Illicit acollection, p.216
Illicit: A Contemporary Romance Collection, page 216
Several brisk miles later, she mounted the steps to the summer home of a Staten Island hedge fund manager.
Tabitha waited inside the garage, chewing her thumbnail. She was leaning against the freshly washed BMW owned by another of Mia’s clients. When she spotted Mia, her anxious expression cleared. She rushed forward to cling like a limpet.
“Are you okay? You took way longer than I expected. I was getting so worried.”
“I’m fine.” Mia brushed Tabby’s hair back off her face to get a good look at her. “Just got caught up in events.” Pleasurable events that left her sore and were still creating aftershocks in her system. “Did everything work on your end?”
“Perfectly.” Tabitha released her. “In and out, like we talked about.”
“Me too.” Mia spoke without thinking, then stifled a snort when she heard her own words. “You wore your gloves?”
Tabby nodded. “The whole time.”
“And you brought them back with you?”
Tabby, who had also changed into a different outfit, tapped the front pocket of her jeans.
“Good. Then let’s blow this Popsicle stand.” Not only were Nadine and Garrett expecting Tabby home for dinner, but Mia wanted to put quick distance between Tabby and the Away House.
They argued briefly about driving arrangements, Tabby calling Mia paranoid, Mia resolute.
Eventually Tabby relented and agreed to lie down in the well behind the driver’s seat, and to have Mia cover her with a blanket. She also remained silent until they reached Bluffton and were inside yet another garage, having restored the BMW to its rightful berth.
While Tabby moved their backpacks to Mia’s Sentra, which waited in the adjacent bay, Mia went over the Beemer. Twice.
Its absentee owner paid her to take it for a short drive each week. While the trip to Hilton Head technically fell under the duties of Mia’s job description, Mia had used it during the commission of a crime. She wasn’t about to add to her moral failings by leaving the BMW in anything less than pristine condition. Nor would it do to leave incriminating evidence behind, like Tabby’s fingerprints.
Once satisfied she had taken care of the car, Mia turned to Tabby and held out her hand. “Okay. Let’s see it.”
Tabitha let out an excited squeal and reached for her backpack. She unzipped an inner pocket and withdrew a veritable stream of diamonds and rubies.
“That’s quite the sparkler,” Mia said when the necklace was draped over her palm.
No wonder Tabby had given into temptation. Few sixteen-year-old girls could have resisted such a beautiful heirloom. Aside from the monetary value, as Tabby grew older, she would probably come to treasure it even more for sentimental reasons. Thank goodness they had retrieved it.
Mia poured it back into Tabby’s cupped palms. “Will you be able to return it to the safe without Nadine knowing?”
“Yup,” Tabby said confidently.
“Let’s hit the road, then.”
Despite stopping several times to dispose of the gloves (shredded) and burner phones (contents smashed and dispersed in multiple locations), they made good time. But as they entered the outskirts of Charleston, Tabby seemed to be reverting to her withdrawn self. She took to picking at a hole in her jeans and staring silently out the window.
“Is something wrong?” Mia asked, expecting to hear about Tabby’s reluctance to return home after weeks of comparative freedom.
“No, but… I made a decision you won’t like.”
Mia shot her a glance. “Oh?”
Tabby sucked in a breath. “I’m going to let Garrett send me to boarding school.”
“What? Why?” Mia was so startled she almost ran an amber light and had to pull up short at a crosswalk.
“He’s offered before and I always said no, but I’ve been thinking… It would be kinda nice to get away from the church and not have to see Pastor Veras for a while. You know?” Tabby turned an anxious face Mia’s way. “In case he decides to talk to me about the necklace going missing.”
“If he does, you call me,” Mia said determinedly. And Mia would call a lawyer and involve Nadine, because at that point she would have no other option. “You shouldn’t handle that alone. In fact, you can’t. Okay?”
When Tabitha’s hand snaked over, Mia dropped her own from the wheel to connect for a lightning-quick squeeze.
