INFORMANT Page 8

  A poet once wrote that fog comes in on little cat feet. That may be true in Pacific Heights, Russian Hill, the Marina—all the money neighborhoods. It doesn’t apply here. In The Avenues, the fog rolls in like a wave, a tsunami that obliterates everything in its path. White wisps of fog wrap around Jess and Ronnie like a shroud, cloaking them more and more until they disappear completely.

  Fear chills me. An ugly premonition takes hold. I know with utter certainty that this will not end well. Not with Ronnie and Jess, not with Beckett and me. I want to take Dally and run, to shelter him from this mess we’ve created. This disaster waiting to happen. The beauty and desperation of it.

  But Jess… Jess looks happy. Wildly content. Even as I want to save my sister, I realize she is as complicit as Ronnie is. She has made her choice, and is thrilled with him.

  Just as my mother chose the good-looking, charming, hopeless case that was my father.

  Just as I’ve chosen Beckett.

  For all the air of superiority that I feign, I’m no better than either of them. In my bedroom I built a shrine to my father, even though he’s very much still alive. I have an entire bookshelf filled with birthday cards that arrived weeks late. Cheap plastic dolls given years after I was too old to play with them—a fact he would have known had he paid any attention to me at all. There are games that sit unopened. Clothes that didn’t fit, in styles I hated. I gushed over each gift—Look! You do care! Here’s proof!—so grateful for these pathetic little tokens of affection, lest they stop completely. For years I did this.

  The biology lesson I was studying earlier surges to mind. Gregor Mendel and his goddamned peas, his dominant and recessive genes. The Porter women—my mother, sister, and me—have different color hair, different eyes, different body types. But there is one trait that unites us all. We are all willing to take endless amounts of shit from the men in our lives. We protect them, make excuses for them, trust them. This is the genetic marker that runs through us all. This is our genetic gift. We have been trained from birth to be used and misused by men. Rarely are we disappointed.

  My heart begins to hammer as I mentally replay the events of this evening. Did Beckett visit me tonight to seduce me, to soften me toward the concept of wearing a wire? I don’t want to believe it, but it’s possible.

  Actually, knowing Beckett and his warped little games, it’s pretty fucking likely. Shit. I wanted him, and I thought he wanted me. Worst of all, I fell stupidly, eagerly, into his embrace—and then he told me about the wire. He played me. What an asshole.

  I sit in silence for a long minute, fuming, then I shake off my anger. I have to get my head together. Think. What I need now is perspective. I’m smart, and it’s about time I started acting like it. I’ve allowed myself to be used, but that’s my fault as much as his.

  This is all just a job to Beckett, and I can’t ever forget that. He wants to nail Miguel Diaz. I’m nothing more than a means to that end. A tool, in every sense of the word. That’s the way I have to look at it, no matter what he says, no matter what I feel. This is a job.

  Will I wear a wire? Yes. But it will goddamned well be on my terms.

  Day Twenty-One

  Early Evening

  At five o’clock, I get a text from Jane: Hey I’m bored Can I come over?

  I type back half a dozen crude responses, but this is the one I actually send: Now?

  Yeah

  Okay

  And just like that, I’ve got three DEA agents knocking at my door. Of course, they don’t look like DEA. No suits and ties. All of them, including Beckett, wear plumber get-ups and lug bulky tool boxes. The two older agents—guys somewhere in their early fifties, I assume they’re Beckett’s bosses—move from room to room in our cramped flat, peeking inside. If this were an old movie, the phrase they’d use is case the joint.

  When they’re done, one of them turns to me and gives a curt nod. “I’m Agent Reardon. Is anyone else home?”

  “No.”

  “Anyone else expected home?”

  “No. My mother doesn’t get off work until after midnight.”

  “Fine.” His voice is clipped and his face is expressionless. This guy would never make it in undercover. Even now, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, he’s a cop’s cop. Straight out of the law enforcement handbook. I imagine him using words like vehicle instead of car, exit instead of leave, affirmative instead of yes.

  “Do you understand why we’re here?” he asks.

