Lina

The smell of pizza wafted through the open windows of Knox’s truck. I was camped out in a strip mall parking lot in Arlington. Across the street was a block of row homes that had seen better days.

I was waiting for Wendell Baker, a.k.a. Chubby Goatee Guy. He was beefy, white, balding, and an enforcer for the Hugo family who wore too many gold chains and always had a toothpick in his mouth. According to Tina’s questionable intel, Baker collected a paycheck from Anthony Hugo but was tight enough with Duncan that his loyalties were divided.

Authorities hadn’t been able to tie Baker to the abduction and shootout, which meant he was free to go about his business. And I was free to follow him…hopefully to a pristine 1948 Porsche 356 convertible.

So far, however, Baker had gotten out of bed at 11:00 a.m., grabbed a Grande at Burritos to Go, and then paid his brother’s girlfriend a visit that involved unzipping his fly on the front porch before she even answered the door.

Classy guy.

My phone rang again.

“Seriously, people? When did I get so popular?”

I’d already had calls from my mom about Dad’s birthday gift, Stef wondering if I was planning to sweat with the oldies at the gym this week,

and Sloane, who had forced me to volunteer for something called Book or Treat the following night at the library. Not to mention the text from Naomi telling me she’d given my number to Fi and hoped that was okay. That was followed by a group text from Fi, Max, and Silver from Honky Tonk recapping all the best fictional versions of my run-in with Tate Dilton.

Apparently I had broken a bottle over his head, then shoved him backward into a vat of fryer oil. No one was sure where the vat of oil came from but everyone agreed that it was hilarious watching him crawl out of the bar like human escargot.

That was when I saw the caller ID.

I almost let it go to voicemail before deciding that was the coward’s way out.

“I assume you found your way out of my apartment,” I said by way of a greeting.

“Why the hell am I hearing about you and Dilton from a U.S. marshal and my dumbass brother instead of you?” Nash demanded.

“First of all, I’d like verification that you did leave my place. Second, when exactly did we have time for a conversation last night? Third—and this is the most important one, so pay attention—what business is it of yours?”

“We spent the night together, Angelina.” His voice went gravelly on my name and I pointedly ignored the delicious shiver that rolled up my spine. “That’s plenty of time for you to say ‘Hey, Nash. I was accosted in public by the asshole you suspended.’”

His impression of me was terrible.

“And then what? You’d have said ‘Don’t you worry, little lady. I’ll make sure you’re never alone so the big, drunk wolf can’t be a dick to you’? Also, I don’t remember it fostering a chatty atmosphere when you showed up mid panic attack at my door.”

“Dilton is my problem, not yours. If he’s trying to make it yours, I need to know.”

That at least made sense. “Fine.”

My agreement temporarily shut him down. “Well, okay then. Now, I heard that he approached you, then you threw him through a plate glass window,” he said, sounding amused.

I snorted at that one. “Really? Because I heard I dunked him in a vat of fryer oil.”

“But what I’m most interested in is he approached you and started running his mouth. Why and about what?”

“I made eye contact with him. He was drunk and disorderly and getting rammy so I looked at him until he looked at me back.”

“Need I remind you that with great female power comes great female responsibility?”

I rolled my eyes. “I wasn’t trying to become a target or start shit, Chief. I was just trying to distract him from riling up the staff. Max definitely would have deep-fried his ass last night.”

“Still don’t like it, but fair enough.” “How generous of you.”

“Tell me what he said to you.”

“He asked if I was your bitch and then gave me a message to give to you. Said it was time to take you down a peg or two. I, of course, insulted his intelligence.”

“Of course,” Nash said dryly.

“Then he tried to pretend he was a cop who could take me downtown until I found my manners. I may have mentioned that I knew he didn’t have a badge anymore and wondered how you’d feel about him impersonating a police officer. Then he insulted me and the women of Knockemout, and just when things were getting interesting, as in fried food being thrown, a bystander and Nolan stepped in.”

There was a stony silence on Nash’s end. “You still there, hotshot?”

“Yeah,” he said finally.

I didn’t know it was possible to pack so much anger into one tiny syllable.

