Kitabı oku: «Evie Ever After», sayfa 4

“The Chameleon Club’s north.”

I flashed on The Kid’s phone call. My gut said this was about Beckett. I reached in the backseat, grabbed my tote bag and dug out my phone. “I’ll call Fannie and let her know the gig went great and that I’ll return the costume later today.”

“Good idea.”

“Oh, wait.” I squinted at the screen of my phone. “I think I have a text message. I don’t know how—”

Arch nabbed my cell, punched a couple of buttons and handed it back.

“Thanks.” I read the abbreviated text. “It’s from Nic. All it says is that Jayne’s okay and that she’ll call me later. Why didn’t she call with more of an update?”

“I can think of a couple of reasons. Neither cause for panic.”

“In other words, don’t borrow trouble.”

“Aye.”

Speaking of trouble…“So what’s the unexpected news?”

Fighting traffic, Arch cast me a quick look. “Mad Dog’s dead.”

CHAPTER SIX

THE CHAMELEON CLUB WAS LOCATED in Atlantic City’s Inlet. Only not in the newly renovated section. And though it was situated on the boardwalk, it faced the bay instead of the ocean and was a goodly distance from the casinos and souvenir tourist traps. Let’s just say I wouldn’t walk around this area after dark. Even during the day, I held my purse close and watched for muggers and drunks. No wonder Nic and Jayne had flipped when I told them I’d been hired to sing full-time in this, well—calling a spade a spade—dive.

Arch veered into the pothole-ridden parking lot and I had visions of car thieves lurking in the abandoned building a block down. “Isn’t there a nearby garage or a secret place like the Bat Cave where you can park this thing?”

“No.”

“What if we come out and all of the tires are gone?”

“I’ll buy new ones.”

“What if the car is gone?”

“Jazzman’s fine.”

“I wasn’t talking about Beckett.”

“But you’re thinking aboot him, yeah?”

I didn’t bother to lie. Arch would know. “Aren’t you?”

“Aye.”

He didn’t elaborate. I didn’t press. He’d tried calling Beckett twice since receiving the news of Mad Dog’s death. Both calls had rolled to voice mail.

On the ride over my imagination had soared. Arch had no information other than Frank Turner had been found dead this morning in his home, the seeming victim of a burglary. So I’d filled in the blanks, creating two or three different scenarios. Surely Beckett hadn’t killed the man and if he did, it must have been in self-defense only why then would he cover it up? Only maybe he didn’t cover it up. Maybe the cops were mistaken. Or maybe it was a straight up burglary and the thieves—not Beckett—killed Mad Dog. Yeah. That was it. Only I kept going, relaying the plot of a classic caper flick, to which Arch responded, “This is real life, not a movie, yeah?”

Which was his way of telling me to stuff a sock in it.

I’d clammed up after that, until now that is. “Wait,” I said as he helped me out of his spiffy car. “I have to get out of this costume.” Even though Arch had cranked up the air, I was soaked to the skin and itchy. Unfortunately, I tend to break out in a rash when I’m nervous or anxious, although it’s usually confined to my neck and chest. This was a full body itch so I guess that meant I was ultranervous about Beckett.

Arch tugged down the back zipper. I shimmied out of the gorilla suit, sighing when a breeze hit my sweaty skin.

He peered at me over the rim of his sunglasses. “Now that’s sexy.”

He was looking at my chest.

I glanced down, not getting a straight on view like him, but I could imagine. Initially, I’d been wearing layers, only I knew I’d be hot in the ape suit, so I’d peeled off the long-sleeved T-shirt, leaving my pale pink tank top. It was soaked and so was my sheer bra. I met his appreciative gaze. “So can you see my…you know.”

“Nipples?” He quirked his first grin in several minutes then reached into his backseat and produced a denim jacket.

“Thanks.” I didn’t care that it was too big for me. Through twists of fate it seemed someone, somewhere was always getting a peek at my boobs. So far everyone on the team except…No, wait. Everyone on the team had seen my boobs. I didn’t want to think about it.