“I promise,” Tabby said. “And that helps. But if I go, I don’t have to lie to Mom about why I want a break from First Faith.” Tabby worried her lips and stared sightlessly into traffic. “To be honest, it would also be nice to get away from the fighting.”
“I can see that.” As the light changed to green, Mia focused on her driving until she was reasonably sure she could sound upbeat. “Where would you go?”
A shy smile broke over Tabby’s face. “Switzerland, if I could.”
“Whoa. Really?” And here Mia had been thinking about nothing more exotic than Connecticut.
Tabby nodded and watched Mia anxiously. “What do you think?”
How hard it was to be fair and say the right thing.
Selfishly, Mia would prefer Tabitha to stay. No question. They had only just gotten close again, and it had meant a great deal.
In fact, during the past several days, when she hadn’t been panicking about their upcoming heist, Mia had been plotting ways to stay in regular contact. She had even considered giving up her apartment and moving back to Charleston.
But hadn’t Mia’s veins hummed with wanderlust in high school? Hadn’t she loved every moment of her trip to Greece, bigamy disaster aside? Had Mia been granted the opportunity to stay in Europe for a whole year, on someone else’s dime, she wouldn’t have required two invitations.
And realistically, it wouldn’t be long until Tabby would head for college, or perhaps a mission with a different church. Boarding school wouldn’t alter the inevitable separation; only accelerate it.
Finally, there was one last, overwhelming advantage to having Tabby relocate to another continent. With her safely removed from Veras and his influence, Mia would be free to consider her options regarding his other, unseen victims—because they were out there. Of this she had no doubt. While Mia might not know what they looked like or who they were, that didn’t absolve her of responsibility for their protection.
Decision made, Mia was able to take a breath and flash her sister with a genuine smile. “I think that’s a brilliant plan, Tabby. Absolutely brill.”
“Really?” Tabby’s face was awash with hope and relief.
“Definitely.” As she changed lanes to swing around a taxi, Mia could feel a sense of peace settling into her bones. “I’ll even help you decide what to pack.”
Then she would indulge in a little research. Like most police departments, Charleston’s probably had an anonymous tip line.
.
6
Seven months later…
As Jackson entered the room known as the Vatican’t Aerie to members of Charleston’s Special Investigations Unit, conversation halted and necks swiveled. Three men broke into smiles and abandoned a variety of surveillance equipment to come forward.
Detective Sergeant Victor Roberts, Jackson’s longtime partner, greeted him with a punch to the shoulder. “Jack-son, my man. Good to see you.”
“How was Florida?” Jackson asked. In the weeks preceding his vacation, Victor—usually upbeat and dauntless—had complained about having to share accommodations with his mother-in-law.
“A’ight, a’ight. Spent the day in the company of a large-mouthed predator.” He grinned. “Saw a few crocodiles, too.”
The older, professorial Stanislowski looked to Jackson. “How was Canada?”
“More to the point, how was the Canadian beaver?” Diaz said. As the youngest unmarried man on the team, he took his chief-pussy-hound responsibilities very seriously.
“Hate to ruin your vicarious thrill, but I was too busy hiking to get laid.” During his two weeks off, Jackson had done little more than walk the trails of Jasper, including one long, glorious stint on the Skyline Trail.
It had been the perfect antidote to what ailed him. After months spent in a cramped surveillance van or slouching in a chair at the Aerie, he’d been able to move without impediment. The air had been crisp, clean, and pine-scented rather than stale. And the only parasites he risked encountering came from the natural world and would leave a guy with a case of the shits instead of the willies.
Diaz clutched his chest and staggered. “Nooooo. Say it ain’t so.”
Stanislowski’s thin face took on a graver cast. “You’re carrying this self-punishment too far, even for me.”
“Yeah, dude, your ongoing guilt is palpable,” Diaz said.
Jackson arched a brow at him. “Palpable?”
“It means I can feel it.”
“I know that, asshole,” Jackson said. “I just didn’t think they taught vocabulary in your diploma mill. And so we’re clear, you won’t be feeling my anything.”
