Текст книги "A Lot Like Love"
Автор книги: Julie James
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A Lot like Love
FBI / US Attorney – 2
by
Julie James
To my sister, for the Western Barbie story and many other timeless classics.
Acknowledgments
To my fabulous editor, Wendy McCurdy, for her insight, suggestions, and support, and to my wonderful agent, Susan Crawford, for her dedication and tremendous enthusiasm. Thanks as well to the entire team at Berkley, all of whom do such an incredible job and whose contributions are extremely appreciated.
A special thanks to Denise and Martin Cody, for showing me the ins and outs of running a wine store, and for being so gracious in answering all my pesky questions. Thanks as well to wine educator and sommelier John Laloganes for his fantastic wine appreciation course.
To Maria and Brian Guarraci, Matt and Melissa Boresi, Jen Adamo, and most especially to Pete Montenaro, my New York consigliere, for their insight and wonderful stories about Italian families. I only wish I could’ve used every story they shared with me – particularly the one about the tomato plant.
Thanks as well to my father-in-law, for his investigative expertise and that of his mysterious “sources,” for helping me develop the setup of this story in its early stages.
To my incredible beta readers, Elyssa Papa and Kati Dancy, for all their helpful suggestions, and an extraspecial thanks to Elyssa for the title of this book.
Thank you to my family and friends, for all their love and support, and particularly for putting up with me when I’m on a deadline. And finally, to my husband, for always listening, helping, advising, and being all-around amazing.
One
FROM THE MOMENT Nick McCall walked into his boss’s office, he knew something was up.
Being a special agent for the FBI, he was an expert at both observing body language and reading between the lines, often gleaning all he needed to know from a carelessly chosen word or the subtlest of gestures. A skill that frequently came in handy.
Upon entering the room, he watched as Mike Davis, the special agent in charge of the Chicago field office, toyed with the sleeve of his venti Starbucks coffee cup (even he refused to drink the crap they had in the office) – a gesture many of the senior agents in the office had noted long ago. It was Davis’s tell, and Nick knew exactly what it meant.
Trouble.
Another long undercover job, he guessed. Not that working undercover bothered him – in fact, for the past few years, that was almost exclusively the type of investigation he’d handled. But having just finished a particularly grueling assignment, even he was ready for a break.
He took a seat in one of the chairs in front of Davis’s desk, watching as his boss now twisted the sleeve around the base of the Starbucks cup. Shit, he was screwed. Everyone knew that twisting of the sleeve was even worse than sliding.
Nick saw no point in beating around the bush. “All right. Just lay it on me.”
Davis greeted him with a grin. “Good morning to you, too, sunshine. And welcome back. How I missed our pleasant chats while you were working on Fivestar.”
“Sorry. I’ll start over. It’s good to be back, sir. Thank you.”
“I assume you were able to find your office without too much trouble?” Davis asked dryly.
Nick got comfortable in his chair, letting the sarcasm bounce off him. True, while working on Operation Fivestar over the last six months, he hadn’t been in the office much. And it felt good to be back. Surprisingly, he realized that he had missed his chats with Davis. Sure, his boss could be prickly at times, but with all the crap he had to deal with as special agent in charge, this was to be expected.
“I wandered around the floor until I found a door with my name on it. Nobody’s kicked me out yet, so I figure I must be in the right place.” He looked Davis over. “You’re looking a little grayer around the temples there, boss.”
Davis grunted. “Spent the last six months of my life worrying that you’d screw up your investigation.”
Nick stretched out his legs in front of him. He didn’t screw up investigations. “Have I ever given you any reason to doubt me?”
“Probably. You’re just better at covering it up than most.”
“That’s true. So you want to go ahead and give me the bad news?”
“You’re so convinced I’ve got something to tell you.” Davis feigned innocence as he gestured to his Starbucks cup. “Can’t a guy simply catch up over coffee with the top agent in his office?”
“Oh, so I’m your top agent now.”
“You’ve always been my top agent.”
Nick raised an eyebrow. “Don’t let Pallas hear you say that,” he said, referring to another agent in their office who’d recently been on a run with some very high-profile arrests.
“You and Pallas are both my top agents,” Davis said, as diplomatically as a mother who’d just been asked to name her favorite child.
“Nice save.”
“Actually, I wasn’t kidding about the catching up part. I heard the arrests last week got a little rough.”
Nick brushed this off. “That can happen with arrests. Funny enough, it’s typically not an experience that catches people at their best.”
