INFORMANT Page 14

  “Better?” he asks.

  I nod. “That’s convenient.”

  “The comforter? Unless it’s raining, this is where I sleep every night.”

  Now there’s an image: Beckett, lying here alone, watching the city by the bay go to sleep. I think of my own cramped room, my tiny bed. “I’m jealous.”

  He gives me a light squeeze. “You can join me any time.”

  I smile, imagining just that. He and I are two young lovers with the world at our feet, with nothing to tear us apart. But I’m too practical to indulge in that fantasy for long. We don’t move freely, Beckett and I. Our past is an anchor that’s drags behind us, a chain that rattles as a constant reminder of the choices we must make.

  I would like to cleave Beckett’s past away from him, but I can’t. It is indelibly inked on his soul. Pain splintered him, sent him ricocheting off in a direction he never intended, made him who he is today. Beckett can’t go back to that club in Miami and save his sister. So he straps on a gun and a badge and chases drug dealers. He takes crazy risks. Throws himself in situations that terrify me. He does everything he can to avenge Emma’s death.

  Just as I’ll do whatever he needs me to do in order to help him.

  “I was with Ricco on Sunday,” I say.

  I feel a frisson of tension course through him. “Oh?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing happened. Juan and Miguel weren’t there. We just went down to the farmer’s market and got a bite to eat.”

  He makes a noncommittal noise, but I sense he’s already beginning to slip away from me. His mind has shifted into a different gear. He’s tense and alert, thinking strategy, take-down, search and seizure. Even though I’m still cradled in his arms, everything’s changed. I’ve lost Beckett and I don’t know how to bring him back. All I can do is join him where he is.

  “Do you know a professor at San Francisco State named Brad Morris?” I ask.

  A line appears between his brows. He’s thinking. “Wait… yeah. An attorney, right?”

  “Right. He’s my scientific ethics professor. What do you know about him?”

  “If I’m thinking of the right guy, he was nearly disbarred a few years ago. Big shot prosecuting attorney who took a bribe to destroy evidence in a case. Nothing was ever proved, so he’s still got his license to practice. Why do you ask?”

  “He pulled me aside after class and said he saw me with Ricco. Said he knew some things about Ricco Diaz that I might want to know.”

  I slant a glance at Beckett, waiting as he mulls this over.

  “The guy might be a scumbag,” he says, “but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have good information.”

  “So I should talk to him?”

  I wait, foolishly hoping he’ll say no. That he’s done using me to get information, no matter how well I’m being paid to do it.

  Instead he shrugs. “Yeah, probably. Find out what he knows.”

  “Okay.”

  My heart breaking, I rest my head against his shoulder. My gaze shifts to the sky. We are like the stars, I think. We might burn bright, yet we are infinitesimally tiny when compared to the breadth and depth of the universe. And like the stars, our course has been set. Beckett and I are spinning into oblivion, but we can’t stop, any more than a star can stop its blazing arc across the sky. There’s no going back. No stopping. The only direction we can move is forward.

  Day Forty-Five

  Late Afternoon

  It’s Tuesday, and I’m sitting alone in the basement of the J. Paul Leonard library at SFSU, searching the online archives and databases. The research I’m doing has nothing to do with any of my classes, and everything to do with Beckett. I’ve been hunched over a computer screen for so long that my back is killing me, but I have no intention of stopping until I find what I’m looking for.

  I’m combing through documents and newspaper clippings more then a decade old, looking for details of an event that occurred on the opposite side of the country. After three and a half hours of intense, painstaking research, I find the proof I’m looking for in a small Miami newspaper. It doesn’t surprise me—really, the article is just confirmation of something I instinctively knew—but seeing the raw facts so impersonally printed in a newspaper column makes my breath hitch. I stare at the computer screen, my heart racing.

  I read it once, and then twice. With shaking fingers, I send Jane a text: Does anybody else know?

  Beckett answers immediately. Know?

  About Florida.

