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 draw attention to yourself,” I said, mimicking Nash. I was in the same spot, just one hour more bored and more uncomfortable. I’d texted the man twice with his stupid, required proof of life, selfies with the middle finger. He’d responded with pictures of Piper. Baker had yet to show his face again. And my ass was asleep.
I was starting to wonder if the thrill of the hunt was only exciting because the rest of the job was so damn boring by comparison. Was it really worth it?
I thought about the position opening up in the company’s High Net Assets department. Bigger risk, bigger reward, bigger thrill. But did I really want to dedicate the rest of my working life to chasing the thrill? On the other hand, the idea of supervisory work gave me the heebie-jeebies. All those people needing to be managed? Ugh.
But what else could I do? What else would I be good at?
Those were questions that had to wait for another day, because a man in leather and denim carrying a bouquet of grocery store flowers strolled up onto the row home stoop like he owned the place.
Apparently he did, because he produced a key and opened the front door.
I sat up straighter and grabbed my binoculars just as Wendell Baker’s brother headed inside.
“Oh shit. This isn’t good.”
The shouting started shortly after that.
Okay. This wasn’t great. But as long as they kept it verbal— The brother exited his house…through the front window…which was closed.