Arch lit up a cigarette and I marveled for the zillionth time how I could possibly find the nasty habit sexy. I guess it’s because it accentuated his bad-boy persona. It also stunk up the air and blackened his lungs. Lungs I cared about more and more, along with every other organ and limb of the man’s hunky body.

“You should really think about giving those things up.”

“Noted.”

“And?”

“Thinking aboot it.”

I rolled my eyes. Conversation with Arch wasn’t always easy. But I wasn’t daunted. After all, I’d been married to a man who spoke in circles for a living. As an agent, Michael had to appease both artist and buyer which often led to embellishing, twisting, and spinning his words. Sometimes the best approach was to leave off and come back to the subject later. In some ways, Michael had been a valuable training ground for Arch. Weird, but true.

We fell into mutual silence—Arch smoking, me scratching—as we made our way up the wooden steps and onto the boardwalk. Waves lapped at the shore. The sun beamed in a clear blue sky. A beautiful spring day, except for the cloud of doom I imagined hovering over the club.

Arch snuffed his Marlboro then steered me through the front door. As my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, I flashed on the disappointment I’d experienced the first time I’d entered this run-down building. I’d expected a super spy facility, not a dingy bar that looked like it hadn’t been modernized since the 1950s. It even had a beat-up cigarette machine and a jukebox. The pictures on the faded walls featured singers and musicians from days gone by. The only artists I recognized were Miles Davis and Billie Holiday. Then again, unlike Beckett, I wasn’t a big fan of jazz. You can imagine my shock when I was told it’s the only kind of music he allows in this joint. I sing pop, rock, country, disco and R and B. I do not sing jazz.

Although, I’d have to take a stab at it. When not in the field, Beckett expected me to perform here. A cover job of sorts. Just as this bar was a cover for Chameleon. Never mind that there wasn’t a stage and that the mini sound system had been appropriated by Tabasco. At least it was better than flipping burgers in the kitchen. Maybe.

I hugged myself, scratching at my itchy skin through the sleeves of the jacket as Arch and I bypassed vacant tables and targeted the bar. Business wasn’t exactly booming. Then again it was only one in the afternoon. I was pretty certain the two barflies buzzing over their draft beers were the same two geezers I’d seen in here during my last visit.

The bartender, an elderly dark-skinned gentleman with a fondness for vests and porkpie hats, was the team member who oversaw the club when Beckett was in the field. His name was Samuel Vine, but everyone called him Pops. He had a deep, soulful voice that seemed two sizes too big for his wiry body. Pops was also a man of few words. I didn’t know his background, but I’m thinking he and Beckett went way back. Unlike Arch, he didn’t hide his emotions. Clearly, he was rattled. Even so, he forced a smile and addressed me first.

“Welcome home, Twinkie.”

Unfortunately, everyone on the team, except Arch, had picked up on my unwanted moniker. Fortunately, I’d grown used to it. “Thanks, Pops.”

“Your ma and pa okay now?”

“Happily reunited. Thanks to…” I started to say Chameleon then remembered the barflies. “Friends.”

“Good. That’s good.” His gaze flicked to the man beside me. “Ace,” he said, gripping Arch’s hand.

Arch squeezed the man’s shoulder, smiled, and the old man relaxed a little. “Heard from Jazzman?” Arch asked.

Pops leaned in and lowered his voice. “All I know is he got hauled in by the AIA. Told me he’d be in touch later. That was—” he glanced at his Timex “—three hours ago.”

I scratched my neck, my chest.

“Others are in The Cave,” Pops said then moved back to his cronies.

Arch took my hand and pulled me aside. “Maybe you should wait here.”

“Why?”

“From the way you’re scratching, I’m not sure you can handle whatever’s going on, Sunshine.”

Of all the…“I can handle it!”

“Calm down,” Arch said with a glance to the patrons. All two of them.