  I chew my thumbnail as I wait for his response. Beckett knows I’m intelligent. That I have a curious streak I can’t contain. That I know how to put things together. He won’t be surprised that I’ve looked into the circumstances surrounding his sister’s death. What surprises me is that his bosses at the DEA haven’t made the same connection I have.

  Then again, why would they? Beckett was a high school kid at the time, living in upstate New York. Why would anyone connect him to the tragic death of an innocent bystander in a Miami dance club over a decade ago, particularly as the surname he and the victim shared is Smith.

  According to the newspaper, everything Beckett told me was true. I never doubted that. It just felt incomplete. As it turns out, my hunch was correct. He left out one small detail. The dealer allegedly responsible for the violence—though never arrested and charged with the crime—was a wealthy Cuban immigrant named Miguel Diaz.

  Miguel Diaz is responsible for the murder of his sister.

  There’s probably official protocol in the DEA to deal with situations like this. I assume it’s expected that Beckett would remove himself from the case. Just the opposite is happening, of course. He’s digging in deeper. He specifically asked to be assigned to Diaz’s case. He recruited me to get close to Ricco. The hatred he feels for the man overrides everything else.

  It tears me apart, but I understand it. If it had been Jess who was brutally shot down in that Miami nightclub, I would do everything I could to destroy the person responsible for her murder. He and I have that in common. Beckett will not stop until he’s avenged his sister’s death. Even if it costs him his job, his life… me.

  So that’s where we are. Question: How do you shrug off the murder of someone you love? Answer: You can’t.

  His next text confirms this.

  Just you.

  Day Sixty-Two

  Night

  Ricco is in a great mood. Bouncing off the walls happy. Latin music drums a frantic beat through the speakers in his car stereo. His fingers dance on the steering wheel, keeping time to the music. It’s Friday night and he’s ready to play. We’re cruising in his eighty-thousand dollar Mercedes, taking San Francisco’s famous hills at a fast enough clip to catch air. We come down hard, the car bouncing up and down as we land. Ricco lets out a gleeful shout, but I shake my head. He’s going to blow out the shocks if he’s not careful.

  “Better watch it,” I say, “or the cops will pull you over.”

  “Cops?” he echoes with a laugh. “La Policia, la policia! Let them try to arrest me!”

  My eyes narrow as I study him. “Are you on something?”

  He shoots me a sideways glance and smiles. “On something? You mean drugs? No. I don’t do drugs. Only weak men need drugs.” He taps the brakes and we slow to a reasonable speed. “There. Satisfied, armorcito?”

  “Thanks. I was hoping to live through the weekend.”

  Some of my tension can be attributed to Ricco’s driving. The bulk of it, however, is due to the fact that I’m miked. Once again, a tiny high-tech microphone is affixed to my bra strap. I’ve got the DEA eavesdropping on every word we say. This is just a precaution. I don’t expect to see Miguel Diaz tonight, but it could happen. As a result, I’m nervous, on edge.

  Ricco reaches for my hand and brings it to his lips, placing a gentle kiss on the back. “Relax,” he says. “We are going to live—but we’re also going to enjoy ourselves.”

  I force I smile I don’t quite feel. “Sounds good.”<
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  We swing onto Potrero Avenue and head east. We’re on our way to a block party in The Mission. The real events—the parade, art exhibits, street faire—are scheduled for tomorrow, but I’ll be working a double shift at the Karma, so Ricco and I decided to hit it tonight. I didn’t think there’d be much going on, but as we turn into Calle 24, I see just how wrong I was. The neighborhood’s hopping.

  Imagine the craziness of Mardi Gras, then give it a tequila twist. This is Carnaval, San Francisco style. The weekend event showcases the very best Latin American and Caribbean cultures and traditions. Colorful lights hang from all the storefronts, musicians and dancers perform on makeshift wooden stages. There’s food and drink everywhere, artists and strolling magicians. Nearly naked street performers, both male and female, slink through the streets in grotesque masks, huge feathered headdresses, and high-heeled fringed boots. It’s loud, high-spirited, outrageous fun.

