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Leilah nodded, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. She then translated, speaking in fits and starts. “The customer is talking.” A pause. “He said, ‘I want to send one thousand dollars to my uncle in Quetta, Pakistan, and another thousand to my brother in Dubai,’” she reported. “He asked the owner, ‘What are your fees?’”
Another intent pause. “The owner said ‘three hundred dollars.’ The customer told him that was a lot of money.” Leilah frowned, her forehead creased in concentration. “The owner is explaining. He’s saying that this is a very risky business, that the authorities are trying to pull the plug on all of them and throw them in jail. He wants to be paid for his trouble.”
Leilah reached for another piece of jerky. “This will take a while. The two guys are haggling over the fees.” She resumed her munching as the heated conversation continued. Eventually, she raised her hand, swallowing quickly. “The owner agreed to take only two hundred and fifty dollars, since he was dealing with a repeat customer. The man asked him when the money would be ready. The owner said three days for the brother in Dubai and five days for the uncle in Quetta. The men agreed.”
Leilah listened again. “The customer is counting the money out loud. Two thousand. Two hundred. Fifty. The owner is accepting payment and advising the man that his uncle and brother can pick up the money in the same places as before. He’s reciting the addresses.” One final pause. “Now they’re saying goodbye.”
Ryan took in everything Leilah had just said. He steepled his fingers as he thought about what was going on and how it related to Suzanne’s visit earlier in the week.
His gut told him that she’d be visiting the store again soon. His bug would then pick up the interaction between her and the meat market owner.
At that point, it would be time to put Gecko to work.
* * *
Glen Fisher despised waiting.
Nevertheless, in this case patience was essential. Things had to proceed in a precise order so that he could reap the rewards.
Outdoor exercise was over. Time to file in from the yard and go to the cafeteria for lunch. Dutifully, he got in line. While he waited, he groped inside the fold of his prison jumpsuit. His fingers slipped inside the Ziploc bag he’d crammed in there, rubbing her lock of hair between his fingers. A sense of power surged through him. He was so close he could taste it. Taste her.
Taste victory.
Chapter Eighteen
Deirdre Grimes put down her psychology textbook, rose from behind her desk and stretched.
She meandered over to her dorm room window and glanced down at Third Avenue. It was jammed, as usual. For her, that was one of the beauties of attending NYU. Growing up in a tiny rural Midwestern town where everything shut down at five, the constant activity of Greenwich Village was a whole new and exciting world.
Most of all, nothing beat New York City pizza.
She grinned, thinking that she ordered so many pizza deliveries, the guys at her favorite place knew her phone number by heart. It was always the same order—a meat lover’s pie with a delicious combination of sausage, pepperoni and meatball. She’d eat a few slices, after which she’d store the rest in her minifridge to enjoy over the course of the week.
She’d finished up her last slice yesterday. So she’d be placing her order in a little while—her reward to herself after completing her calculus problem set and beginning to tackle the assignment Ms. Woods had given them in Human Behavior.
Normally, Deirdre didn’t add to her already-heavy course load by taking evening classes. But she was a psych major and Ms. Woods’s course was totally fascinating. It delved into what made people tick, how to read body language and how to zero in on different “tells.”
Last night’s lecture had focused on passive-aggressive personalities. The class assignment was to write a short paper describing a specific interaction with that type of individual, and what the indicators were that defined the person in question as passive-aggressive.
The paper wasn’t due for two weeks. But Deirdre was actually looking forward to writing it. She knew just who she’d be writing about.
A knock on the door made her turn away from the window. She brushed a strand of red-gold hair off her face and crossed the dorm room, turning the knob to see who her visitor was.
Opening the door was the biggest mistake of her life.
* * *
The Forensic Instincts team desperately needed a break. They’d been working for days without rest. The wear and tear was beginning to take a major toll on them.
Ryan provided that break—for the team, for Hutch, for the security guys and for Leilah. He took over the patio out back, setting up an impromptu dinner courtesy of his and Leilah’s shopping spree at the meat market. He spent an hour or so tinkering with Big Bertha to get things rolling.
“Big Bertha” had earned her name. Ryan had built the huge contraption from two steel drums, strategically cut and welded into a fire trough. But the real magic of the grill was its custom burners that Ryan had fabricated along with an “oxygen” boost that almost doubled the flame temperature, searing the meat like no other cooking apparatus.
While Ryan was adjusting the flame thrower he called a grill, Leilah was busy in the FI kitchen checking on the lamb that had been immersed for hours in her family’s traditional marinade, a recipe passed down from generation to generation. The aromatic blend of lemon, garlic, mint and other spices permeated the town house, making everyone hungry for dinner and keeping Hero glued to Leilah’s side.
The meal was delicious, but there was an unmistakable tension.
Claire was visibly aloof to Ryan. He’d tried several times to approach her and neutralize the strain between them. But it was clear that while Claire completely understood why Ryan had summoned Leilah for her help, she did not understand the overtly affectionate nature of their interaction. Nor did she want to.