By way of reprisal, Diaz leaned over to the refreshment table. He seized a donut from the box and lobbed it at Jackson’s head. Jackson ducked. As powdered sugar exploded on the scaffolding behind him, Jackson grinned and Diaz shrugged good-naturedly.
Victor clapped Jackson on the shoulder. “For the record? Any time you want to guilt-trip yourself into another pair of Panthers tickets, I’m here for you.”
“Noted.” Jackson jerked his chin toward the window, to the looming cross-shaped, five-story structure that made up First Faith’s business offices. “Anything interesting happen at the Vatican’t while I was gone?”
“It’s been Deadsville, to be honest,” Diaz said.
“Brownlea still schmoozing at the conference?” Jackson asked.
The soon-to-be-retired First Faith founder and head pastor was gradually distancing himself from the office. When Jackson last heard, Brownlea had been in Belgium, scarfing down pastries in the company of other faith leaders.
“Yup,” Stanislowski said. “As for the Vatican’t, Spitz just finished filming another infomercial—excuse me—‘inspirational video’,” he said, using air quotes. “You already know Veras got back yesterday. Other than that, it’s been the same-old same-old.”
“Any interesting visitors?” Jackson asked.
“Not a one.”
“Damn.”
Seven months ago, fresh on the heels of being named Brownlea’s anointed successor, Veras began consolidating power. On the legitimate level, this meant shifting his youth pastoral duties to Spitz, while assuming many of Brownlea’s responsibilities.
On the illegitimate level, Veras risked public association with men of nefarious means and dubious morals. A shady accountant. Drug dealers. A mobster. Veras invited them into his office—occasionally even into the boardroom—providing Jackson and crew with some of their best leads.
Since Jackson’s summary firing from First Faith, though, all that had been driven underground.
“Oh—one change,” Stanislowski said. “Beatrice Wylie brought in a helper.”
“Burning Bush or Sweet Mary?” Victor asked.
There was never a question as to a new employee’s sex, only what category of female they fell into.
When Veras hired, they were busty and beautiful, if short-lived. Either Veras would chase them around his desk and straight out of the office, or they’d let themselves be caught, at which point he’d install them in a downtown condo out of view of his always-pregnant wife.
Beatrice Wylie, bless her quaint, sucker heart, only brought in the steady and the pliable. As the executive assistant in what functioned as the church’s C-suite, she wanted workers who believed in the church mission and who would stay long enough to fulfill it. Her hires tended to be old, ugly, or both.
“TBD,” Diaz said.
“That’s a weird non-answer, man,” Victor said.
Stanislowski shrugged. “It’s a weird circumstance. You’ll see.”
“What department does the new woman work in?” Jackson asked.
“Unknown. Something low-level on the fifth floor. What we’ve got on her is sketchy but it’s all in the log.” Stanislowski raised his eyebrows at Jackson. “What about your end? Veras go anywhere interesting this morning?”
“Just the spa-tastic usual.”
To a man, they all made a face.
To keep the ladies in his flock dazzled, Veras invested serious time and dough on his appearance. Monday mornings, he kept a standing appointment for a manicure, pedicure, and God knew what else. Jackson had tailed him to the spa, knowing it would mean three wasted hours sitting in the surveillance van, then another in Charleston traffic. But after how he’d let the team down, it would be a while before he’d cut any corners.
“Well, we’re off to update the Loo,” Stanislowski said.
There was an imperceptible pause while everyone avoided looking at Jackson. Before his screw-up and demotion, Jackson would have been the one making the trek to Lockwood Boulevard to meet with Lieutenant Herrera.
“Then I gotta remember to pick up balloons and cake,” Stanislowski continued, “or Tina is gonna serve my balls along with the hot dogs.”
“Oh, that’s right!” Diaz said, overdoing the enthusiasm in his haste to change the subject. “Melanie’s turning eight today.”
After a further period of fake-hearty conversation, Diaz and Stanislowski finally drifted out the door, leaving Jackson and Victor alone in the Aerie to take in the mess they had left behind.
