INFORMANT Read online

  “And if he turns out to be some kind of psychopath?”

  Ronnie takes this as his cue to interrupt. His eyes meet mine through the rearview mirror. “Just let me know and I’ll kick his ass.”

  Thanks, tough guy. I feel so much better.

  We roll to a stop in front of Romano’s. Valet parking attendants in trim red jackets—yeah, it’s that kind of place—instantly appear beside the car to open the doors, but I’m the only one who steps out.

  “Don’t forget to check in,” Jess calls out, holding up her cell phone. That’s our plan. She and Ronnie will loiter in the area for a little while in case I decide to leave and need a ride home. Otherwise, I’m on my own. Steeling my nerves, I send her a quick wave and walk inside.

  The interior is pretty much what I expected: polished mahogany floors, white tablecloths, candlelight. The atmosphere is upscale and intimidating as hell. Hushed conversation and the sound of cutlery clinking against fine china. When I give the hostess my name, she leads me through the restaurant to a salon in back—the sort of space that is usually reserved for large, private parties. But when she pulls back the drapery for me to enter, I find an intimate table that has been set for two.

  Thomas Beckett Smith pushes back his chair and politely comes to his feet.

  Christ, he looks good.

  I’m used to seeing him dressed for class: garage band t-shirts and worn jeans riding low on his hips. Now he’s wearing an immaculate, charcoal gray suit that looks as though it’s been custom tailored to accommodate his athletic build. The jacket stretches snugly across the broad lines of his shoulders, then tapers past his torso to his trim waist. Beneath it he’s wearing a crisp white shirt and gray silk tie. His dark chestnut hair is slicked back with careless perfection. And as for his face—clean shaven, his expression cool and controlled, so handsome and ruggedly virile he makes my teeth ache.

  “Hello, Kylie.” If he’s at all surprised to see me, it doesn’t show.

  “Hello...” I begin, then pause. “Do you prefer Thomas or Tom?”

  He gives a small shake of his head. “It’s Beckett. My dad’s Tom.”

  Beckett. The name suits him. He moves around the table and holds my chair for me. As his shoulder brushes mine, I breathe in the subtle aroma of his cologne. It’s intoxicating. It really is. Just the scent of his body makes me dizzy.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” he says once we’re both seated.

  I’m surprised I’m here. Since I don’t want to say to that, I don’t say anything at all. Instead, I watch as he pours us both a glass of wine. Technically, I’m underage. But I suspect he already knows this. I have a hunch that the wine is some kind of test: what sort of lines—both legal and illegal—am I willing to cross? I nod my thanks, but leave the glass alone for the moment.

  “So,” he says. “What do you think of San Francisco State?”

  Small talk. I relax slightly. I can do that. “So far, so good.”

  We chat a bit about the campus, the professors, then he asks, “You’re a biology major?”

  “Forensics, actually.”

  I read the surprise in his eyes. “Really?” A hint of a smile plays about his lips. “You want to work in law enforcement?”

  “Actually, most of the cops I’ve met are assholes.”

  His smile widens. “I agree. So why forensics?”

  “Because…” I hesitate, debating how much of myself to reveal. I could just tell him it’s because I always got straight A’s in science. That I like test tubes. That lab coats turn me on. Instead, I find myself revealing the truth. “Because no one can hide from science—at least, not in a courtroom.”

  I go on to relate the dark source of my inspiration. Two years ago, there was a series of brutal late night rapes in my neighborhood. The victims were so shattered they couldn’t provide a cohesive description of their attacker. But the physical clues the animal left behind—DNA, blood, semen, hair fibers—provided enough of a trail for the cops to track him down and the judge to lock him away.

  Beckett nods, studying me. His expression gives nothing away. “You see yourself as an instrument of justice?”

  “Maybe.” I’ve got to do something with my life, why not that? Then I recall where we are and send him an apologetic smile. “This is a weird topic for a first date. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’m impressed.”

  A plate of calamari arrives. It’s Romano’s specialty. They serve it hot and spicy, grilled rather than fried, and people go nuts over it.

