Page 88 of Loverboy
Speaking of Max, he’s had it. This mission was his idea, and now I’m worried that it may be his undoing. All week long, my colleagues have rotated through the coffee bar line, a new one every couple of hours. They ask me for ridiculously complex lattes (like an extra hot half-decaf caramel latte with an extra shot), and then they take a seat in the back corner, watching the customers come and go.
We’re watching the whole street, too. But we’ve got nothing. The Plumber continues to post missives right under our noses. And Max is about to lose his mind. “We’re missing something,” he keeps saying, and I can’t disagree.
And now I have a new voice message from him. I put my earpiece in and listen. “This message is for Gunnar Scott,” Max’s voice says. “You’re at the top of our waiting list at the salon. I can get you in for a cut, color, and blowout at two p.m., if you can leave work early today. Hope to see you then. Kisses!”
That’s Max’s latest code forget your ass to the office. He never tires of inventing new ways to summon me. But the message is clear. I’m needed this afternoon.
So I go inside and beg Teagan to stay until closing today. And I leave right after the lunch rush.
* * *
“This…wow.” It’s not my most articulate statement. But we’re locked in Max’s office and nobody can hear me anyway. I’m looking at a print-out of The Plumber’s latest web posts. And shit is getting personal. I feel nauseated as I read what looks like a desperate plea.
To us.
You want answers, but you’re not looking in the right place. A dozen security guys who think they’re smarter than everyone else. Cops across the street, too. None of it is working.
They’re hungry. They will try to show you. I think it’s personal. This ends badly unless you find them before they hit you first.
“He’s talking about us,” Max says flatly.
“Cops across the street?”
“NYPD intelligence set up in a second-floor commercial space across the street. Pieter spotted them last night on his stakeout shift.”
I grunt and read the threat again. “Wearesmarter than everyone else. But not smart enough, I guess.”
Max rubs his neck. “And we’re not immortal.”
“The use ofthemis really strange,” I remark. “Who talks like that?”
“Someone who’s afraid,” Max says. “The Plumber is a dissatisfied foot soldier. I think he wants to throw his boss under the bus.”
“Yeah,” I say slowly. “I’m coming around to seeing it that way. The bragging has evolved, hasn’t it? This sounds like a plea more than a boast.”
We’re both silent for another long moment, until Max suddenly says: “I’m taking you off the pie shop.”
“What?” My chin snaps up. “What are you talking about?”
“The Plumber is right—we’re looking in the wrong place. And you’ve outlasted your usefulness there. Unless it’s an inside job, you’d have found him already. We have so much other work to do on this investigation. Tomorrow you and I will go over every loose end. Why does he call himself The Plumber, for example? How many plumbers are there in SoHo? There’s a lot we could be doing.”
“But what about Posy?” I blurt out.
“She’ll be well protected.” Max puts his elbows on the desk, and his chin in his hands. “I’ll keep staff at the shop.”
“But she’ll be shorthanded.”
Max smiles slowly. “Aw. Look who’s developed some professional pride behind the coffee bar.”
I groan. “Give me forty-eight hours. I have to hire a replacement. What’s that site people use to post jobs?” I grab my laptop and flip open the lid.
“No clue,” Max says. “But you’d better find it fast. I can’t give you two days. Besides.” He picks up the print-out and shows it to me again. “If The Plumber actually knows who I am, the best thing you could do for your girl is stay away.”
An icy chill climbs up my spine. “We have to find this guy.”
“No kidding.”
“I’ve been distracted,” I say slowly. “He’s right under my nose somewhere.”