Jackson had to shake his head. Takeout containers littered the floor. White starbursts dotted the vast window, evidence of a lengthy donut fight. There was an inch of burned sludge in the coffee carafe and a foul smell emanating from the bathroom. No doubt about it, Diaz and Stanislowski were pigs.
Even Victor, who could tolerate more disorder than Jackson, wrinkled his nose in disgust. “If you handle cleanup, I’ve got the window.”
“Deal,” Jackson said. Stuck in the Aerie again, with the feeling they were treading water, he’d rather keep moving, burn off some of this frustration.
As Victor assumed his usual position by the window, teetering on the two hind legs of his chair, Jackson grabbed a pair of gloves and set to work. One hour and five full garbage bags later, he decided he wasn’t up to handling the toilet.
He scraped the coffee pot clean and put a fresh batch on to brew. While it dripped, replacing some of the Aerie’s noxious odors with a homey scent, he located a hammer and banged on a few exposed steel beams.
They had rented this space months ago under the guise of doing renovations for a plastic surgeon. Periodically they put effort into maintaining their cover, which mostly involved supplying the soundtrack of a legit construction project. Victor also brought baggies of plaster and sawdust from home, which they used to decorate their coveralls. If they didn’t catch a break in the case soon, they’d have to move on to smearing themselves with beige paint.
Jackson was pouring himself a cup of coffee, stir stick between his teeth, when Victor let out a low whistle. “Now I see what Diaz was going on about.”
“Oh?”
“The new girl dresses like a Sweet Mary, but she’s got definite Burning Bush potential. Great ass. Great hair.” He dropped his voice. “Really great tits. In fact, she’s exactly your type, J-man.”
When Jackson only grunted, Victor leaned forward until all four chair legs met the ground. He picked up the camera and fiddled with the lens. “C’mon, baby,” he crooned, holding the apparatus to his eye. “Turn left, so Mr. Nikon can say hello.” A short while later, the camera’s shutter clicked.
Jackson set Victor’s coffee at his elbow and hooked a foot around his own chair, pulling it to a spot where the sun wouldn’t shine in his eyes. He tugged the logbook onto his lap for a quick scan.
The new woman had arrived last week, unaccompanied, on foot. Since they had no personnel inside First Faith and no plates to run, she would remain unidentified until someone had the time to follow her home and snag an address. If she stuck around long enough or showed signs of becoming a significant player—and that was a big if—that role would fall to Jackson.
“I’m telling you, man,” Victor said, “grab a piece of this eye-candy before she disappears.”
More to get Victor off his back than because he was interested, Jackson raised his binoculars to his face. From habit he began at the bottom of the Vatican’t and ran a quick checklist of the building’s exterior.
Vehicular traffic? Yup. Normal for noon in Charleston.
Faces flashing in and out of the rotating front door? All known and benign.
The Camry entering the parking garage? Belonged to a grunt in First Faith’s publicity department, so that was a non-starter, too.
Up he went, cataloging the utter normalcy that provided cover for a rotten man with rotten intentions, until he reached the floor opposite their own. The fifth-level C-suite, specifically, and the space between Brownlea’s and Veras’s offices, where Beatrice Wylie reigned.
Wylie sat at her desk, her back to the window. Judging by the angle and movement of her head, she was talking with someone seated directly in front of her. Jackson watched for a bit, but the mystery lady remained hidden from view.
“Well, I got a big ball of nothing.” Jackson dropped his binoculars. He took a noisy slurp of coffee and stood, intending to start on the bathroom.
Victor snagged his sleeve. “Patience my man, patience. Look—there she is again.”
Jackson sighed. Reassumed the position. And found he was looking at a mirage.
He had spent a lot of time thinking about the woman at the Away House—the one who appeared out of nowhere, fucked him witless in an erotic encounter without parallel, then vanished when he tried to do the responsible thing. He had been able to do little more than think, because the day after the barbecue he’d been summoned to Veras’s office.
Veras had been oblique, but from his line of questioning, Jackson had been able to make a few deductions. Right about the time Jackson had been getting his rocks off, something had happened in the rectory wing of the Away House.