Davis studied him through sharp gray eyes. “Coming off an undercover job is never easy, especially a rough one like Fivestar. Twenty-seven Chicago police officers charged with corruption is quite a coup. You did a great job, Nick. The director called me earlier this morning and told me to extend his personal congratulations to you.”
“I’m glad both you and the director are pleased.”
“I can’t help but think that the arrests might’ve struck a nerve, given your background.”
Nick wouldn’t necessarily say the case struck a nerve, although it was true: busting police officers wasn’t high on his list of fun things to do. Cop blood ran through his veins, after all – he was a former police officer himself, having worked vice for the NYPD for six years before applying to the FBI. His father had served on the New York Police Department for thirty years before retiring, and one of Nick’s brothers was a cop. But the twenty-seven police officers he had arrested last Friday had crossed the line. In his opinion, the fact that the bad guys happened to wear badges only made them less worthy of sympathy.
“They were dirty cops, Mike. I didn’t have any problem taking them down,” Nick said.
Davis seemed satisfied. “Good. Glad we got that out of the way. And I saw that you put in for some time off.”
“I’m heading back to New York for a few days to surprise my mother. She’s turning sixty this Sunday and my family’s having a big party.”
“When are you leaving?”
Nick sensed that this question was less casual than Davis’s tone would suggest. “Tonight. Why?” he asked suspiciously.
“What would you say if I asked you to consider postponing your trip a few days?”
“I’d say you obviously don’t know my mother. If I don’t get back home for this party, you’ll need a bulldozer to dig me out of the layers of guilt she’ll pile on me.”
Davis laughed at that. “You don’t need to miss her party, you can still be in New York in plenty of time. Say … Saturday night. Sunday morning at the latest.”
“You’re joking, obviously. Seeing how I’ve asked for all of about two days off in the last six years, I’m thinking I’m kind of due for this vacation.”
Davis turned more serious. “I know you are, Nick. Believe me, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
Nick held back what would normally be his sarcastic reply. He respected Davis. They’d been working together for six years, and he found Davis to be a fair boss and a straight shooter. And the entire time Nick had worked in the Chicago field office, he’d never heard of Davis asking anyone for a favor. Which made it virtually impossible to say no.
He sighed. “I’m not saying yes. But out of curiosity, what’s the assignment?”
Davis sensed the beginnings of his capitulation and leaned forward in his chair. “I’d call it a consulting job, of sorts. There’s been an unexpected development in an investigation being run jointly by the financial crimes and organized crimes divisions and I need to bring on someone with your level of undercover experience. Things might get a little tricky.”
“What kind of case is it?” Nick asked.
“Money laundering.”
“Who’s in charge of the investigation?”
“Seth Huxley.”
Nick had seen Huxley around the office, but probably had exchanged less than ten words with him. His first – and only – impression had been that Huxley seemed very … organized. If Nick remembered correctly, Huxley had come to the Bureau by way of the law program and had gone to some Ivy League school before joining the financial crimes division. “What do you need me to do?”
“I’ll let Huxley fill you in on the details of the case. We’re meeting him in a minute,” Davis said. “I’ve assured him that you’re not being brought on board to take over – he’s been working on this case for a couple months now.”
Nick realized that his agreement had been somewhat of a formality the entire time. “So why do you need me?”
“To make sure Huxley isn’t in over his head. It’s his first undercover assignment. I don’t like holding back an agent, and Huxley hasn’t given me any reason to do that here. Everyone has to have his or her first undercover assignment sometime. But the U.S. attorney has her eye on this case, and that means there’s no room for error.”
“Is there ever room for error in any of your cases?”
Davis acknowledged that with a grin. “No. But this time, there’s particularly no room for error. It’s the way I classify things: basically no room for error, no room for error, and particularly no room for error. It’s very technical.”
Nick thought about something Davis had just said. “You mentioned that the U.S. attorney is watching the case. Is it part of the Martino investigation?”
Davis nodded. “Now you understand why there can’t be any mistakes.”
He didn’t need to say anything further. Three months ago, a new U.S. attorney, Cameron Lynde, had been appointed after a scandal that resulted in the arrest and resignation of her predecessor. Ever since Lynde had been appointed, she’d made the Martino investigation her top priority. As such, it was the top priority of the FBI’s Chicago field office as well.
For years, Roberto Martino had run the largest crime syndicate in Chicago – his organization was responsible for nearly one-third of all drug trafficking in the city, and his people extorted, bribed, threatened, and killed anyone who stood in their way. Over the course of the last few months, however, the FBI had arrested over thirty members of Martino’s gang, including Roberto Martino himself. Both the attorney general and the director of the FBI had declared the arrests to be a major victory in the war on crime.
