Cask Strength, page 12
“What’ve you got for me, Ai?” Danny said.
“Boss-lady?” Aidan asked.
“He’s going to be insufferable now, so you might as well proceed.”
Aidan had to tread carefully. Danny had heard Renaud’s name last September, had seen what the terrorist was capable of when they’d faced down a bomb together, but he didn’t know the connection went deeper than an isolated terror threat. For his safety and because Aidan needed to tell the whole story to his family in person, when he had all of it, he kept the details vague. “I need you to look into a paralegal at Eldridge.”
“Well, what do you know? I’ve got an appointment with Preston Cole tomorrow. Maybe I’ll take my friend, Melissa, who is interested in getting her estate in order.”
Another pop, then Mel stole the phone. “Who are we looking for?”
“Martin Westley,” Aidan answered. “Works in corporate.”
“Profile?”
“Thirty-two,” Jamie said. “Comes from money. Law school burn-out who traveled for a while before coming home and getting his paralegal certification.”
“And a job at one of the Valley’s top firms,” Mel said.
“Nothing suspicious about that at all.”
“What am I missing?” Danny chimed in.
“We’ll explain when Aidan gets home,” Mel said, in a voice softer than her norm. Maybe Danny wasn’t the only one getting serious. “Jamie, pull financials.”
“Already on it. Travel records too.”
“I’ll see what I can do to expedite.”
“Mel, be careful,” Aidan cautioned. These were two of the most important people in his life. They’d had one close call already. He’d rather they not have another, especially when he was clear across the country. “Don’t let him know you’re on to him.”
“Wha—” Danny started.
“We got it,” Mel said, ringing off.
Aidan turned the phone facedown and tossed the pen aside. “Anything else?” Jamie diverted his gaze to the floor. “Hey, Whiskey, don’t drop back into surly mode. Tell me what else.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Not having the whole story for you.”
Aidan wanted to brush the hair off his forehead. He sat on his hands instead. “You’re running point on the CU case, and you still got us a lead on Renaud. That’s more of the story than we had yesterday.” An ugly, scary story as it was turning out to be, but at least they were getting somewhere. So long as they didn’t get buried under falling shoes. “We need to be careful. Mel, Danny, you.”
“I’m not a civilian.”
“I know, but you’re important to me, so are they, and Renaud’s targeted me three times. If any of you get caught in the crossfire...”
“And what if that bull’s-eye lands on you? You don’t think that’ll affect me?”
All Aidan wanted to do was reach out and pull Jamie into his arms. Apologize for being an idiot. Kiss him. Make love to him right there on the study floor. Promise him he’d always be there.
But he couldn’t do those things and he couldn’t make that promise.
He dug his fingers into the leather chair. “Let’s just both try to not get dead.”
Chapter Twelve
Monday’s practice was a mindfuck. No other word for it. Worse than all of Sunday’s ups and downs. Jamie struggled to do his job on the court while Ethan and Aidan observed, his partner never more than a few feet from the AD.
Jamie had been through undercover training at Academy, but seeing an agent as skilled as Aidan put those lessons into practice boggled his mind. All of that Aidan Talley purpose and arrogance channeled into suave, charming Ian Daley. Shoulders back, he walked with a casual strut instead of his usual determined stride and his smile, while artificially wide, was no less bright and brilliant. He shook all the right hands and spoke to all the coaches, assistants, and players, spending longer and flashing more bling with Blake and his crew. As for staying in Ethan’s orbit, the maneuver gave the impression of interest while allowing Aidan to listen to their suspect’s conversations.
Jamie understood all that; didn’t mean he liked it.
Nor did he like the prospect of attending Ethan’s welcome party. After Aidan dropped him off and went to park the Chevelle, Jamie stood on the sidewalk outside the AD’s giant brick colonial, unwilling to enter. Pretending to be a coach on the court was one thing. There he felt like he at least knew what he was doing, like he wasn’t a complete fraud. Pretending to be a coach at a party full of donors, swindling them out of their money, was a whole different story.
