INFORMANT Read online

  So yeah, another despicable lie added to my list. I hate lying to my mom. I hate worrying her. I hate how tangled and ugly this has all become. But that was the only thing I could come up with to get the three of them safely out of town.

  Here’s something else to consider—my mom’s not stupid. She senses the tension that surrounds us. She knows something’s up. She’s going to be pissed as hell when Jess tells her the real reason for their trip, but at least the three of them will be long gone when all hell breaks loose.

  They are going south, but not to LA. And since Dally is perfectly healthy, they definitely won’t be visiting a children’s hospital. They’re actually staying with a friend of Jess’s who has a condo in San Diego. No matter what happens next, they’ll be safe—or at least out of reach. That’s all that matters.

  Before they go, Ronnie pulls Jess to him, locks his arms around her, and smothers her in his embrace. They hold each other as though they might never see each other again. I don’t want to acknowledge the awful truth of that, but neither can I deny it.

  At last Ronnie lets her go and takes a step back. Tears stream down Jess’s cheeks. She clumsily swipes them away. “You could come, too,” she says. “Right now. Both of you could come. We could all leave together.”

  I bite back a sigh. We’ve been through this. That won’t work—at least not yet. I’m in too deep and so is Ronnie. We’ve got to stick to the plan. Take this step by step. If we panic and run right now, our lives won’t be worth anything. We’ll spend the rest of our days hunted, constantly looking over our shoulders. What if someone decides to target Dally again? A shudder runs through me. No. Absolutely not. We need to end this now.

  Ronnie gives my sister one last kiss, assures her that everything’s going to work out, and then it’s time for them to go. He tucks Jess into his Crown Vic and slams the door. I swallow past the thick lump that forms in my throat and blink back tears of my own. I’ll screw everything up if I fall apart, so I don’t. Instead, Ronnie and I stand shoulder to shoulder on the sidewalk in front of the garage, watching the tail lights fade away as Jess drives down Noriega Street and disappears around the corner.

  Then they’re gone. Now it’s just me and Ronnie.

  We stand there for a long moment, neither of us moving. The fog is just starting to roll in, as thick and heavy as it always is in the Sunset. It feels as though we’re the only human beings left in the entire city. I glance around just to make sure we’re alone. No neighbors walking dogs, no customers waiting for their oil changes to be finished, no kids skateboarding up and down the street.

  Just me and Ronnie. After all the years we’ve spent engaged in petty battles and pointless bickering, who would have guessed he and I would ever team up? That our fates would be so inextricably bound? Irrefutable proof that God really does have a sense of humor.

  He looks at me. I look at him. The fog that settles around us feels different somehow. For once, it’s not shrouding and obscuring anything. Instead, the cleansing mist feels as though it’s here to wipe everything clear. At last, clarity descends. It’s time for us to talk. To actually be straight with one another. I begin by asking the question that’s been burning through my brain for the past forty-eight hours.

  “Ronnie,” I say. “What really happened to that half a million cash?”

  Day Seventy-Nine

  Night

  “He’s baaack,” Shari says as she swings into the kitchen at the Karma. It’s closing time, and I’m in the kitchen with Jim tallying up my receipts. (Yes, he’s forgiven me for taking off with his car without asking. I told him it was a family emergency, which is actually true.)

  “Who’s back?” I ask, glancing up from sorting my ones, fives, and tens.

  She sends me a knowing grin. “That good-looking friend of yours.” She uses air quotes around the word friend.

  My stomach constricts painfully. Ricco? Here? It’s too soon. I’m not ready to see him yet. I shoot a panicked glance through the portal window in the swinging door that separates the kitchen from the café.

  Beckett. He’s there waiting for me. I freeze, momentarily concerned that he might have been seen by Ricco or one of Miguel’s men, but I push that thought away just as quickly. He’s too careful to allow that to happen. If Beckett’s here, it means it’s safe. I’m safe.