Since he’d been working undercover on Operation Fivestar for the last six months, Nick hadn’t been involved in any of the Martino arrests. Some of the other agents had received all the glory on that front, a fact that somewhat rankled his competitive ego.
“Want to find out more?” Davis asked, a knowing gleam in his eyes.
Hell, it was less than a week, Nick figured. Over the next few days, he could lend his much-learned undercover expertise to a junior agent, score brownie points with his boss, kick some gangster ass, and still be in New York by Sunday to sing “Happy Birthday” to his mother. From where he stood, it was a win-win situation all around.
“All right,” Nick nodded. “Let’s go meet Huxley.”
AGENT HUXLEY WAS already waiting for them in the conference room. Nick did a quick assessment of his new partner: carefully groomed blond hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and an expensive three-piece suit. His eyes held on the article of clothing Huxley wore underneath his suit jacket.
A vest.
And not the bulletproof kind. A sweater-vest. As in, Huxley wasn’t wearing just a suit; he had this whole ensemble going: dark brown pants and jacket, crisp pinstriped shirt, V-neck vest, and tan silk tie.
Nick, on the other hand, was dressed in his standard-issue, no-frills gray suit, white shirt, and navy tie. Because men who grew up in Brooklyn didn’t do ensembles. And they certainly didn’t do sweater-vests. True, it was early February in Chicago and about ten degrees outside, so he supposed the vest served some sort of functional purpose in keeping Huxley warm, but still. In Nick’s opinion, the only accessories an FBI agent should pair with a suit were a shoulder harness and gun. Maybe handcuffs, depending on the formality of the occasion.
Nick nodded at Huxley and said a quick greeting as he took the seat opposite him at the marble conference table. Davis sat at the head of the table and got things started. “So I told Nick how you’ve been working on the Eckhart investigation for the past couple of months.”
At least he had a name now, and one he was familiar with – a name many people in Chicago were familiar with. “Xander Eckhart? The restaurant guy?”
“Nightclubs and restaurants, actually,” Huxley corrected him. He adjusted his glasses, sitting straight in his chair. “Eckhart owns three restaurants and four bars in the Chicago area, all expensive, upscale establishments. The crown jewel is a French restaurant, Bordeaux, located just west of the Loop. It sits on the river and has an exclusive VIP-only wine bar that caters to a wealthy clientele.”
“I’ve already filled Nick in on the fact that the investigation is connected to the Martino cases. Why don’t you pick up from there?” Davis suggested.
Huxley had his laptop out, prepared to do just that. He picked up a remote control, and with the push of a button, a screen dropped down from the ceiling in the front of the room. The lights in the conference room dimmed, and Huxley began his presentation. “Subsequent to the arrests of Roberto Martino and other members of his criminal organization, we’ve begun to realize that the scope of Martino’s illegal activity is far wider than we’d suspected. Like his connections to this man here.”
On the screen before him, Nick found himself looking at a photograph of a man in his midthirties who had medium-length brown hair stylishly swept back from his forehead. He wore a suit that appeared even more expensive than Huxley’s and had a tall, willowy brunette in her early twenties on his arm.
“That’s Xander Eckhart,” Huxley said. “The girl’s inconsequential, the flavor of the month. Based on evidence we’ve acquired over the last few months, we believe that Eckhart has been laundering large sums of drug money for Roberto Martino. Martino combines his money with the profits of Eckhart’s restaurants and bars – the nightclubs in particular deal heavily in cash, providing the perfect cover. Eckhart then reports the dirty money as part of his revenue, and voilà, it’s clean. We’ve been working with the IRS to find proof in the tax records that Eckhart has filed for his businesses over the last couple years, but in the meantime the U.S. attorney has asked us to come up with additional evidence.”
“Something a jury would actually pay attention to,” Davis explained to Nick.
Nick understood the U.S. attorney’s thinking behind this. He’d worked with enough prosecutors to know that they disliked cases where the evidence was primarily document-driven. Putting a boring IRS investigator on the witness stand to walk through pages and pages of indecipherable tax filings was the surest way to put a jury to sleep – and lose a conviction.
“So what other evidence do we have?” he asked.
“I’ve been watching Eckhart for the last few weeks and observed him meeting with this man.” Huxley pulled up another image, a photograph of a man with jet black hair who appeared to be in his mid to late forties. He wore a dark overcoat with the collar turned up as he hurried into a building Nick didn’t recognize.