  I adopt the same perfunctory tone that he’s using. “You want me to wear a wire to my dinner with Ricco and Juan Diaz.”

  “Correct.”

  He nods to his partner. The number two guy opens up the tool box he’s lugged in. Inside is a padded case brimming with sophisticated looking monitors, headphones, and assorted techie gadgets. Recording devices, I assume.

  “We still call it a wire, but obviously there are no wires involved,” the guy says. He lifts a small velvet box, the sort of box that might hold a wedding ring. But there’s no ring inside. Instead, the box holds a tiny flat disc that resembles a watch battery. “The mike is small, state-of-the-art, virtually undetectable. It’s magnetized, so it won’t fall off.” He stands and gives me a once-over. “Attaching it to a brassiere strap generally works best. You ready?”

  I take a step backward. In the first place, I’m not exactly keen to be touched by a fifty-year-old guy who uses the term brassiere. And secondly, “We need to discuss compensation.”

  Silence reverberates across the room. Agent Reardon studies me, then he turns and shoots Beckett a look. “I thought you said you had your CI under control.”

  Really? Is that what Beckett said? He had me under control? How fascinating.

  I haven’t looked at him since he stepped inside. Now I turn and give him my full attention. We all do.

  Beckett is unfazed. Although his eyes are locked on mine, it’s obvious his words are meant for his boss. He says, “The CI and I have a clear understanding. In return for her services as an informant, she is receiving compensation in the amount of five thousand a month, plus her tuition at SFSU is being paid in full.”

  “True,” I say. “But that was before.”

  He arches a cynical brow. “Before?”

  “Before the scope of work changed.” I’m pleased with how cool and unemotional I sound. I’m simply stating facts. “Five thousand a month was satisfactory when it was just Ricco and me. Now his uncle is involved, and you’re asking me to wear a wire.”

  “Let me just clarify here,” Reardon cuts in. “Are you saying you’re not willing to wear a wire?”

  “Oh, I’ll wear one… if I’m adequately compensated.” I shrug. “With greater risk comes greater reward.”

  Beckett snickers. “Exactly how much reward are you looking for?”

  “Ten thousand a month.”

  I know this sounds gratuitous. An astronomical amount. It’s not. The DEA pays hundreds of thousands every year to informants like me—particularly when the prey they’re hunting is someone as notorious as Miguel Diaz. It would be worth at least that much to get him locked up in prison here, or extradited back to Cuba. I know this, Beckett knows this, and judging by the expression on his face, so does Agent Reardon.

  Reardon gives a curt nod. “I’ll make a call.” He steps into my mother’s bedroom and closes the door. I can hear him speaking, but I can’t make out his words.

  So we wait—Beckett, the tech guy, and me. One happy threesome. Although I might sound cool, I’m not. My heart is hammering, my stomach is tied in knots, and my hands are shaking. I clench them into tight fists and ball them at my sides. I’m wearing the red dress I borrowed from Jess—the one I wore to Romano’s that night with Beckett. She refers to it as my ‘lucky’ dress. What a laugh.

  After a minute, Beckett breaks the silence. “Nice stunt.”

  I bring up my chin. “What’d you think? You’re the only one who knows how to use people?”

  I hit the mark with that on
e. I watch it register on his face. He flinches as though I’ve slapped him. The tech guy clears his throat and looks away.

  My satisfaction is short-lived. Agent Reardon emerges from my mother’s room. He nods at the tech guy. “Agreed. Mike her.”

  Holy fuck.

  It’s happening. I half-expected them to turn me down, but they didn’t. The reality of what I’m doing slams into me like some monster wave, nearly knocking me flat. I am allowing myself to be miked. I am helping federal agents attempt to take down one of the biggest drug lords in the country. If Juan Diaz even suspects what I am doing, he will kill me. I will die a brutal, painful death and when it’s over, Diaz will cut my body into little pieces and dump me in the bay. My knees go weak and I am actually glad for the presence of the creepy tech guy, for he’s holding my arm as he secures the mike to my bra strap.

