Page 150 of Things We Hide from the Light
“Convince me this is a good idea.”
“I don’t have to. It’s my job. My life,” I insisted.
“Fine. I’ll come down there running lights and sirens.”
“Jesus, Nash. I run trainings on surveillance strategies. I’m damn good at it. I don’t need to justify my job to you.”
“It’s dangerous,” he countered.
“Need I remind you thatyou’rethe one who got shot on the job.”
There was a noise on his end of the call.
“Did you justgrowlat me?”
“Shit,” he muttered. “I don’t know. Every day with you is a new fucking surprise.”
I took the tiniest bit of pity on him. “Look, with the heat the feds have brought to Anthony Hugo’s activities, no one is doing anything. I’ve been sitting on two of these guys for days. All they do is eat, have sex with women who should know better, and go to the gym. Maybe hit a strip club. I’m not looking to catch them committing a crime. All I need is for one of them to lead me to a stash house. Even if Duncan is long gone, that car might still be here.”
“I still can’t believe you’re doing all this for a damn car.”
“It’s not just any damn car. It’s a 1948 Porsche 356 convertible.”
“Fine. All this for a small, old car.”
“That small, old car is worth over half a million bucks. And just like everything else we insure, its cash value is one thing. The sentimental value is something else entirely. This car is part of a family’s story. The past three generations have gotten married and driven off in this car. There’s a vial of their grandfather’s ashes in the trunk.”
“Shit. Fine. Damn it. I want you checking in with me every half hour. If you’re even one minute late, I’ll show up and blow your cover so fast it’ll make your head spin.”
“I don’t have to agree to any of this,” I pointed out. “You keep acting like we’re in some kind of relationship when we’re clearly not.”
“Baby, you and I both know there’s something here even if you’re too scared to acknowledge that.”
“Scared?You thinkI’mscared?”
“I think I have you shaking in those sexy high-heeled boots of yours.”
He was not wrong, which pissed me off more.
“Yeah. Shaking with rage. Thanks for making me regret answering the phone.”
“Every thirty minutes, I want a text.”
“What do I get out of this deal?”
“I’ll go through whatever crime scene files I can get from the warehouse. See if there’s anything in those files that might lead you to your damn car.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. I’ll give you whatever I find over dinner tonight.”
It was like a dance number we were locked in. Two steps forward, two steps back. Get drawn together. Get pissed off. Rinse. Repeat. Sooner or later, one of us had to end the dance.
“I don’t like that you don’t think I can do my job.”
“Angel, I know you’re damn good at your job. I know you can handle yourself better than most. But eventually, someone will sneak past those defenses. And in your line of work, the consequences are a hell of a lot more serious.”
He was speaking from personal experience.