I rocked my head back against the seat. “It was fine, Nash. He was never going to get physical. Not in there. Not with me. He was drunk and stupid but not drunk and stupid enough to forget that a physical altercation with a woman in a public place would be the end of him.”

There was more silence.

“Nash? Are you stabbing that spot between your eyebrows right now?” “No,” he lied, sounding a little sheepish.

“It’s your tell. You should do something about it.” “Angelina?”

“Yeah.”

“I meant what I said. Dilton is my problem. If he tries to contact you again, I need to know.”

“Got it,” I said softly. “Good.”

“How are you feeling? Not that I care,” I added quickly.

“Better. Solid. I kicked Knox’s ass at Career Day,” he said smugly. “Literally or metaphorically? Because with you two, it could go either

way.”

“Bit of both. You sleep okay?” Nash asked.

I’d slept like the dead. Just like I did every time I was in bed with Nash. “Yeah,” I said, not willing to give him more.

“What’s that psychology minor say about a girl who doesn’t like to be touched except by the guy who just keeps pissing her off?”

“That she has serious emotional issues that need to be addressed.” His laugh was soft. “Have lunch with me, Angel.”

I sighed. “I can’t.” “Can’t or won’t?”

“Mostly can’t. I’m not in town.” “Where are you?”

“Arlington.” “Why?”

I wasn’t falling for the “come on, you can tell me anything” tone. But I also had nothing to hide.

“I’m waiting for Wendell Baker.” I told him.

“You’re doing what?” He was back to using his cop voice again. “Don’t be dramatic. You know what I mean and who he is.”

“You’re surveilling muscle for an organized crime family?” he demanded.

And there he was, my pissed-off, overprotective-for-no-reason, next- door pain in the ass.

“I’m not asking for permission, Nash.”

“Good. Because I sure as hell wouldn’t give it,” he said.

“You are infuriating, and I want off this merry-go-round.” “Convince me this is a good idea.”

“I don’t have to. It’s my job. My life,” I insisted. “Fine. I’ll come down there running lights and sirens.”

“Jesus, Nash. I run trainings on surveillance strategies. I’m damn good at it. I don’t need to justify my job to you.”

“It’s dangerous,” he countered.

“Need I remind you that you’re the one who got shot on the job.” There was a noise on his end of the call.

“Did you just growl at me?”

“Shit,” he muttered. “I don’t know. Every day with you is a new fucking surprise.”

I took the tiniest bit of pity on him. “Look, with the heat the feds have brought to Anthony Hugo’s activities, no one is doing anything. I’ve been sitting on two of these guys for days. All they do is eat, have sex with women who should know better, and go to the gym. Maybe hit a strip club. I’m not looking to catch them committing a crime. All I need is for one of them to lead me to a stash house. Even if Duncan is long gone, that car might still be here.”

“I still can’t believe you’re doing all this for a damn car.”

“It’s not just any damn car. It’s a 1948 Porsche 356 convertible.” “Fine. All this for a small, old car.”

“That small, old car is worth over half a million bucks. And just like everything else we insure, its cash value is one thing. The sentimental value is something else entirely. This car is part of a family’s story. The past three generations have gotten married and driven off in this car. There’s a vial of their grandfather’s ashes in the trunk.”

“Shit. Fine. Damn it. I want you checking in with me every half hour. If you’re even one minute late, I’ll show up and blow your cover so fast it’ll make your head spin.”

“I don’t have to agree to any of this,” I pointed out. “You keep acting like we’re in some kind of relationship when we’re clearly not.”

“Baby, you and I both know there’s something here even if you’re too scared to acknowledge that.”

“Scared? You think I’m scared?”

“I think I have you shaking in those sexy high-heeled boots of yours.” He was not wrong, which pissed me off more.

“Yeah. Shaking with rage. Thanks for making me regret answering the phone.”

“Every thirty minutes, I want a text.” “What do I get out of this deal?”

“I’ll go through whatever crime scene files I can get from the warehouse. See if there’s anything in those files that might lead you to your damn car.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. I’ll give you whatever I find over dinner tonight.”

It was like a dance number we were locked in. Two steps forward, two steps back. Get drawn together. Get pissed off. Rinse. Repeat. Sooner or later, one of us had to end the dance.