“I can handle it,” I whispered through clenched teeth. “This isn’t a nervous rash. I’ve never broken out on my arms before. I think it’s a reaction to that monkey suit. The fur or whatever Fannie cleaned it with. I don’t know.”

“Right then. You should shower.”

“I will. As soon as I get home.”

“Now. Upstairs.”

“Beckett’s shower?”

“Aye.”

“Forget it.”

“He’s not there.”

“I don’t care.” No way, no how was I getting naked in Beckett’s apartment. I’d been there. Done that. Almost. Thanks to ODing on a combo of over the counter medication. “I’m fine. Really. Let’s go.”

He didn’t look or sound exasperated, but I’d wager I’d taxed his patience. “Fine,” he said then steered me to a storage room.

My pulse accelerated as we navigated the jam-packed room and pushed through a concealed door. A set of creaky stairs led to the basement. A low-wattage bulb illuminated a washer and dryer and a freezer. Workout equipment. Tools. Crates of liquor and soda. All perfectly normal. Well, except for the appliances. The avocado finish screamed early 70s. Hello, Brady Bunch. The old-as-dirt dryer was probably a fire hazard. The ancient wiring couldn’t be that safe, either. I immediately redirected my basement inferno thoughts.

I’d only been down here once before. But I knew Arch had to swing aside a wall clock to get to a security pad. Unlike Pops he didn’t ask me to turn away when he punched in the code. Which intimated trust. Which gave me a warm fuzzy feeling. If only it would heal the itching sensation driving me batty.

Just as I knew it would, a wall slid open revealing The Cave. The super spy facility I’d imagined only it was hidden behind shelves of canned pretzels and assorted nuts.

I don’t know why they called it The Cave. It didn’t look like a cave. It looked like a state-of-the-art recording studio. Acoustic tiles. Plush carpeting. Leather furniture. A console of visual and audio gadgets.

A techno-geek’s dream. Speaking of…

“I dug like you said, Ace, but I didn’t get much,” Woody said as we entered the room and the wall slid shut behind us.

The Kid, as everyone except me called him, was sitting alongside Tabasco at the console tapping away at one of three computers. The two men couldn’t look more opposite.

Woody had a pasty complexion, scraggly hair, and a sparse beard. Skinny as a rail, early twenties—a dead ringer for Scooby-Doo’s Shaggy. He’d had one girlfriend and he’d lost her. It didn’t help that he was a social train wreck.

Tabasco probably had a girlfriend or two in every state. Any woman who’d ever drooled over Antonio Banderas would drool over Jimmy Tabasco. Same sexy, Latin lover vibe. Plus, he was sweet.

Tabasco’s official role with Chameleon was dual: Transportation Specialist and Location Scout. But he was also pretty savvy with tech gear. Last night he’d worked alongside Woody in the high-tech surveillance van, spying on Mad Dog’s poker game. Since the players weren’t allowed to have guests, Arch (as the Baron of Broxley) had sent me back to our hotel, only I’d stopped the cab a block down and had backtracked, slipping inside the undercover van to view the sting over Woody’s and Tabasco’s shoulders. Being on the outside looking in wasn’t where I wanted to be, but it was better than being in the dark. Due to strategically hidden cameras, Tabasco, Woody, and I had a prime view of every player and their cards via multiple monitors. Due to transmitting and receiving body wires, we had full audio contact. Between Arch and Gina, who were both in the game, Mad Dog never stood a chance even with his luminous contact lenses and marked cards.

“The only reason CNN picked up the story,” said Tabasco, “is because Mad Dog was a former pro football player.”

“Otherwise we wouldn’t have learned the news so soon,” Woody said. “A burglary that resulted in homicide. Local news stuff.”

Just then Gina emerged from another room with a cup of coffee. Without a word she perched on the cushy leather sofa and thumbed through a stack of newspapers. She barely spared us a glance. I wasn’t surprised. She hated that I was sleeping with Arch. I hated that she’d slept with Arch (something I’d learned from my meddling ex-husband). Arch, who’d refused to apologize to me for past affairs (which when I thought about it logically was, well, logical) was nevertheless sensitive to my discomfort. Hence, he’d been treating Gina with cool indifference. I was starting to feel bad about that. Especially, when I put myself in her shoes. I could fully sympathize with the plight of the woman scorned.