“I told you to go on inside while I parked the Chevelle,” Aidan said, rounding the corner at a trot, his pale cheeks rosy. “It’s fucking freezing.”
The chill outside couldn’t touch the cold spreading through Jamie’s veins. He stared blankly ahead, up the walk toward the brightly lit house. “I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can.” Aidan led him off the sidewalk and into the shadow of a huge oak tree. “Marcus, Riley and Press beat Blake’s crew in that scrimmage today. I think they can win it all without them. You want that, don’t you?”
Jamie nodded. “They’re good. They’ve got a shot. The whole team shouldn’t be punished because Blake’s a greedy idiot.”
“Then we’re going to go in there and make that happen.”
So certain, in the job and the cover.
“How do you do it? Switch back and forth so easily.”
Aidan waved a hand at his smart-casual appearance—wind-blown auburn hair, checkered scarf artfully draped around his neck, fitted wool overcoat cinched tight. He looked as comfortable in Ian’s attire as he did in Aidan’s three-piece suits. “Ian’s just a cover, like any other cover I’ve assumed for a case.” Stepping closer, he lowered his voice and laid a gloved hand over his chest. “I know who I am. Aidan Talley. Widower, son, brother, uncle, godfather, surly Irish ex-pat.” He grinned. “FBI field agent and Jameson Walker’s partner.”
Jamie tried to return the gesture but failed, his smile nearly as weak as his knees, made so by Aidan’s words and the daunting situation. “But Whiskey isn’t just a cover. He’s part of me. He—I—could have had this life.”
Aidan’s long, slow exhale formed a cloud of mist in the frigid air between them. “You still can.”
Stomach protesting, Jamie closed his eyes and rested back against the tree trunk, heedless of the bark making a mess of his hair.
“Save it for later,” Aidan said. “For now, don’t think of Agent Walker and Whiskey Walker as two separate identities.”
Brow furrowed, Jamie righted his gaze. “But you just said—”
Aidan lifted a hand, stretched it toward his face, then stopped. All day, outside the company of others, he’d referred to him as “Walker” and kept his hands to himself, respecting his demand of last night. Jamie fucking hated it. He’d needed that space then, wrung out and exhausted as he’d been by the too long day full of surprises. And he’d needed to get the remnants of anger at Aidan out of his system, but now he needed him close, needed his touch, needed his “Jamie.” Partner, friend, lover—whatever Aidan could give—to help steady him while his life spun out of control.
As if sensing his desperation, Aidan let the trailing hand land on his lapel instead, right over his tattoo, and the heat from his hand warmed through leather and wool, centering Jamie. “You’re still Agent Walker,” Aidan said, holding his gaze. “But you’re going to go in there and do your Whiskey Walker thing. You’re going to smile, you’re going to schmooze, right through that crowd so we can get to Ethan’s computer, deactivate the kill switch, get what we need to close this case and protect your players. Make sure they get a chance.” He pressed more firmly and Jamie lifted his own gloved hand, laying it over Aidan’s. “Marcus at the draft, Riley at State, Press during tomorrow’s game. Protect and serve.”
Laughter bubbled out of Jamie. “That’s the LAPD’s motto.”
Aidan smirked, his autumn eyes dancing.
“Fucking Michael Mann.” He clutched Aidan’s hand tighter, belying his dramatic annoyance. “Thank you.”
Aidan’s smirk smoothed into a warm, confident smile. “Ready, partner?”
“Ready.”
Aidan’s words, even the ridiculous ones, carried Jamie through the next hour. Through Ethan and Chancellor Polk parading him around like a show dog. Through recounting his player glory days with nearly everyone. Through shop-talk with Turner and one of his former Carolina coaches in attendance.
