6

GRANT

(Two Years Ago)

As it turned out, Christopher Leon didn’t improve with time.

“What do you mean, the DNA evidence got washed away?” asked the forensics tech working our case. “It hasn’t rained in two weeks.”

The case in question was the burglary of a small but valuable collection of Picasso drawings from a college library. It wasn’t my usual fare, since I’d been spending most of my time in the jewel thief circuit lately, but I’d been called in to lend a hand to our hotshot newbie—now neither new nor hot.

“I mean that one of our agents accidentally spilled his coffee outside the broken window where the thief cut himself,” I said with painstaking calm. “From the state of things, I’m guessing he must have been very thirsty.”

The forensic tech groaned. “Oh, geez. You got partnered with Leon again, didn’t you?”

A grim smile was my only response. A grim smile was generous, given the circumstances. Not only had I been pulled off my own case, which included a promising date with a certain strawberry blond, but I was being forced to clean up after a man who made Inspector Clouseau look like Sherlock Holmes. Some days, he seemed to be a perfectly capable investigator, dotting his i’s and crossing his t’s with all the efficiency one would expect from a man in his position. Other days… Well. Let’s just say I wasn’t the only agent who’d noticed how often an easy case went awry when Christopher Leon was on the job.

“Make do with what you have, but I doubt you’ll find anything,” I said. Just caffeine, milk, and the remnants of Christopher’s ineptitude. Unfortunately, I’d learned the hard way that laying any of the blame on the man responsible would only result in a slap on my wrist and a threat to strip me of my badge. The man had friends in high places, as my wrist could attest. It still stung from the time I’d questioned his clearance to become a field agent. “And thanks.”

The tech gave me a mock salute and went back to work.

I should have gone directly back to the crime scene after that to salvage what I could, but my phone buzzed with an incoming text.

I’m just sitting all alone at the café where you booked us a table, it read. Did you know you can see straight into Tiffany’s from here?

I laughed out loud. Of course I knew the vantage point from our proposed date. I’d chosen it—and paid off the manager—for the exact purpose of trying to get a reaction out of my quarry. True to form, Penelope hadn’t shown any dismay at the last-minute cancellation, but I wouldn’t be surprised to hear tomorrow that Tiffany’s had suffered an overnight break-in. A woman scorned was capable of anything. And that woman scorned…

“What’s so funny?” Christopher materialized in front of me, peering forward to get a look at my screen.

My instinct was to snatch the phone away and tell him to back off, but I forced a smile and flashed him the screen instead. “Just working the Blue case,” I said as though it were a matter of supreme indifference. I wasn’t giving this man any ammunition. You remember? The one you tried to go over my head and take away from me?

“Oh, yeah,” he replied, casual to the point of suspicion. “How’s that going?”

Two could play this game. “It’s going as well as can be expected,” I said. “I’m not going to wring any answers about her father’s whereabouts overnight, but anything worth doing is worth doing well.”

“You know, you could always bring her in—” He looked up, midsentence, to find me staring at him. He knew my cold look well enough by now. “Never mind. I’m sure you’re handling it.”

“Thank you,” I said without emphasis. “I don’t suppose you found any new leads?”

Before Christopher could open his mouth all the way, I added, “On the missing Picassos.”

He hunched his shoulders and looked away. “No, not yet. I really am sorry about the coffee, by the way. I don’t know what came over me.”

There was something about a man so wholly out of his depth that I couldn’t help but give him an out. “It’s all right. I still like the security guard for it. He had access and opportunity—and unless I’m mistaken, he was also employed at the University of Maryland, where those Roman busts went missing last year.”

Christopher looked interested. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” I pushed off the wall and began covering the ground at a clipped pace. The sooner I could get this thing finished, the sooner I could get back to my own work. Until Christopher screwed up another case and I got called in to fix it, anyway. “Under a different name and social, of course. And he may have even gotten a nose job in between. I doubt I would have picked up on the link if it wasn’t for the car.”

Christopher kept easy pace with me. “The car?”

“Oh, yeah. He might have been willing to change his identity and undergo the knife for the sake of a few bucks, but he wouldn’t let a ’71 Hemi ’Cuda go. I mean, I’ve always been more of a Camaro SS man myself, but…” I released a low whistle. Owning any car in New York was ridiculous, but there were times when a man had to sit down and face the traffic. For me, it would have been a ’69 Chevrolet Camaro SS—a lingering teenage fantasy and the one car I’d have sold my soul to own. For my suspect, it was a vintage Plymouth. I almost couldn’t blame him for it. “He had to register the car at both schools to get a parking permit. I’ve already requested the VIN from both. We should have an answer in the next few hours.”

Christopher stopped in his walk down the hallway. I turned back to look at him, unable to suppress a smug grin at the look of perplexity lowering his brow. “Does this mean you aren’t going to look at other suspects?” he asked.

“If he’s guilty?” I gave a short laugh. “No. That’s usually how it works. You find the bad guy and move on. Was there someone else you wanted me to arrest?”

“No. No, of course not.” He spoke quickly before checking his watch in a clumsy show. “I’m just relieved, that’s all.”

I didn’t know why he was relieved. Any other agent who botched a job that bad might feel grateful at having been handed an easy win, but any other agent wasn’t Christopher Leon. No fear of punishment ever crossed his mind. In fact, it was much more likely that I’d be the one to take the fall if the security guard theory didn’t hold. He’d probably get a fucking promotion.

My phone buzzed again, and I glanced down to see another incoming text from Penelope. Interesting. Did you know that the guards at Tiffany’s stagger their arrival times?

“Is that her again?” Christopher asked.

I bit back the chuckle that had risen to my lips. “Yes, it is,” I said in a way that should have repressed further communication.

It didn’t.

“You might want to be careful there, Emerson,” he said, and in a warning tone I’d never heard from him before. “A woman like that isn’t going to stick around for long. It won’t do to get too attached.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not,” I replied.

He didn’t believe me any more than I believed myself, but short of calling me a liar and pulling me up in front of the ethics board, there wasn’t much he could do about it.

“Was there anything else you wanted to add?” I asked.

He wanted to, that much was evident. But by that time, he was fast learning that there were some issues closed to negotiation, and Penelope Blue was one of them. I might not have the power to get him pulled from cases he was too inexperienced to lead, but he didn’t have the power to take Penelope away from me.

Though not, I knew, from lack of trying.

“No, I’m good,” he said.

I let it sit at that—and not only because I was done having a conversation that would lead nowhere. It was also because the sooner I called those colleges and saw about those VIN numbers, the sooner I could put a stakeout detail on Tiffany’s. I could hardly wait.

Penelope might not have any long-term plans about sticking around, but I could at least enjoy the game while I was still in it.