  I study his profile and warmth floods through me. My breath catches. I can’t stop the trembling smile that curves my lips, or the way my fingers ache just to touch him. We’ve only been apart for hours, not days, yet my joy at seeing him is absurd. Almost childlike in its intensity. Thomas Beckett Smith. My Beckett.

  I look up to find Shari watching me. My emotions must be obvious. We’re thirty minutes shy of closing, but she emits a dramatic sigh and rolls her eyes. “Go,” she says, dismissing me with a smile.

  “Really?”

  “Really. Go.”

  I slip off my apron and move toward him. His gaze rakes me over, and I belatedly realize that I’m still wearing my crown of daisies. My tie-dyed t-shirt. I must look ridiculous, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing but hungry approval is reflected back at me.

  “Hey,” he says. “I thought you might need a ride home.”

  * * *

  My sheets have begun to smell like Beckett. Or more accurately, like me and Beckett together. The scent of my skin mingled with the scent of his skin. I refuse to wash them. Not yet. Not until this is all over. I’m afraid that if I do, I’ll wash away whatever it is that holds us together. Something will go wrong and I’ll loose him forever.

  He’s in my bed with me now, stretched out beside me, both of us naked. We’ve fallen into a pattern after we make love. I like to rest my cheek against his chest and listen to the steady beat of his heart. He likes to drag his fingers through my hair as though he’s sifting sand, idly lifting it and watching it fall. I like to rub my toes against the arch of his foot.

  We’ve been talking for nearly an hour. (That’s one perk of my mom being gone. I no longer have to push Beckett out the door the moment we’re done making love.)

  He tilts his head down to look at me. “You sure that’s what you want to do?” he asks.

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  “Kylie, there’s no going back. Once we take that step...”

  “I know.”

  “And you’ll do everything exactly the way I say.”

  “I will.”

  His brows crease. I can tell what he’s thinking. He doesn’t have to say it. We both understand. A thousand things could—hell, probably will—go wrong. But retreat isn’t an option. Still, I can’t help but feel like an enormous clock is hanging over us. I picture it not with a pendulum, but with a deadly sickle that swings back and forth. An hourglass with the sand running out. A lit fuse racing toward a final massive explosion.

  My mind is in a fog. I think of all the young lovers who meet tragic ends. Romeo and Juliet. Bonnie and Clyde. Hazel Grace and Augustus Waters.

  “Swear to me that you’ll be careful,” he says.

  “I will.”

  He props himself up on one elbow, studying me. “Kylie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you have any idea how much I love you?”

  My heart does a funny little somersault. I catch my lower lip in my teeth. One thick lock of dark hair is falling in Beckett’s eye. I brush it back, and then say, “Maybe just a little?”

  He smiles slightly, then draws his fingers between my breasts, resting his hand over my heart. “Maybe more than that.”

  His lips claim mine. It isn’t a gentle kiss, but one that is raw and real, and robs me of breath. My mouth opens under his, inviting him to taste and explore. He kisses me as though he is claiming me, marking me as his in some urgent, primitive way.

  A spark of lust curls deep in my belly. I grab his shoulders, draw my nails down his back, clutch Beckett’s tight, male ass. He kisses my throat, traces his hand over my hip. And just like that, I’m swept away, all lucid thought and pressur
ized terror abruptly vanquished. Despite the insanity surrounding us, we still have each other. For the next fleeting, glorious hour, there’s no Miguel Diaz, no Sun Yee, no Agent Reardon.

  It’s just me and Beckett and the sheets that smell so good.

  Day Eighty

  Morning

  “Complete immunity,” I say. “That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

  It’s six o’clock in the morning, and we (meaning me, Beckett, Agent Reardon, Sarah, and two other solemn-looking DEA agents), are gathered at Polk Street Bagels. We are sitting together in the back room, surrounded by fifty pound sacks of flour, refrigerated tubs of flavored cream cheese, and assorted boxes of paper goods. We’ve got a tray of bagels spread out on the table before us, but nobody’s touching anything except the coffee.