  Beckett looks at me. “I went ahead and ordered an appetizer. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Actually, I’ve never been here before. I’m dying to try it.”

  He serves us both a generous portion and we dig in. Absolutely delicious. Even better than I’d heard. It’s so good, in fact, that when the waiter returns to take our dinner order, I contemplate ordering another plate, just so I can have it all to myself. Instead, I decide to try one of the nightly specials: baked sole with lemons and capers, served with a side of steamed broccoli. Beckett asks for lasagna.

  My cell vibrates. Shit. I’d completely forgotten I was supposed to check in with Jess. She’s probably panicked. I grab it and punch in a quick message, explaining to Beckett that I’m just reassuring my sister that he’s not a serial killer.

  Instead of being offended, he nods approvingly. “Smart.”

  I show him the text message: still alive.

  His lips quirk. “Very encouraging.” He reaches for my phone. “May I?” I pass it over, watching as he types something and hits send. When he passes it back, I glance at the sent message.

  The calamari is delicious.

  He gives me a conspiratorial wink. “That way we’ll trick her into believing you’re actually having a good time,” he says, his blue eyes twinkling. He’s got dimples. Honest-to-God dimples bracketing the sides of his sexy, sexy smile.

  I could melt right there. My insides are more liquid than the wax dripping down the side of the candle. The next hour passes in a blur. I don’t touch the wine. I don’t need to. I’m loose and relaxed, enjoying myself. Beckett, the food, the conversation, the atmosphere… it’s all been great. I read his body language. From what I can tell, he’s enjoying himself, too. Thank God Jess pushed me into this.

  I want to kiss him. I really do. I want to feel his lips on mine. I want his tongue in my mouth and his hands on my thighs. He looks even more delicious than the food. I imagine slowly unknotting his tie. Unbuttoning his shirt. Running my fingers across his broad, muscular chest. I am suddenly aching for Thomas Beckett Smith. On fire for him.

  He must read it in my face, for his expression changes. It’s subtle, but there’s no mistaking it. Heat builds in his gaze. A muscle ticks on the side of his jaw. Then, without warning, he abruptly looks away. He hasn’t been drinking either. Now he reaches for his wine and takes a deep swallow.

  “Kylie,” he says, his voice strangled, “we have to talk.”

  I blink. We have been talking, but obviously that’s not what he means. The mood shifts, and sharp tension replaces the low-key atmosphere we were just enjoying. A strange anxiety creeps over me. Everything’s wrong. I get a sense of something dark and dangerous looming in the distance. Instinct tells me to leave. To stand up and walk away. Thomas Beckett Smith is exactly the kind of trouble I don’t need.

  He says, “You must wonder why I wanted to get together with you.”

  My chest tightens. “Of course,” I lie. No. I hadn’t wondered at all. In my conceit, my naivety, my…whatever, I’d assumed he’d wanted to get to know me. Maybe just wanted me. How humiliating.

  I watch as his expression hardens. He glances around the small, intimate space, as though assuring himself we are absolutely alone. I know I don’t want to hear whatever’s coming next.

  “Well?” I prompt, anxious to get it over with. “Go on, I’m listening. What is it—you need a tutor or something? Want to cheat off my midterm?”

  “
No. I need to talk to you about Ricardo Diaz.” At my blank stare, he impatiently adds, “Ricco.”

  Ricco. If I’d made a list of a million words he might say, that wouldn’t have been one of them. I slump back in my chair. “Ricco?”

  “What do you know about him?”

  What do I know about Ricco? Nothing. Less than nothing. But because I’m certain I saw a spark of interest in his face only moments ago, I give a reply that’s both crass and punitive. I want him to feel as shitty as I do right now. “He’s my lab partner. He’s got a great ass and a sexy accent.”

  Beckett stiffens slightly, and I know I’ve hit the mark. “A Cuban accent,” he says.

  “Yeah, so?”

  “His father is Miguel Diaz.”

  Again, “So?”

  Beckett doesn’t reply right away. Instead, he takes a minute to gather himself. When he looks at me, his handsome face is stripped of all expression. “Kylie, earlier tonight you said you wanted to be an instrument of justice. This is your chance.”