  When he finishes, he steps away. He returns to his toolbox, slips on a pair of headphones, and fiddles with some knobs. He looks at me. “Say something.”

  “My name is Kylie Porter.”

  He frowns, shakes his head, makes an adjustment to one of the dials. “Again. Keep talking until I cut you off.”

  My mouth is so dry that my first word comes out a croak. I swallow hard and try again. “My name is Kylie Porter. My sister’s name is Jess. My nephew Dally is seven months old. He has two teeth and when he smiles—”

  “That’s enough.” Tech guy looks at Reardon. “Loud and clear.” He shuts his case, locks it up tight, and leaves the flat.

  “Do you know where you’re going for dinner?” Reardon asks me.

  “Ricco said his uncle is staying at the Fairmont. We’re eating there—some restaurant in the hotel, I think.”

  “Fine. We’ll be in a white, unmarked van parked outside, listening to every word. You don’t want to spend a lot of time alone with Juan Diaz in his room. If anything goes wrong, get yourself out of there. Somewhere with crowds is generally your safest choice. A store, restaurant, bar—that sort of thing.”

  “All right.”

  “Is Ricco picking you up?”

  “No. He said he’d send a cab for me. It should be here any minute.”

  Agent Reardon checks his watch, and then studies me thoughtfully. “You ready?”

  “Yes,” I lie.

  “Good luck, Blue.”

  For a moment, I’m confused. Then I remember, that’s my CI designation. Blue That’s the name I impulsively gave Beckett, that’s how he identifies me in his reports. How apt, I think now.

  Code Blue in a hospital: an all-out emergency. Blue—the color your lips turn when you can’t breathe. To have the blues, to feel sad, even if you’re not quite sure why.

  Reardon looks at Beckett, obviously expecting him to leave with him, but Beckett shakes him off. “I’ll be there in a minute,” he says.

  The moment the door closes behind his boss, Beckett moves toward me, erasing the distance between us with three long strides. He pulls me to him, holding me against his chest. I simply stand there, absorbing his strength, his solidity. I can feel his heart beating against my cheek, feel his hands stroking my back. Then I remember: I can’t do this. I can’t allow Beckett to twist me around.

  I step out of his embrace. “Don’t,” I say.

  He actually looks bewildered. Hurt. He’s good, I’ll give him that. “What?”

  “I feel safer with Ricco than I do with you. At least I can trust him.”

  Heat flares in his eyes, and a muscle ticks furiously in his jaw. “Jesus, Kylie. That’s fucking crazy. You know that, right? You’re not safe with him. Don’t believe for a minute that you are.”

  Maybe not, but it doesn’t matter. The deal I’ve just struck, the money the DEA has agreed to pay me, is life-changing. Literally. I can go to grad school, help my mom with the bills, make sure Jess and Dally are taken care of. The danger isn’t relevant. You don’t offer someone from my neighborhood ten thousand a month and expect them to turn it down. Just ask Ronnie.

  “You don’t have to pretend anymore, Beckett. Don’t twist this around. There’s nothing between us. This is a job, and I’m being paid. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “There’s nothing between us? Is that what you think?” He gives a hoarse laugh, drags a hand through his hair. “Kylie, you know me—“

  “No, I don’t. I don’t know you, and you sure as hell don’t know me. You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

  My statement hangs in the air. We both recognize the awful truth in it. He has no idea what I’m capable of doing when it comes to protecting the people I love. I have no idea what drives him, but I sense it has to do with something that happened in his family. Bottom line, we are both protectors—as fierce as tigers when someone we care about is threatened. That is the one thing that unites us both.

  His eyes lock on mine. In a voice as rough as gravel, he says, “It will kill me if something happens to you.”

  Now that’s funny. He doesn’t want me hurt. Is that why he lured me into this? I push the thought away. No. I refuse to play victim. I understand what’s happening. Nobody’s forcing me to do this. All the choices from here on out—the good and the bad—are my own. I take full responsibility for my actions.

  A horn honks outside and I glance out the window. A yellow taxi sits idling at the curb. “My ride’s here,” I say.

