I throw back a double scotch on the rocks, grimacing when it burns my throat. I’m not a fan of hard liquor, but I figured it would make my ploy more authentic if I drank along with Isabelle and Harlow, Isabelle’s friend. I nursed my first drink to make it seem like I’ve had four or five, but Isabelle is too close to brush-off the watery contents my earlier glass had.
“I forgot how much that burns.” When Isabelle giggles, I remember that twenty-six-years is a lot further away from the grave than how I generally perceive it. “Oh, do you think you can do better?” After signaling for the bunch of college kids swarming us to follow my lead, I say, “Chug, chug, chug.”
Tobias’s stubbornness burns through Isabelle’s impressive eyes when she succumbs to peer pressure. She downs the cocktail minus the screwed-up nose my face had when I threw back my drink, then curtsies the patrons applauding her gall. Her smile at their praise slams me with guilt. Just like me, I doubt she’s ever let go of the reins like this, but instead of encouraging her to enjoy her weekend off, I’m plowing her with drinks to end it earlier than necessary.
I wouldn’t if it weren’t for her own good.
With my brows waggling, I continue my mission without missing a beat. “Another?”
While shaking her head, the color drains from Isabelle’s cheeks. Taking that as a signal it’s time for us to go, I pivot around to place our glasses onto the bar before yanking my cell phone out of my pocket to call us a taxi. I’ve only had two glasses, but I don’t want to risk it. I don’t drink enough to challenge a DUI charge if I were suspected of driving over the limit.
I swear, I barely let Isabelle out of my sight for two seconds, yet she still vanishes. I know who has her. The stool at the end of the bar is noticeably empty, so my panic is nothing like you’d expect. I’m more pissed than anything.
After paying the bartender the exorbitant drink tab Isabelle, Harlow, and I amassed in almost two hours, I scope the area, seeking where Isaac has taken Isabelle. There’s radio silence from the surveillance team stationed in the corner of the club, so I know he hasn’t left. He must have sought somewhere private for them to chat.
An idea on their location is discovered when a middle-aged man with over-gelled hair rounds the corner of the washrooms. He’s an ideal candidate for a manager of a sleazy nightclub, and if his grumble about arrogant fuckfaces is anything to go by, I’m reasonably sure he just had a run-in with Isaac.
Isaac is almost as arrogant as my father, which is saying something. My father’s snootiness rose along with his bank balances and his age. The bank accounts the Bureau is aware of gives Isaac’s haughtiness some credit, but he’s only twenty-seven, so why the fuck does he act as if he runs this town?
My hope to conduct some private investigating is snagged when my soundless steps down the washroom corridor to the manager’s office at the end is spotted by a man I’d never forget. David Crombie is frozen halfway out of the men’s restroom. He’s stacked on a bit of weight since the last time I sat across from him, but I’d never forget his lazy eye, the family crest tattooed on his neck, and let’s not forget how his fingertips are always colored with ash thanks to his fascination with flames.
I curse myself for not carrying a weapon tonight when Crombie rams me into the wall before he bolts for the closest exit. I wouldn’t have shot him, but a bullet wound isn’t needed to take down weasels like him. Just drawing a gun would have had him hitting the deck, and then I wouldn’t have been forced to chase him down by foot.
As I break through a group of five partygoers Crombie burst through only seconds ago, I lift the cuff of my dress shirt to my mouth. “Agent James, code six with suspicious suspect at Lakers’ exit. Tailing him on foot.”
My earpiece crackles before one of the agents in the surveillance van tailing Isaac’s every move responds, “Copy. Do you require assistance?”
Before I can answer him, Crombie’s sprint comes to a dead stop, compliments of a plain-clothed officer coat-hanging him. How do I know he’s an officer if he is wearing everyday clothes? He has the walk of a law enforcement officer, not to mention the arrogance beaming out of him.
When Crombie hits the ground with a thud, the officer rolls him onto his stomach to frisk and handcuff him. I use the gap in time to update my crew. “Agent James, stand down. Suspect has been arrested.”
I wait for the man on the end of my connection to advise he heard my reply before tugging my earpiece out of my ear. The less I look on the job, the easier my conversation with the officer arresting Crombie will go. I hope.
After quietly bridging the gap between us, I ask, “What are you arresting him for?”
The dark-haired officer wearing designer jeans and a buttoned-up shirt stands Crombie to his feet before mashing his face with the brickwork outside of the club. I take a step back when he swings his government-issued pistol my way. “Stand down. This is no business of yours.”
“I’m a federal agent.” When he glares at me like he isn’t stupid, I roll my eyes. This is another reason I hate having a baby face. “I’m just moving for my credentials,” I assure him when my hunt for my wallet has his index finger creeping toward the trigger of his gun.
After flashing him my photo ID and badge like a real-life movie star, I retake the step I took back when he drew his gun on me. “Let me guess, suspected of arson?”
The dark-haired officer cocks his brow. “Old case?”
I shake my head. “No. He was before I joined the Bureau.” A grin tugs on my lips when Crombie’s throat works hard to swallow at my confession that I work for the FBI. I’m not surprised he didn’t miss my revelation. I increased the volume of my voice to ensure he couldn’t miss it. “He was given twelve years a little over six years ago.” I drop my eyes to Crombie’s face squished against a wall of bricks. “So how’d you get out so early?”
“Good behavior.” As unbelieving of his reply as I am, the unnamed officer yanks Crombie back before ramming him forward. The crack his face makes with the brickwork curls my lips into a smile. “All right, all right,” he garbles through the blood pooling in the corner of his mouth. “I pleaded out.”
He’s either trained to deceive, or he is telling the truth. His eyes didn’t shift to seek his imagination, and he’s only sweating because of my pursuit. Still, I’m shocked. He would have had to give something good to get his sentence reduced so dramatically.
“What information could you have possibly offered to have your sentence sliced in half?”
Crombie looks set to squeal like a nark but loses the chance when we’re surrounded by four black Lincoln Navigators. If the words shouted by the agents piling out of the vehicles hadn’t swallowed up his words, I’m sure the helicopter hovering above our heads would have taken care of the injustice.
“We’ll take things from here.” A female agent with raven hair and pretty eyes thrusts an arrest warrant into the unnamed officer’s chest before she attempts to secure the target.
I say attempt as the plain-clothed officer isn’t having any of it. “This isn’t an arrest warrant. I have conclusive evidence the suspect is responsible for a warehouse fire on the outskirts of town. That means he’s mine.”
“Stand down, Detective Carter,” the female agent grumbles on a groan over the turf war that always occurs when the Bureau is involved in local cases. “Federal agents can make arrests for any offense committed in their presence or when they have reasonable grounds that the person they’re arresting committed or is committing a felony in violation of US laws.”