  I shake my head, thoroughly confused. “What are you talking about? Is Ricco in some kind of trouble?”

  “No. As far as we can tell, he’s clean. But Miguel Diaz? Definitely not.”

  Silence reverberates between us, and I ask the question I’m not sure I want answered: “Who is we?”

  He reaches into an inner suit pocket and passes over a thick leather case roughly the size of a playing card. It opens like a dual frame. On one side is a photo of Beckett’s face, with his name embossed beneath it in official-looking type. On the opposite side is his badge. He’s DEA.

  My gaze shoots back to his. I feel shaky. Tricked somehow. Lured here under false pretenses. “What is this?” I manage. “What do you want?”

  “Your help.”

  “My help? My help doing what?”

  “Get close to Ricco. Find out where his father is. When he’s coming back. Does he have any ties to the local Cuban community? Does he—”

  “No.”

  I stand so quickly my thigh slams against the table. Dishes rattle. My untouched glass of wine tips over, sloshing a dark red stain over the white tablecloth. I don’t care. I’m gone. I wheel around to leave, but Beckett is there to stop me. He catches my arm.

  “Kylie, wait.”

  Earlier tonight I was dying for him to touch me. Now I can’t shake off his grip fast enough. “Let go of me.”

  He instantly complies. He releases me and holds up his hands in a position of surrender. But he doesn’t move. He’s blocking the only way out. If I want to leave, I’ll have to push past him.

  “Kylie, wait. Just hear me out. Please.”

  “I told you, I’m not interested.”

  He won’t let up. “Remember that rapist you told me about? The guy in your neighborhood who attacked what—three women? Four? Five? Imagine an animal like that destroying hundreds of people. Men, women, children as young as ten or twelve. That’s what we’re talking about with Ricco’s father.” He pauses for a moment, takes a breath. “If I could do this on my own, I would. I tried. It didn’t work.”

  My eyes narrow. “What do you mean, you tried?”

  “That’s the whole reason I’m at SF State. I was sent in to get close to Ricco. Buddy up. See what I could find out. It didn’t work.”

  I hardly know Ricco, but I could have guessed that much. Beckett comes across as too slick, too pretty boy, too American. Exactly the opposite of the sort of guy Ricco might want to hang out with. I put that aside for the moment. “You’re not an actual student, then.”

  “No. My transcript’s fake.”

  This is all unreal. I cannot believe we’re even having this conversation.

  Beckett moves. He holds out my chair. His gaze drills into mine. “Let me tell you about Miguel Diaz,” he says. “When I’m done, if you still want to walk away, I won’t stop you.”

  I hesitate for a long moment, and then reluctantly relent. His relief that I’m willing to sit and listen is palpable. What follows is a short history lesson on Cuba under Castro’s regime. The crooked government, the bribes, the violence, the cocaine. Upon their immigration to the US, the most vicious, brutal criminal elements not only survived, they flourished. Billionaires were made overnight. Cuban organized crime—drugs, prostitution, murder, racketeering—spread into New York, New Jersey, LA, San Francisco. Some of this I already knew. What I didn’t know (how could I?) was that Ricco’s father is kingpin of his organization. He’s considered one of the most lethal criminals operating in America today.

  I picture Ricco. His cocky strut, his bashful smile, his soulful eyes. Beckett explains that the DEA’s take is that he moved to San Francisco to get away from his father, who operates from the Little Havana section of Miami. Maybe so. But what has he seen? What has he been a part of? My blood runs cold just thinking about it.

  I look up to find Beckett silently watching me. I open my mouth to speak, but have no words. I softly clear my throat and try again. “Exactly what are you asking me to do?”

  “Get information. Anything you can find out about Miguel Diaz. That’s all we need. Nothing risky, I swear.” A beat, then he inclines his head. “Naturally, you’ll be compensated for your help.”

  Naturally. Understanding finally dawns. This was never a date. Not even close. It’s a job interview.

  I’m suddenly exhausted. Drained. “Is that the way this works?”

  “The way what works?”

  “If I’m not hooked by the justice angle—by the thought of innocent people getting hurt unless I do something to help—you try to pay me off.”