  “Kylie—“

  “Don’t.”

  I stride past him, but Beckett’s not ready to let me go. He catches my arm and pulls me back into his embrace. “I don’t believe you,” he says. “I don’t believe you don’t care. I don’t believe my touch means nothing to you.”

  His breath fans my neck and I shudder. Something I can’t name—longing, fear, desire?—races down my spine like the peal of a thousand tiny bells. My fingernails dig into his shoulders as my body betrays me, revealing every wretched emotion I’d tried so hard to hide. I want him so badly I ache.

  Beckett feels it. He reads me like the proverbial book. A smile curves his lips as he strokes his fingers along my cheek. Satisfaction burns in his beautiful blue eyes. “What? No kiss good-bye?”

  I jerk out of his grasp, turn and walk away. I pause at the door and shoot him a final glare. “I think you know what you can kiss.”

  * * *

  A formally attired doorman ushers me into the Fairmont Hotel. I glance around the lobby, gaining a vague impression of thick velvet drapes, crystal chandeliers, fine patterned carpets, lush foliage. Everything rich and expensive. I’m so terrified I actually feel nauseous. I try to smile, but I don’t think it’s working. It just feels like my face is cracking.

  Somehow I force myself to move forward. I don’t take drugs, but I imagine this is what the world would look like if I did. My vision blurs around the edges. Some of the hotel staff seem to be moving at double speed, others are moving in slow motion.

  Then I spot Ricco. He is dressed immaculately, expensively. His shoes are shined to a mirror finish. His ebony hair is slicked back and a designer suit drapes his body, hugging his long, lean form. He is darkly attractive, and yet there is something faintly menacing about the way he paces back and forth. He reminds me of a panther, equally beautiful and lethal.

  But obviously that is just my imagination working overtime. I don’t miss the appreciative looks the other women in the hotel are giving him, looks seeped with erotic invitation. With a shock of surprise, I suddenly realize how handsome he is. It’s odd, but I just can’t see Ricco in those terms. I like him a lot, but that essential burn isn’t there.

  His welcoming smile falters when he sees me. “Kylie. What is it?”

  Crap. Obviously I’m not an actress. I’ve never been good at hiding my feelings. Right now I am so stressed, so terrified, that I can’t come up with any words. I look up at Ricco, and he seems so genuinely concerned for me that tears actually pool in my eyes. It’s all too much.

  He pulls me with him behind a Chinese folding screen that separates the lobby from the bar area, giving us a bit
of temporary privacy. “Tell me,” he says. “What is it? What happened? Did someone hurt you?”

  He is tense, fiercely protective, willing to slay dragons for me. In return, I am about to betray him. The irony of it is my undoing. Tears run down my cheeks. “It’s my sister,” I blurt out.

  “Your sister?”

  “We got into an argument. Her husband forgot her birthday, and so I got mad at him, and she got mad at me… We called each other names… It was awful.” Lie, lie, lie. I’ve become such a good liar. But I don’t know what else to say.

  “Ah,” he says, as the tension leaves his face. He pulls me against him and strokes my back. “You want to protect her from her low-life husband, is that it?” He thinks for a minute, and then frowns. “Does he beat her?”

  “No! Of course not!” My horror is genuine.

  “All right, then.”

  “It’s just… I think she deserves so much more. That doesn’t make me an awful person, does it?”

  He lets out an amused breath. “No. It makes you a loving sister.” I am righteously validated by his answer, by his assessment of my make-believe crisis, until he softly continues, “But maybe a sister who meddles too much in things that don’t concern her.”

  I tug out of his embrace. Tilt back my head to study his face. “What?”

  “Kylie. She has married this man. Given him a son. These are her choices. This is what she wants. Let her be happy in the life she has chosen.”

  “But—”

  “It is not your place to judge her.”

  Holy crap. Damned if he isn’t right. “Well. That’s harsh.” I give him a wobbly smile and brush away my tears. “Not exactly what I wanted to hear, but I appreciate your saying it.”