“That’s Carlo Trilani, being photographed outside Bordeaux,” Huxley said. “He’s been there on several occasions to meet with Eckhart, always when the restaurant is closed. We suspect that Trilani is one of Martino’s men, although we don’t have enough evidence yet to make an arrest. Hopefully, we’ll nail both him and Eckhart as part of this investigation.”
Nick was quickly catching on. “I’m guessing the tangible evidence we want lies in those meetings.”
Huxley nodded. “What we need is a way to listen in on Eckhart and Trilani’s conversations.”
Nick saw where Huxley was going with this: electronic surveillance. More commonly used by the FBI than he suspected the average person realized, it was an investigative technique that often provided them the hard evidence they needed. The trick, however, was setting up the recording devices without tipping off the suspects. But the FBI had its ways.
“You said they meet at Bordeaux?” Nick asked.
“I should have been more clear. They don’t actually meet in the restaurant. Eckhart, or more likely Trilani, is smarter than that.” Huxley pulled up computer-generated blueprints of a building with two levels. “This is the layout of the building where Bordeaux is located.” A progression of images flashed across the screen, with different areas on the blueprints highlighted in yellow as Huxley continued. “There’s a restaurant on the main level, with an outdoor terrace overlooking the river. The VIP wine bar is located next to that, in this space right here. Below the restaurant and the wine bar is this lower level, where Eckhart keeps a private office. That’s where he and Trilani meet.”
“Can you get into the lower level through the bar?” Nick asked.
“Yes and no.” Huxley zoomed in on the blueprints for the main level. “There’s an interior door in the wine bar that leads to a staircase to the lower level. There’s also this separate exterior entrance here, right next to the back door for the main bar. The problem is that both doors to the lower level – as well as all the windows – are protected by an alarm system.”
“Eckhart has a separate security system for his office?” Nick asked.
“I think he’s more concerned with this space here.” Huxley brought up the blueprints for the lower level and highlighted a large space located down the hall from Eckhart’s office. “This is the wine cellar for the VIP bar and the restaurant. That’s the reason for the security system – Eckhart’s got over six thousand bottles of wine down there. Really top stuff. I did some research; apparently Eckhart’s a huge collector. Last year, Wine Spectator did a whole cover story on him and the cellar at Bordeaux. And a few weeks ago, he made a big splash in the wine community by paying two hundred and fifty-eight thousand dollars for a case of rare wine.”
“A quarter of a million dollars for wine?” Nick shook his head in disbelief. The things rich people did with their money.
“And that’s just one case out of six thousand bottles,” Huxley continued. “By all accounts, between wine and champagne, Eckhart’s got over three million dollars in drinkable, easily transportable goods sitting underneath his restaurant.”
Davis whistled. “Explains the security system.”
Nick scoffed at this, not so easily impressed. Sure, maybe Eckhart’s collection was worth a ton of money, but it was still just wine. Call him unrefined, but he wasn’t about to get all hot and bothered over a bunch of fermented grape juice. A man’s drink should be strong, and burn a little on the way down. Like bourbon. “Who has access to the password for the security system?”
“Only Eckhart and his two general managers, one of whom is required to be at Bordeaux whenever it’s open. And according to our reports, they change the password every week.”
“What reports?” Nick asked.
“We’ve got a female agent working undercover as a bartender – we set her up in the position a few weeks ago,” Huxley said. “We’d planned to use her to get into the lower level of the restaurant, but Eckhart’s security has proven to be more of a challenge than we’d expected.”
Nick shrugged. “I don’t see why we even need her – our next step seems simple enough. We get a court order forcing the alarm company to turn over the password to Eckhart’s security system, then go in and bug the place in the middle of the night.”
“Unfortunately, that’s not an option in this case,” Huxley said. “Eckhart uses a company called RLK Security. I checked them out – they do security for private homes and businesses. Including, notably, Roberto Martino’s home.”
Nick was impressed by Huxley’s thoroughness. “I doubt that’s a coincidence. I’m guessing Martino hooked Eckhart up with his security team once they went into business together.”
“Even with a gag order, it’s too risky to let RLK Security in on the plan. Anyone Martino trusts is not a friend of the FBI,” Huxley said.
No disagreement there. “So where does that leave us?” Nick asked.
Huxley looked over at Davis. Nick sensed that this next part was the reason he’d been brought in for consulting.