  His blue eyes grow cool. “I don’t work for free. I wouldn’t expect you to.” He lets that sink in, then continues, “CI’s are generally paid by—”

  “Wait, what? CI?”

  “A Confidential Informant. That’s what you’d be.”

  Beckett keeps talking, but I’m not listening. Oh, my god. This is real. This is actually real. There’s a name for what I’d be doing. There’s probably a job description written in bureaucrat speak, hidden between vague paragraphs in some thick federal tome. I might even be a budget item. I can’t get my mind around it.

  “Confidential Informant,” I say aloud. I hate the name. I hate the way it sounds and the dirty taste of it in my mouth. I hate everything about it.

  He’s looking at me strangely. “Yes. Informant.”

  “But I thought… I thought informants were druggies who turned on their dealers.”

  “Not always. I’ve worked with informants who were wives, secretaries, golf partners, constructions workers…where they come from isn’t important. The only thing that matters is their ability to get close and personal. The more powerful the person we’re trying to take down, the more critical it is to have an inside man. The intelligence community would grind to a halt without them.”

  “And I’m your inside man.”

  “In this case, yes, you would be.”

  “What makes you think I’ll be able to get close and personal with Ricco?”

  “He’s male and he’s breathing.”

  The comment is raw, real, and obviously unfiltered. We are instantly thrown back to the place we were minutes earlier, when a crazy sexual heat smoldered between us. But it is clear that Beckett regrets saying it. He lets out a short, harsh breath and turns away. Drags a hand through his hair. When he turns back to me, his features are cool and composed. “I’ve seen the way Ricco looks at you in class. He’s definitely interested.”

  I think of Ricco’s macho bravado. His sweet, unrequited advances. I give a noncommittal shrug. “Maybe.”

  “All right, then.”

  “So do I get a gun? Or wait—free birth control?”

  He’s annoyed. “We’re not asking you to sleep with the guy.” He pauses, thinking it over. “In fact, it’d be better if you didn’t.”

  I suck in my breath. I don’t need Ronnie. I might just kick Beckett’s ass myself.

  If he senses my anger, he doesn
’t respond to it. He’s in cop mode now. Processing the CI. “I know this is a lot to take in, but if you’re ready, I’d like to discuss compensation.” At my tight nod, he continues, “Five thousand a month for as long as this operation is viable. In addition, the DEA will cover all your ongoing tuition and expenses. You’ll get a full ride.”

  The air is sucked out of my lungs. It’s like I hit the lottery—or traded my soul to the devil. I’m not sure which.

  The money is huge. Ridiculous. Jess needs it. I need it. But uncertainty holds me in its grip. I waver.

  My gaze meets Beckett’s. “I don’t want to hurt Ricco.”

  He heaves a sigh. “Neither do I. He seems like an okay guy.”

  He pauses for a long moment, thinking something over. Finally he reaches into his suit pocket—the same pocket that held his badge—and removes a photograph. With an air of weighty reluctance, he passes it over.

  I glance at the photo and recoil. It shows a guy in a hospital bed. He’s been badly beaten. Bruises, cuts, swelling everywhere. I’m about to turn away when something about the guy’s eyes catches my attention. My stomach heaves. It’s Ricco.

  Beckett looks at me. “If you can help get his father out of his life and permanently locked away, I think you’d be doing him one hell of a favor.”

  Day Three

  Morning

  “Well?” Jess says. She’s beaming at me. She’s already showered and dressed for work. Dally is happily situated in his playpen. It’s obvious she rushed through her morning routine so we would have time to talk. “How’d it go? Tell me everything.”

  “It was… nice.”

  “Oh.” She pulls a face. “Nice? As in, nice but no chemistry, nice?”

  “No—we definitely had chemistry.”

  She gives a knowing smirk. “Bad kisser, huh?”

  I cannot imagine Beckett being a bad kisser. Just the opposite. I think his kiss would be so hot it would actually scorch my soul. This is pure conjecture, of course. Obviously our ‘date’ didn’t end with a kiss. He just drove me home and dropped me off. Said he wanted to give me time to think.