“Hacked into the local law’s computer system,” said Woody. “The initial report looks routine, though sketchy. Cops must be frustrated as all get out. No physical evidence. No clue as to the identity of the assailant.”

“Yet,” Tabasco said.

“Pull up that report for me, Kid.” Arch moved to the console.

I scratched. I needed a distraction from the itching that was only getting worse. Eying the stack of newspapers, I sucked it up and sat down next to Gina. Not right next to her, but close enough to make her frown.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Looking for any mention of ‘Mad Dog.’ Doubt there’ll be one since most of these papers went to press last night, but it’s worth a look. Also keeping my eye trained for any blips about Senator Clark or Vincent Crowe. Anything at all.”

“Can I help?”

I thought I heard her sigh, only Gina wasn’t the sighing type. She reminded me of Nic—independent, cynical, worldly. She also resembled my friend in appearance, only her skin was paler and her eyes were brown. But she exuded the same sensuality. Had the same tall, slender but toned body. Except Nic was nice and Gina was mean. Okay. Maybe not mean. But definitely bitter. Again, I could relate.

She passed me the Philadelphia Inquirer without comment and I felt another twinge of guilt. Maybe if I tried harder we could strike some kind of truce. The tension I’d created between Arch and Beckett was bad enough.

Determined to fit in, I scanned the newspaper, every section, every page, every article. Meanwhile I listened to the men discuss the timeline and where they thought Beckett would have/should have been and what, if anything, could have gone wrong.

I didn’t point out that I had made similar conjectures just minutes ago in Arch’s car. I skimmed the paper and scratched, silently congratulating myself for thinking on their level.

Gina looked over her shoulder at Arch. “The Kid said you spoke with Jazzman this morning. How did he sound?”

“Tired.”

“What did he say?”

“Mission complete.”

“His part of the mission,” Gina said, “was to make Turner disappear.”

“Not literally!” I snapped. “He was just supposed to make him, you know, go away. Split the country. Change his identity and never mention the senator’s wife’s gambling problem or else—” I scratched my cheek “—something. He didn’t kill Mad Dog,” I grumbled while scratching my arms.

“Preaching to the choir, Sunshine. We’re all on Beckett’s side.” Arch sounded calm. No surprise there.

Tabasco sounded calm, but his attitude needed work. “I have a sinking feeling we’re going to be linked to Mad Dog’s death.”

“Agent Beckett did say he had a bad feeling about this case right off,” Woody added.

“I want to know why the AIA pulled him in,” Arch said, “and why he hasn’t returned our calls.”

“What’s with the red blotches on your face, Twinkie?”

I glanced up and saw Gina staring at me with—here’s a shocker—concern. I experienced a full body blush. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve been acting like a dog with fleas ever since you walked in,” Woody said.

I realized then that I was scratching like a loon. My arms. My neck and chest. My face. Yet there was no relief from the incessant itching that felt as though it had wiggled beneath my skin. I felt irritable and anxious, and okay, a little scared. “Stupid gorilla suit!”

“What?” Gina laughed but she still looked concerned.

Arch moved around and crouched in front of me just as I yanked off his jacket in order to scratch my bare arms.

“Shite.”

“Shit,” Gina echoed. “That’s a serious allergy attack, Arch. Get her to a doctor.”

My eyes widened. “What? No. I’m okay. Really. I want to help you guys help Beckett.”

“Nothing we can do right now,” said Tabasco. “Jesus, babe, you’re covered in hives.”

The Kid stood in front of me shaking his head. “You look awful.”

“You always manage to say the worst thing possible,” I snapped, because he did, but not on purpose. “I’m sorry, Woody. I…” I felt an anxiety attack coming on.

“Come on, lass.” Arch pulled me off the sofa and into his arms.