He endured each posturing handshake, each forced smile, each interminable conversation, while Aidan slipped in and out of the main party area, scoping out the rest of the house. He’d return to his side every few minutes, whispering that another room or wing of the house was clear. When he disappeared for an extended period, Jamie began to worry until Aidan strolled down the main stairs, arm in arm with Ethan. He’d put himself back together well enough for the casual observer, but one glance and Jamie knew exactly what he’d been doing with the AD.
His stomach revolted and the roar of blood in his ears muted the surrounding noise. Gazes locked, he was too angry to interpret the message in Aidan’s.
“Whiskey,” Ethan said, “are you having as much fun as I am?”
Gritting his teeth, Jamie locked his jaw and forced back the venom on the tip of his tongue. “Tons,” he managed, voice leaving no doubt as to the opposite.
Ethan eyed him with alarm, whether for himself or CU’s boosters, who were easing back, Jamie didn’t know or care.
“How about some drinks?” Aidan said, distracting the target of his rage.
Taking stock of the skittish, perhaps offended, boosters, Ethan quickly put his car-salesman smile back in place. “Yes, we’ll toast to the finalized contract,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear, then under his breath, only loud enough for the three of them, added to Aidan, “Get your client in line.”
As Ethan was swallowed by the excited crowd, accepting congratulatory handshakes and backslaps, Aidan steered Jamie into the foyer.
“Nothing happened.”
Jamie glared, at the ruffled hair, dilated pupils, and plumped lips. “I know what you look like when you’ve been kissed.”
“Nothing happened except a kiss,” Aidan corrected, and Jamie growled. He had no right to be angry—they were over—but last night Aidan had said he wasn’t interested in Ethan. “Cover, Walker, remember? Ethan caught me in his office upstairs. I had to pretend I was there to discuss your contract.”
“And you celebrated with a kiss?”
“I distracted him with a kiss when he asked if I watched him enter his password, which by the way is, bluedevils1, all lower case.”
Jamie wrinkled his nose. “I didn’t think it was possible to hate him more.”
“Yeah, well, get in line.” Aidan wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, and Jamie understood the message in his eyes from before. Disgust, and a commitment to the job in spite of it. “Get upstairs. Third door on the right.”
“I’ll be back in five, ten at most.” He turned for the marble staircase and was stopped short by Aidan’s fingers around his wrist.
“Keep your phone in view. I’ll text if anyone heads up.” Aidan squeezed, heat blistering skin, then with a nod, released his hand and faded into the crowd.
Jamie took the stairs two at a time as he coached his brain back into agent-mode. He had limited time to deactivate the kill switch and copy the files they needed, if they were on Ethan’s computer. If Ethan was even involved. This whole plan, their investigation, hinged on the AD’s complicity. Jamie didn’t doubt he was dirty; the question was, how dirty.
Steps muffled in the carpeted hallway, Jamie hustled to the study door. Closing it behind him, he scanned the room, locating the desk and computer. Before sitting behind it, he opened the interior door on the adjacent wall, revealing an attached bath that led to another bedroom. Perfect escape route. Leaving the getaway doors open, he returned to the desk, booted up the computer, and entered the password Aidan had spied.
Searching through the file directory, he hit pay dirt on the fifth folder. Program files for the gambling portal. He opened the program and smiled when Ethan’s username and password auto-filled. Idiot. At a minimum, he was a user. Jamie logged in, then hacked the program’s code, neutralizing the kill switch that had been crudely programmed to sync to the countdown clock. It would appear to the coconspirators that their program was still counting down, but the kill switch wouldn’t actually activate, fooling them long enough to give him and Aidan a chance to gather evidence and trace the program’s source.
That done, Jamie inserted a flash drive and made a copy of the program files. He next searched for the spyware. If buried deep, where a user wouldn’t normally find them, then maybe the AD was just a victim. Doubtful. If the spyware files were readily accessible, though...
Jamie’s phone vibrated on the desktop.
GET OUT, NOW, read the text from Aidan.