  Reardon leans back in his chair. “Funny. I didn’t realize you were the one calling the shots here.”

  “Someone has to. If I left it up to you, this would just drift along forever. Let’s see… It’s only taken me a few weeks to get Miguel Diaz pinned down. But you’ve been working this case for…” I pause and tilt my head to one side, as though calculating an enormous sum, “how long? Years or decades?”

  Reardon’s neck flushes red. His expression tightens, and quiet rage flashes through his eyes. Beckett shoots me a warning look, but I ignore it.

  “Ronnie gets full immunity, too, or the deal’s off.”

  “Your brother-in-law?”

  “Yeah.”

  One of the other DEA agents leans forward. “So you’re admitting Ronnie Hoyt was involved in dealing drugs for Sun Yee.”

  I slant him a cool look. “I’m not admitting anything. I’m just saying that in return for helping the DEA nail Miguel Diaz and Sun Yee, Ronnie and I walk away clean. You never hear from either of us again.”

  I twist around, grab my backpack, and reach inside. Maybe I move too fast, or maybe it’s just instinct on their part, but with the exception of Beckett, every agent there reflexively reaches for his weapon. I freeze, then send an admonishing look around the table. When I withdraw a single sheet of paper and slide it across to Reardon, they all sheepishly look away.

  Reardon glances at the document. “Well, well. Looks like you lawyered up.”

  Absolutely. Compliments of Professor Brad Morris, Esq. A single page immunity agreement that ensures Ronnie and I can walk away when this is over, without the threat of prosecution hanging over our heads. Short, tight, and neat. I’ve signed it. Ronnie’s signed it. Now we just need Reardon to sign it.

  He lowers his reading glasses and looks at me. “What’s the matter, don’t you trust me?”

  “Not particularly. But that doesn’t matter. Sign the document and we’ll move on.”

  “Move on?” He arches his brows in fake astonishment. “There’s more?”

  I slide a pen across the table and wait.

  Reardon shows the immunity agreement to the agent sitting to his right. He scans it as well, then looks at Reardon and shrugs. A silent communication passes between them. With a barely contained smirk, Reardon scrawls his name in the signature block and passes it back. I slip the agreement in a protective envelope and return it to my backpack.

  “When’s your birthday, Agent Reardon?” I ask.

  “My birthday?”

  “Yeah. Your birthday.”

  “March third,” he replies, playing along.

  “March third, huh?” I lean forward. “Well, this might be a little bit early, but I’ve got one hell of a gift for you. I think you’re gonna go nuts when I tell you what it is.”

  “Oh?”

  “How’d you like to place Miguel Diaz, Sun Yee, and both their respective crews, together with a shipping container full of drugs, weapons, and cash?”

  Reardon’s self-satisfied smirk vanishes. His expression goes tight and straight. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about putting away Sun Yee and Miguel Diaz for good. I’m talking about making you a bona fide hero, getting your name in all the papers.”

  Beckett shoots me a glance. Just a quick, barely perceptible glance to help me gather my courage. I’ve got my immunity agreement, so it’s time to talk. I take a fortifying breath, and then begin. I don’t hold anything back. I tell them about Ronnie running drugs for the Golden Dragon, about Dally’s kidnapping, and how Julio Juarez was murdered so Ricco could take his place. Last, and most importantly, I tell them that Miguel Diaz plans to intercept Sun Yee’s next shipment, and that this is all going to take place within a matter of days.

  “I need details,” Reardon says, his voice clipped.

  “You’ll get them,” I say. Then I deliver my terms. “For five hundred thousand.”

  Reardon rears back in his chair. His gaze moves from me to the rest of his agents. “Is this some kind of fucking joke?”

  “No,” I reply. “It’s no joke.”

  “You want five hundred thousand.”

  “For the information I’m providing, that’s cheap and you know it. Rock bottom.” This is true. According to Beckett, Reardon can authorize payments of up to half a million to secure necessary information. Anything more than that has to be approved by higher-ups in the DEA chain of command. But that takes too long. We’ve got days to act, then this window of opportunity closes for good.