I was going to die of embarrassment. I was going to die period. The itching was unbearable. But even as he carried me from the room I thought about Jayne. “What about Madame Helene?” I asked Arch. “You promised—”

“Tabasco.”

“Yeah?”

“I need to you to check up on a local psychic,” Arch said. “Madame Helene. I want to know her game.”

“Will do.”

“Kid. Gina. Call me if you learn anything more or hear from Jazzman, yeah?”

They said, “Sure,” as Arch whisked me up the stairs.

I clung and fought not to hyperventilate. I couldn’t think straight. I’d never been so physically miserable in my life. Except maybe when I had the chicken pox, but that was a faded childhood memory. Even the concussion I’d suffered in the Caribbean because of the Simon the Fish fiasco paled.

I scratched even though Arch told me not to, even though it didn’t help.

Two minutes later, he placed me in his car.

I closed my eyes to stave off tears. “I’m going to die.”

Arch kissed my forehead and buckled me in. “Not in my lifetime, lass.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

MILO SAT IN THE RENTAL CAR, staring up at her condo. “You’re a glutton for punishment, Beckett.” They weren’t on the best of terms. Hell, she didn’t even like him. Still, he’d driven here instead of home. Somehow, he knew she’d make him feel better. Or at least she wouldn’t object if he drank himself blind.

He’d been sitting here for fifteen minutes. “Screw it.”

He rang her up.

“Hello?”

“It’s Beckett.”

Silence.

“I know this is crazy, but…I need to drink and I don’t want to drink alone.”

“Call a friend.”

“My friends are my associates. Not up for that right now.”

She paused and when she spoke again her tone was less abrasive, but not much. “What’s wrong?”

“I’d rather talk about it over Scotch.”

Silence.

His throbbing temples charged him a fool. His judgment had been off lately. Coming here was just another example. “Never mind.”

“No, wait.” She blew out a breath. “It’s five o’clock somewhere, right? I’ll meet you at The Irish Pub.”

“Your place,” he countered.

“Not comfortable with that.”

“Neither am I, but I’d appreciate it.”

“Well, damn, Slick.” Another curse, then, “I live at—”

“I know.” He knocked on the door.

A beat later it swung open and he was looking at Nicole Sparks. A lush-lipped beauty with a bad attitude. Nine days ago, she’d threatened to make his life hell if he ever hurt her friend Evie. She was an outspoken, pushy, skeptical pain in the ass. Seeing her again only convoluted his emotions.

What the fuck was he doing here?

His cock twitched in answer.

Easy, Mr. Happy. You don’t want to go there. Okay. Maybe you do, but I don’t.

The warm air sparked with mutual hostility as they sized up one another on the threshold of her third-story condo. He knew he looked bad. His lip was split and swollen. He hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours. He needed a shave and his suit was rumpled.

She, on the other hand, looked chic in her slim-fitting pants and tailored blouse—black, like her long, glossy hair. Her unusual coloring—mocha skin, jade-green eyes—gave her an exotic look that solicited erotic images. He attributed his unwanted hard-on to her potent sexuality and his pathetic love life. It sure wasn’t based on healthy desire. Nic was a threatening storm to Evie’s hopeful rainbow. Not to mention she was Evie’s best friend. The dynamics of his relationships with friends and associates was already screwed. Like he needed to add another twist. Nicole Sparks was trouble on several levels and Milo didn’t want any part of her.

Yet here he was.

“Awfully sure of yourself, Slick.”

“Just optimistic.”

“You mean desperate.” She quirked a brow. “What happened to your lip?”

“Walked into a fist.”

“That fist belong to anyone I know?”

“No.”

“Arch didn’t lose his cool and pop you one for—”

“No.” He took off his sunglasses and nailed her with weary eyes. “Are you going to let me in or not?”

She waved him inside and he tried not to stare at her ass when she led him through the foyer into a spacious living room. Tried and failed.

She turned and crossed her arms over her equally enticing breasts. “I don’t have any Scotch.”