“I don’t like that you don’t think I can do my job.”

“Angel, I know you’re damn good at your job. I know you can handle yourself better than most. But eventually, someone will sneak past those defenses. And in your line of work, the consequences are a hell of a lot more serious.”

He was speaking from personal experience. “I have to go.”

“Every thirty minutes. Dinner tonight,” he said.

“Fine. But you’d better bring me something useful and the food better be good.”

“Don’t get involved. Don’t do anything to draw attention to yourself,” he warned.

“I’m not an amateur, Nash. Now leave me alone.”

 

 

“Don’t do anything to make yourself stand out,” I said, echoing Nash. I was still in the same spot, just an hour more bored and uncomfortable. I’d sent the guy two texts with his annoying, mandatory proof-of-life selfies featuring a middle finger. He responded with pictures of Piper. Baker hadn’t shown his face again. My butt was numb.

I was beginning to think the excitement of the chase was only appealing because the rest of the job was incredibly tedious by comparison. Was it really worth it?

I pondered the job opening in the company’s High Net Assets department. Higher stakes, higher rewards, greater excitement. But did I truly want to spend the rest of my career chasing that rush? On the other hand, the thought of a supervisory role gave me the creeps. All those people needing guidance? Ugh.

But what else could I do? What else would I excel at?

Those questions had to wait because a guy in leather and denim carrying a bouquet of supermarket flowers walked up to the row home’s stoop like he owned the place.

Apparently, he did, as he pulled out a key and unlocked the front door.

I sat up and grabbed my binoculars just as Wendell Baker’s brother stepped inside.

“Oh crap. This isn’t good.”

The shouting began shortly after.

Okay. This wasn’t ideal. But as long as it stayed verbal—

The brother exited the house… through the front window… which was shut.

“Damn,” I groaned, reaching for my phone as glass shattered.

A completely naked Wendell Baker stomped out the front door. A woman in a rock band T-shirt and nothing else followed, screaming. The leather-and-denim brother got up just in time to take a right hook to the jaw.

“911. What’s your emergency?”

“This is Lina Solavita. I’m an investigator for Pritzger Insurance. There’s a naked man assaulting someone on the sidewalk.” I provided the dispatcher with the address, and as she repeated it, the woman vaulted over the railing onto Baker’s back, wrapping an arm around his throat. He lurched forward, trying to unseat his attacker, giving me a full view of both of their backsides.

“Now there’s a woman attacking the naked man.”

“I have two units nearby responding,” the dispatcher said. “Is the woman also naked?”

“She’s wearing a Whitesnake T-shirt and nothing else.” “Huh. Good band.”

The brother got back up and rammed his shoulder into Baker’s stomach, driving him against the concrete steps. I thought of Nash’s bruised jaw and Knox’s black eye, wondering if all brothers fought like this.

“Does anyone have any weapons?” the dispatcher asked.

“None that I can see. The naked guy definitely didn’t bring one.”

The brothers separated, and the Whitesnake lady slid off Baker’s back. The brother reached behind him and pulled out a large knife.

“Crap,” I muttered. “There’s a knife in play now.”

At that moment, two kids walked out of the house next door, staring at the chaos.

“And now there are two kids watching.” “Officers are en route. Two minutes out.”

A lot could go wrong in two minutes.

The brother lunged forward, making a wild, amateurish slashing motion.

Nash’s words echoed in my mind. But it was either do nothing or let two fools kill each other in front of kids.

I tossed my phone on the seat, opened the door, and leaned on the horn. When I got their attention, I stood on the running board and yelled,

“Cops are on the way.”

Both brothers started toward me.

“Seriously?” I muttered. “Why are criminals so dumb?”

I was pressing the horn again as they crossed the street when I finally heard distant sirens.

They stopped in the middle of the street, debating if they had enough time to reach me.

I heard the screech of tires behind me. A white panel van pulled up behind Knox’s truck, and the door slid open.

A man wearing a ski mask jumped out, grabbed my wrist, and dragged me toward the van.

The brothers were running toward us now.

“Get in,” Ski Mask ordered, pulling a gun from his waistband. But he didn’t point it at me. He aimed it at the approaching brothers.

“Um. Okay.”