“It’s really quiet in here.” I frown up and down the long, wide hallway. Jace shrugs, and we keep talking till we reach the double doors that mark the official domain of the Manhattan District Attorney’s Office.
“I’ll open this for you,” he says, pushing one open as if I’m a damsel in distress. I look around the sparsely appointed lobby, and my stomach flips—because it’s definitely empty, too.
There’s a little pop sound, like a balloon busted. Then my colleagues jump out from behind the furniture.
“Congratulations, D.A.!”5LucaTwo Weeks Later“You’ve got calloused hands, bro.”
Max gives me a big smile as his forefinger thumps the inside of my palm.
I return the phony grin, even as I curl my fingers and hiss, “Shit, that hurt.”
With a black beanie covering his ears and forehead, and splotches of windburn on his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, Max looks like some kind of arctic explorer. Which works, since we’re floating in the middle of Central Park Lake on the last day of the rowboat season, drifting between ice chunks.
“Yeah, no shit they’re calloused. What do you think I’ve been doing while you’re fucking your way through that harem and driving sports cars?”
I give him a look of shock, exaggerated but sincere.
“Sorry.” He ducks his head as another gust of frigid wind blows our boat toward a mini iceberg. “I guess that was too crass for your refined sensibilities.”
I arch a brow.
“Hey now, I’m the good guy,” he says. “Don’t forget it.”
I snort. “Sure you are.” Dude did a tour of Iraq and then went back again as some sort of private security worker. He’s been a cop with the NYPD for going on four years now, and I’m pretty sure he’s no more a good guy than the rest of them. Although I will concede that if they got paid good wages, maybe cops would be less hungry for dirty money.
“You wanna fuck this date up, brother?” Max asks. “Who you think’ll take you for a margarita?”
I laugh. “Hopefully nobody. I don’t like that weird green mix shit.”
He chuckles, and I let go of one of his hands to fuck with my scarf. Fuck, it’s cold. I rub my eye with one of my numb fingers. Even my eyeball feels half frozen. “So whatcha got for me on this fine Sunday?”
“Not that much,” he says, leaning in a little. He’s chewing spearmint gum, but I can still smell smoke on his clothes. “Just more of the same.” A white cloud of his minty breath floats into my face, making my eyes water. I blink and nod, because I’m eager to hear what he says next. “Like I told you Halloween, it’s a pretty decent treasure trove but not the best, I guess. Plenty on the…err, assets”—I side eye him, and he rolls his eyes—“and the movement all along your old route. I know you’re not using that now.”
I nod. Since he came to me with this about a month ago, I’ve had to change the whole damn system for my pink ops.
“I know that’s not trouble, not how some of the other shit is,” he says. “What they’ve also got is lots of money stuff, all tied to Soren, but there’s nothing like a smoking gun. They’re finding patterns, though, with certain accounts. They’ve got a couple logs of evidence surrounding all those pills you guys were bringing down from Canada in early ’19, info about one of your big ‘clients’—who they’re approaching about turning, by the way—and the start of something focused on where you’re getting all that good new PH.”
I blink, and he clarifies, “That’s H to you.” He lets go of my hand, rubbing his together. “What is that shit?” he asks. “Our paramedics took up poker to pass the time, and they’re sitting on a pile of unused Narcan.”
I grin. “Whatever they think they have on it, they don’t,” I say, referring to the cops and our H.
We’ve been running empty trucks through Tijuana for a couple months now. Leo leaves things sloppy by design, and I’m happy to see his plan worked. Let everybody watching think we’re still importing from Columbia. But we’re not heading south now for the white stuff. Hopefully never again. Way too much is going sideways down there.
“I found something better,” I tell Max.
“What’s it cut with?”
I wiggle my brows, grinning as I tug my beanie up so he can see them. Niente, I almost say, but translate to the more recognizable Spanish. “Nada.”
“Seriously?”
I shrug. Then I lean in, touching his shoulder like we’re digging each other on our date—for any eyes that might be watching. I feel bad because he sort of jumps like it surprised him.
“Too much smooth moves?”
He snorts, and then he reaches up and rubs the shoulder. “Just go for the other side next time.”