His gaze caressed her curves then locked on her killer eyes. “I’ll take whatever you’ve got.”

“I’m not going to sleep with you, Beckett.”

“Awfully sure of yourself.”

“I know a come-on when I hear it and a hard-on when I see it.” Before he could respond she slipped into the kitchen. “How do you feel about vodka?”

“Same as I feel about you. I can tolerate it.”

He heard her laugh. A throaty sound that only heightened his predicament. He took off his jacket, adjusted himself then settled on the plush red couch. He rubbed a crick from his neck while noting the impeccably decorated room. So the pain in the ass had a flair for design. Classy taste. Designer taste. He wondered how she afforded it. As far as he knew, she made her living solely as an entertainer and according to Evie, times were tough.

She returned with a full bottle of Absolut Citron. Lemon-flavored vodka. Not a drink of choice, but just now he’d settle for Boone’s Farm. She sank down beside him and set two glasses on the gleaming cocktail table.

“Given your mood, figured you’d want it straight.”

“Good call.”

“I know you made a pass at Evie and that she opted for Arch,” she said straight out. “If this is some sort of rebound—”

“It’s not.”

“Because I’ve been through that more than once and—”

“This isn’t about Evie.” He poured, thinking, not for the first time, a wounded heart beat beneath Nicole’s tough facade. He wondered if she’d ever let her guard down with him. Probably not. Which was probably for the best. “I didn’t want to be around people I know—well, that is—and I didn’t want to be alone.”

Her eyes softened as she raised her glass in a toast. “What are we drinking to?” she asked.

“Me being fucked.”

She stiffened.

“Not by you, sweetheart. By my own people.”

“The AIA?”

“You know about the Agency?”

“Evie told me. Don’t worry. I know it’s…how did she put it? Big-time hush-hush.”

He smiled a little. “She does have a way with words.”

“Your secret’s safe with me, Slick.”

“I believe you, Nicole.”

“Most people call me Nic.”

“Most people call me Milo.”

“When I was a kid we had a dog named Milo.” She smiled when he grunted, then angled in and tucked her bare feet beneath that fine ass. “Just how big is this bureaucratic shaft?”

“I’ve been accused of murder.”

The smile slipped. “That’s big.”

They slammed back two fingers of vodka in tandem.

“Knew I came to the right place,” Milo said. Jury was out on who had drank who under the table the last, and only other time, they’d shared a bottle.

Nic refilled their glasses, chewing over his revelation.

“Aren’t you going to ask if I did it?”

“Did you?”

“Apparently so, though not by design.” He still couldn’t believe it, even after seeing the digital recording. He didn’t want to believe it. Didn’t want to feel the doubt and guilt clawing at his gut. He popped two Tylenol and slammed back a second shot.

“What does that mean?” she asked. “Apparently so.”

“When I left the scene, he was still alive.”

“So he died after.”

“Soon after.”

“Because of something you did.”

Milo nodded. “Apparently so.”

Nic watched him with a calm, cool gaze and sipped. “What does your partner say about this?”

“I haven’t told Arch yet. The incident took place around 2:00 a.m. I just learned about the unfortunate outcome a few hours ago when a pair of agents met me at the airport and escorted me to HQ.”

“Since you’re free, obviously there wasn’t enough evidence to hold you.”

“I’m free, because the Agency tampered with the crime scene. Made it look like a burglary. Trust me. The victim’s death will go unsolved.”

Nic frowned. “Wait a minute. Your people discovered the body? How’s that possible? Unless…were they there as backup?”

“They were there, unbeknownst to me, to make sure I didn’t screw up. Which, it seems, I did.”

“So they covered your ass. They compromised a crime scene, on purpose, which means they broke the law. Why would they do that? They’re federal agents for chrissakes.”

“Surely you, of all people, aren’t that naive.”

She angled her head. “Protecting one of their own?”

“So Crowe, my boss, says. He’s also protecting a certain politician.”