Jamie halted, ear cocked toward the door. The second floor remained silent. He had at least another minute and an escape route ready. He continued clicking through directories. Nothing, but if the gambling program was here, the spyware ghost had to be as well. He searched every likely file name and extension. He was scanning the results when another text appeared.
INCOMING. GTFO NOW.
Pushing back from the desk, he leaned over the computer and read faster. Three lines from the bottom—an encrypted file—that had to be it. He copied it onto to the flash drive, ripped the stick out of the computer, and pocketed it with his phone.
The knob turned.
The door pushed opened.
He wiped the computer’s history, closed the search window, and bolted for the bathroom door.
“Jamie?”
He froze, one hand on the knob.
Fuck.
Hand sliding off, Jamie turned and laid eyes on the person who kept showing up at the worst possible moments. “Derrick, what are you doing here?”
Dressed in charcoal slacks and a black sweater, his ex looked like an angelic harbinger of doom. Sounded like it too with his next declaration. “I live here.”
Jamie struggled for words. “Excuse me?”
Derrick nodded toward the window. “In the guest house, on the grounds. Ethan rents it out.” His eyes swept the study before landing back on Jamie. “What are you doing here?”
Breathe. Think. Cover.
“I needed to get away from the crowd downstairs.”
“It’s a bit much. Ethan’s parties always are.”
“I should get back.” He started for the hallway door, and Derrick leaned back, closing it.
“You said you needed to get away.” He folded his arms and crossed his ankles. “So stay, Jamie, and tell me what’s wrong?”
Go with the truth, or as much of it as possible. Easier than spinning a lie. That’s what they taught in Academy. But what to do when the truth wasn’t easy either? He backpedaled to the front of the desk, fingers curling around the molded wood edge. “Being back on the court, back in this life, is harder than I thought.” Two days and the second-guessing merry-go-round had spun him dizzy. And here he was, on it again with Derrick.
“I know what you mean.” Derrick pushed off the door, crossed the room, and sat next to him. “Maneuvering through the crowd downstairs was surreal, like a highlight reel past and present. I saw Coach McGhee. First time since the day after you won the second championship. You remember that morning?”
Jamie smiled, recalling everything about that week. It had been the best in his twenty-one-year-old life. The game, the second title, the welcome home party. “It was what, four in the morning, when we landed at RDU?”
“To a crowd of adoring fans.”
“I can’t believe that many people showed up.”
“If they were like me, they hadn’t slept the night before.”
Neither had he on the flight home, too keyed up from the win. “It was a good night.”
“And morning.” Derrick peered up at him through thick lashes, his eyes hot and cheeks red.
Remembering that morning, Jamie felt his face heat as well. Derrick had waited off to the side and Jamie had broken away long enough to bang his boyfriend in the car in a dark corner of the parking garage.
“You haven’t returned my texts.” Derrick slid closer, their arms brushing. His presence and warmth were so familiar, despite the eight years’ absence. “I didn’t mean to surprise you tonight.”
Jamie had ignored the messages. He didn’t need the extra dizzying rounds, and Aidan had been right. Derrick carried a torch, and it blazed bright tonight. “You could have said in your texts that you’d be here.”
“But then you might not have come.” He lifted a hand and traced the shell of Jamie’s ear with his fingertips—just like he’d done that long-ago morning in the car. Jamie trembled. “And I might not have gotten the chance.”
“What chance?”
“To do this.”
Delicate fingers curled lightly around his neck and drew Jamie down. His lips met Derrick’s in a slow, gentle kiss. Lulled into nostalgia, Jamie expected the kiss to feel like home. Derrick still tasted like spring, even in the dead of winter, and he kissed with the same sweet shyness that had attracted Jamie all those years ago. But there was no blinding need, no lingering coffee or whiskey taste, no layers of darkness and light.
It wasn’t the kiss he wanted.
Jamie jerked away, then tempered his abrupt withdrawal with a hand on Derrick’s face. “I can’t.”
Luminous hazel eyes stared back at him. “There’s someone else?”