  The party is already in full-swing by the time we arrive. The Mission is blocked to traffic so we park on 18th Street and make our way hand-in-hand through the crowds. We watch teams of dancers—dressed in brilliant costumes and moving so fast they’re almost a blur—compete to win a thousand dollar cash prize. And though Ricco and I scream and stomp our appreciation, our favorite couple doesn’t win. We shrug and move on.

  We sample marinated pork with rice and black beans, yucca fries, and ham croquettes, then we share a mango flavored shake. I round a corner and come face-to-face with a bare-chested guy carrying an enormous snake on his shoulders and nearly loose it. Laughing and terrified, I hide behind Ricco until the guy leaves us alone. We stumble into a Karaoke contest. When a singer chooses La Bamba, the crowd goes wild. We all join in at the top of our lungs. We totally butcher the lyrics, but everyone’s having too much fun to care.

  Before I know it, it’s late. The crowd starts to thin. Ricco and I share a tired, contented glance. “Having a good time?” he asks.

  “It’s been wonderful,” I reply. I mean it, too. It’s been a great night.

  He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me with him to a series of tables where a few vendors remain. “I want to buy you something to remember tonight.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “True,” he agrees easily. “But it would make me very happy if you would allow me to.”

  He seems so sweet and sincere, so softly persuasive, I can’t help but agree. We linger for a bit over one particular table. Bold pieces of jewelry, etched sterling silver studded with turquoise, are spread over the surface. Beautiful, but not really my style. Instead my attention is caught by the vendor in the next space.

  She is selling traditional lady’s shawls. My hand goes to a black silk shawl with long fringe, richly embroidered with a series of deep red roses. It’s stunning. Ricco smiles at my choice. He pays the vendor and returns to me with the shawl. Rather than hand it to me, he lifts it and says, “May I?”

  I nod, allowing him to place it around my shoulders. He starts to do exactly that, but stops with a frown. I’m wearing a simple peasant-style blouse and a black skirt. Ricco looks at my blouse and smiles. “Maybe it would look better like this,” he says. His eyes meet mine as his fingers nimbly untie the string that loops through the top edge. He eases the blouse downward, arranging it so that it’s resting off my shoulders.

  Just my bra straps remain.

  My bras straps. Fuck. The mike. The DEA mike.

  Ricco’s eyes scan my chest, and heat flashes through his gaze. I reach up and jerk down the straps, awkwardly tucking them beneath the fabric of my blouse. My breath catches and my heart hammers erratically. Don’t let him have seen the mike. Please don’t let him have seen the mike.

  His eyes meet mine. “You are very modest,” he says.

  My breath comes out in a rush. My relief is so intense I’m nearly shaking. I give a jerky nod of my head. “Yeah, I guess I am. Sorry.”

  “No need to apologize. Modesty is a virtue in a woman.”

  I don’t like the compliment. Normally I would object, just on principle, but it’s all I can do right now to get my breathing back under control. He brushes his fingers from my jaw to the base of my throat. His touch is light and feathery, yet I am pinned by his gaze. Something in his eyes rings of control, domination.

  “Particularly when the woman is someone like you,” he continues. “Tu es muy bonita, Kylie.”

  I’ve noticed this before. Ricco’s accent becomes more pronounced when he’s flirting. He has a tendency to slip into Spanish. Also, he’s a bit more forceful, more physically demonstrative. I used to think that was sexy, charming. Now I’m not so sure. A distant alarm is going off somewhere in my brain. A warning. Suddenly I want a little space, but Ricco won’t give it to me. He drapes the shawl around my shoulders and pulls me to him.

  “Muy bonita,” he whispers in my ear.

  He is holding the ends of the shawl so that I can’t escape. I move backward as he moves forward. My back comes up against a brick wall. Ricco braces his hands above me, trapping me with his body. I look up, ready to object, but his mouth captures mine, swallowing my words before I can speak.

  His kiss is soft at first, gently exploratory. He pulls my body against his and his kiss deepens. He sweeps his tongue into my mouth. He tastes dark and spicy and bold. He’s a good kisser—he kisses as well as he dances. Smooth, sensual, and seductive. It’s easy to get swept away. But here’s the truth: I don’t want to kiss Ricco. Everything about it feels like I’m betraying Beckett, even though I know I’m not.