“You don’t sound sold on your boss’s motive.”

“I’m not.”

“Who’s the politician?”

“Can’t say.” He looked away and poured more vodka.

“Privileged information, huh?”

“Sorry.”

She shrugged, sipped. “How do those agents know for sure that you caused this person’s death? Did they spy through the windows with super-spook binoculars? Slip a bug in your shoe?”

Milo’s lip twitched. “For a second there, you sounded like Evie.” He sipped vodka to drown out thoughts of the overimaginative half-pint. He focused back on his dilemma and Nic’s question. “Spying was involved, yes. But more damning…”

“What?”

“Let’s just say they have hard evidence.”

“That sounds bad.”

“It is.”

They fell into mutual silence, drank more vodka. Milo could hear Nic’s thoughts churning. “Just an observation,” she said, “but given your background and training in law enforcement, seems you’d know whether or not what you did was intense enough to cause death. Apparently so says you’re surprised. No offense, but this whole thing sounds like a grade B thriller. Maybe I’ve watched too many documentaries on conspiracy theories, but…any chance you’re being framed, Slick?”

Damn, she was cynical. A quality he normally found off-putting in a woman. But there was nothing normal about this moment and he appreciated the benefit of the doubt. “The thought crossed my mind. Although I’m not sure how—”

“Forget the how. Why would the AIA frame you?”

“To keep me under their thumb. Maybe. I’m not a company man and Crowe is a control freak. On the other hand, could be wishful thinking on my part.”

“What if it’s not? What if there’s some elaborate plan and you’re the pawn?”

“Nicole—”

“Grow some balls, Slick. Buck the system. Investigate. Fight back.”

He’d been bucking the system for years. Bucking the system is what had brought him to this point. “I need to sleep on this,” he said honestly. “Only I can’t. My mind won’t shut down. It’s not just this. It’s…a lot of things.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay.” She pulled a remote out of a mosaic box and turned on a thirty-two-inch plasma television. Nice. “Sports, news, sitcom or a movie?” she asked as she surfed channels.

“Anything but the news.”

She messed with her TiVo and settled on The History Channel. He didn’t know Nic well, but he knew she favored documentaries over sitcoms. “Ever watch this series?” she asked. “Decoding the Past?”

“Nope.”

“This episode is of particular interest to me,” she said. “Past U.S. Presidents who consulted psychics. Abe Lincoln, Woodrow Wilson, Franklin D. Roosevelt. Goes to show anyone can fall for that mystical bullshit, right?”

He cut her a glance, wondering at the hostility in her tone. Namely because it wasn’t directed at him. “Right.”

“Make yourself comfortable, Beckett. If you can’t sleep, you can at least rest.”

He didn’t argue. The vodka was already taking effect. Smoothing the edges, slowing his thoughts. He’d been awake now—he glanced at his watch—thirty-seven hours.

“Think you should call someone and let them know you’re okay?” Nic asked as she twisted her long hair into a loose braid.

He tried not to admire her stunning bone structure. Tried and failed. “Probably.” Especially since he had numerous voice messages from Arch, Pops, and Woody. Arch was probably with Evie and that was a road he didn’t want to travel just now. The less he thought about those two together, the better. He called Pops.

“Tell me you’re not in jail, son.”

Milo frowned. “Why would you think that?”

“We heard about Turner.”

“How?”

“CNN.”

“Killing the guy wasn’t part of the plan, Pops.”

“Course not.”

“Tell the team…” He rubbed his eyes, blew out a breath. “Tell them I need some time alone. Tell them to meet me tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock. You know the place.”

“You comin’ home tonight?”

Milo glanced at Nic who’d drawn shut the curtains of the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Depends.”

“Take care, Jazzman.”

“Always.” He thumbed the cell to vibrate then slipped it in his jacket pocket. If it went off, he wouldn’t feel it. A few more shots of vodka, and he wouldn’t feel anything.

“Thought it might help you relax if it was darker in here,” Nic said as she settled back on the couch.