“It means we do this in plain sight,” Huxley said. “Every Valentine’s Day, Eckhart hosts an exclusive charity event at Bordeaux. One hundred people on the list, five thousand dollars per head. As part of the event, Eckhart offers tastings from some of the rare wines he owns. He keeps a security guard stationed in a private tasting room near the cellar as a precautionary measure, but guests have general access to the lower level. Which means that an agent posing as a guest could slip away from the others during the party, break into Eckhart’s office, and set the microphones in place.” He cleared his throat. “That will be me.”
Nick was missing something here. “Why not just have this agent we’ve already got on the inside plant the recording devices? Why else do we have her pretending to be a bartender?”
Huxley conceded this with a nod. “Originally, that was the plan. But Agent Simms has learned that employees don’t have access to the lower level during the party – Eckhart has hired a private sommelier to pour the most expensive wines from his cellar for the guests. That was an unexpected development, but not a total loss – Simms can serve as backup upstairs while I plant the bugs in Eckhart’s office.”
“And how, exactly, do you plan to get into the party?” Nick asked. “I’m guessing the FBI isn’t on Eckhart’s invite list.”
“True. So instead, I’m going to pose as the date of one of the guests.”
Nick paused and eased back in his chair, taking that in. “That means getting a civilian involved.” Generally, he didn’t like using civilians in undercover operations. They were unpredictable and, frankly, a liability. Sometimes, however, circumstances made it necessary.
Huxley was quick to continue. “It’s a one-shot deal, and the risk of harm to the civilian is minimal: she doesn’t have to do anything except get me into the party. Once inside, I can take it from there.”
Davis spoke for the first time since Huxley had begun outlining the parameters of the assignment. “What do you think, Nick?”
Nick studied the blueprints on the screen before him. Without the ability to bypass the alarm system, he didn’t see any other way. “I’m not saying it can’t work. But clearly this isn’t the most typical way to plant recording devices.”
“Good. The boys in Rockford can handle the typical stuff,” Davis said.
Nick smiled at that. “True enough. But the trick will be to find Huxley here a date to this party. One who will be willing to play ball with us.”
Huxley turned back to his computer, efficient as always. “Actually, I’ve already gone through the guest list. I’ve got the perfect candidate in mind.”
“Just out of curiosity, how much longer is this presentation of yours?” Nick asked.
“Only eighteen more slides to go.”
“We’re going to need more coffee,” Nick muttered to Davis. Then he looked over and saw the photograph on the screen before him of the woman Huxley apparently wanted to bring into the Eckhart operation.
Oh, hell.
Nick recognized the woman instantly. Not because he knew her personally, but because everyone in Chicago – and probably half the country in light of certain recent events – would recognize her. “Jordan Rhodes?” he asked incredulously. “She’s the richest woman in Chicago.”
Huxley brushed this aside with a wave. “Not quite. There’s Oprah, of course. Nobody tops Oprah.”
Davis pointed, throwing in his two cents from the head of the table. “And don’t forget the Pritzkers.”
“Good call. I think I’d put Jordan Rhodes more around fourth richest,” Huxley mused.
Nick leveled them both with a stare. “Fine, let’s just say top five, whatever.”
“And technically it’s her father’s money, not hers,” Huxley noted. “The Forbes list of the four hundred richest Americans puts Grey Rhodes’s net worth at one point two billion dollars.”
One point two billion. “And we want to drag this man’s daughter into an undercover op?” Nick asked. “This is our best option?”
“The list of people attending Eckhart’s party is extremely exclusive,” Huxley said. “And we don’t exactly have the luxury of interviewing candidates. We need someone that we can be certain will agree to help us. Someone who has a great deal of incentive to agree.”
Nick took in the photograph of Jordan Rhodes on the screen. Reluctantly, he had to admit that Huxley raised a good point – fourth richest woman in Chicago or not, they did have leverage over her. Significant leverage.
“What’s the matter, McCall? Afraid she’s out of your league?” Davis asked with a sly grin. “Professionally speaking.”
Nick had to fight back a laugh. Over the last six months, he’d posed undercover as everything from a drug dealer to a thief to a con artist, he’d spent nearly thirty nights in jail, and he’d taken down twenty-seven corrupt Chicago cops. He could certainly handle one billionaire heiress.
Xander Eckhart was his target now, at least for the next five days, and Jordan Rhodes appeared to be their best shot at making the investigation a successful one. Which meant that it was no longer a question of whether she cooperated with them, but when.
He nodded at Davis, all business. “Consider it done, boss.”