  It’s an impossible situation. I’m not an actress. I’m not even a good liar. But I give myself permission to respond physically to Ricco’s touch. My heart might not be in it, but it’s not hard to act like I’m enjoying this. I writhe against him, making little husky whimpers that I hope he will interpret as pleasure. After a few minutes, he breaks off our kiss with a satisfied smile. His dark eyes glow with approval.

  “I like the way you kiss, armorcito.” His hips grind into mine. “I like the softness of your body and taste of your tongue. And your skin smells so good.” He takes my hand and guides it to his crotch. “Do you feel how hard you make me?”

  My eyelids flutter shut. The heat of humiliation rushes to my cheeks. Beckett is listening. The DEA is listening. They are hearing every private word, every intimate sound.

  Misinterpreting the cause for my embarrassment, Ricco gives a small laugh. “You don’t have to be shy with me, baby.” He brushes aside my new shawl and traces his lips across the tops of my breasts. As he does this, his hands move beneath my skirt. He runs his palms up my thighs, and then moves higher still.

  “Such a perfect ass,” he murmurs appreciatively. “I thought only Cuban girls had such perfect asses.”

  “Ricco,” I protest.

  He cups my cheeks and his eyebrows arch playfully. “A thong? Is that the word? Me gusta. I like this. A nice surprise. Maybe you’re not such a good girl after all.”

  “Ricco.”

  “You need a Latin lover, eh?” He persists, grinding his hips against mine. “Someone to keep you warm on these cold nights.”

  I squirm out of his embrace. He lets go of me and steps back, his smile still intact. He’s just teasing, but I’m too flustered to know how to respond. How would I react if we were on an actual date? Would I tell him off or beg for more? I need a script here, but I don’t have one. I’m flying blind. Ricco’s phone buzzes. He checks the screen, then looks at me.

  “Come,” he says, “I want to say good-bye to my father before we leave.”

  Surprise courses through me. “He’s here?”

  “Si, yes. At St. Peter’s. He is waiting for me there.”

  “Now?” It’s almost one o’clock in the morning.

  “It will only take a minute, then I will bring you home.”

  St. Peter’s is an enormous gothic style church situated in the heart of the Mission. It’s not a San Francisco landmark, but it easily could be. With a note of
unmistakable pride, Ricco tells me that his father is one of St. Peter’s most generous contributors. He supports not just the church, but the ancillary soup kitchen and homeless shelter.

  When we step inside, we find Miguel Diaz deep in conversation with a priest. Miguel looks up. His dark gaze rakes us over. He nods to the priest, dismissing him, then beckons us forward. I’m glad the DEA is recording the conversation that follows, because I don’t remember a word of it. I know that Miguel Diaz greets me politely. I know he asks me about my school work and inquires after the health of my family. On the surface, it’s all very normal.

  But something about Miguel Diaz scares the shit out of me. It goes deeper than anything Beckett told me about him or what I read online. It’s the way Diaz looks at me when he speaks. Like he knows I’m lying—that I’m not who I pretend to be. Like he’s just stretching our little game out until he’s ready to kill me. A slight smile curls his lips and tornadoes whirl in his eyes. He looks completely, pathologically insane.

  His gaze shifts from mine to Ricco’s and he gives a slight nod.

  Ricco takes my elbow. “Wait here,” he says. “I will speak to my father alone.”

  He leaves without another word. I watch as Ricco and Miguel walk toward the altar, kneel and cross themselves, and then exit the sanctuary through an alcove on the right, just past a statue of the Virgin Mary. I am alone in the vast, enormous church. Well, almost alone. Two small women dressed in black—they look like they’re at least eighty years old—sit in the pews, rocking softly as they recite the rosary.

  I assume Ricco is coming right back. I take a seat in one of the long pews and wait. Twenty minutes pass, and then an hour. The two old women leave. I go from being irritated to being worried. Very worried. What the hell?