughed as I was pretty sure that was his idea of a funny joke.

The waiter in question walked into the dining room right then and headed toward Davis and Ron’s table. He was holding a wooden holder containing salt and pepper shakers.

“Here we go,” Ian whispered. “Get ready.”

“I’m as ready as can be. Just let me know when since you have a better view of them than I do.”

“I will.” His eyes were on the men’s table.

Looking down, I pushed the big wineglass even closer to the edge of the table.

“Now,” Ian hissed under his breath.

Quickly, I swiped the glass over the edge. As it hit the stone floor below, it produced a satisfyingly loud, crashing sound. Everyone around us turned to look in our direction.

I made myself look horrified, covering my mouth while gasping. A busboy ran toward our table and threw a couple of napkins over the mess I had created and to stop the wine from spreading. Soon another joined him with a broom and an upright dustpan that he used to sweep up all the glass. Then our waiter came.

“I’m so, so sorry,” I said in a distraught tone. “It just slipped out of my hand as I put it down.”

“No worries,” the waiter replied. “Let me replace it for you. What was it?”

“Oh, that’s not necessary.”

“Are you sure? It’s really not a problem.”

“Yes, I’m good. If you can bring me a club soda with a lime instead, it would be great.”

“Sure.” The waiter left together with the two very efficient busboys. The floor next to us looked like new.

I turned to Ian, whose content expression had already answered the question I’d been about to ask. So instead I said, “He did it then?”

“Yup. He exchanged them while their heads were turned in our direction. They’re clueless.”

“Really? Fantastic! The hard part is over.”

“Yes, now we can just enjoy our lunch—and listen to their conversation in real time.” His eyes gleamed with satisfaction at my surprise as he handed me a tiny earpiece that looked like a skin-colored earplug. He hadn’t told me about this part. “Put this in your ear.”

I took it from him. “Are you telling me we’re gonna be able to overhear their entire conversation?”

“Exactly.” Ian smiled.

“Awesome.” I put it in my ear and could immediately hear the two men talk.

“This thing is amazing,” I said as I listened, each word the men exchanged entering my ear with crystal clarity.

“Isn’t it?”

The two men took their sweet time eating. Ian snapped a few discreet photos of them using his smartphone to include in the packages we would supply the NYPD and the FBI with. By the time the men asked for the check, Ron had incriminated himself several times over by talking about the dirty money he was investing for Davis in real estate and so had Davis, mentioning the human trafficking a couple of times. Not that it was really necessary for Davis to provide more evidence—Ian already had several damning transcripts from the chatroom the man visited on an almost daily basis. Ian and I couldn’t wait to get our hands on that tiny device so we could send all of the evidence to the authorities.

These two guys were so screwed.

Just as I was about to remove the earpiece, Ron said something that made me pause:

“Is your man taking out the problem tomorrow night?”

“Yes, Nina and her friend will be gone then, don’t you worry,”
Davis replied.