  “I want to help you nail Diaz and Sun Yee,” I say. “But I’m not going to do it for free. You dragged me into this hole, now you’re going to help me climb out. Help me put my life back together when this is all over.”

  His supercilious smirk returns. “You really think you’re worth five hundred thousand?”

  “No. But I think the information I’m offering you is.” I let that sink in, then I give a cool shrug. “Unless maybe you have another informant operating somewhere in the city who can give you details on the shipment? Someone who’s in this mess as deep as I am and is willing to risk his life to get out?” Reardon glares at me and silently works his jaw. I watch him for a long moment, then I shake my head. “I didn’t think so.”

  Reardon stands abruptly and pulls out his phone. He steps away from the table and makes a call. When he returns, he towers over me in a way that’s meant to be intimidating, but isn’t. I’m holding the cards here and we both know it.

  “A quarter of a million,” he says. “Not a penny more.”

  “Fine by me. Which do you prefer—the place, or the time?”

  His eyes narrow. “What?”

  “This isn’t a negotiation. You pay half, you get half. A quarter of a million gets you either the place or the time, but not both. You want both pieces of information, you pay for both.”

  Reardon brings his palm down hard on the table, slamming it right beside me. I flinch reflexively. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Beckett start to move, but he stops himself. Good. This is my show now. He’s got to let me do this on my own.

  “You know what I think?” Reardon hisses. “I think this is bullshit. I think you’re no different than your drug-dealing brother-in-law. I think this is nothing but a greedy grab for money.”

  I look at him and shake my head, refusing to be baited. “Bullshit, huh? You saw the meeting at the Palace of Fine Arts,” I say. “You recovered Julio Juarez’s body. What more proof do you need that something’s going down? You either want to be there when it does, or you don’t.”

  “I could have you arrested for obstructing justice,” Reardon says. “For extortion."

  “Not with an immunity agreement,” I retort.

  For a long moment neither of us speaks. In theory, we’re on the same side, but it certainly doesn’t feel that way. We glare at each other like enemy combatants.

  Finally, it’s my buddy Sarah who breaks the silence. “How do we know you’re not making this up?”

  “I guess you’ve got to trust me.”

  Reardon doesn’t respond. He just laughs.

  I stand, remove my mike from the pocket of my backpack and toss it on the table. “You don
’t want to pay, that’s fine. I’m out. I quit. You want me to continue, you want to put Diaz and Sun Yee away, it’ll cost you half a million, transferred directly into my bank account. Your choice.”

  “And if your information’s wrong?” Reardon counters. “If you can’t deliver?”

  I stop at the doorway and turn back. Now it’s my turn to laugh. “You’re the government, remember? If I don’t come through, you’ll figure out some way to get it back.”

  Day Eighty

  Afternoon

  At three o’clock, I get a text from Jane. Transfer complete. 500k in your account. It’s on.

  Day Eighty-Four

  Night

  Ricco loves to dance. He’s good at it, too. Smooth and fluid. Never misses a beat or loses his tempo. He’s beautiful to watch.

  We are at the Boom-Boom Room, a small Latin dance club a couple of blocks off Guerrero Street. As usual, the entire Diaz entourage is with us. Assembled together are Miguel, Uncle Juan, Anna and Anita, various body guards, friends, dealers, whores, accountants, and God only knows who else.

  I have officially become a hanger-on. I am a pack member now. Ricco’s woman. I have thrown everything I have into the role of undercover informant, sticking close to Miguel Diaz and his son. I assure them Ronnie will get them the information he promised. I travel with their crew all over the city and pretend to have a great time. This is my job.

  For the most part, Ricco treats me well. He lets me choose what I want to eat for dinner. Permits me to talk to the other women. Allows me to leave the party when it’s late and I’m tired. But there are other things he’s firm about controlling. He decides what I’ll drink, and how much. When I’ll dance and with whom. He also likes to dress me up.