Made to Be Broken (Nadia Stafford 2)

"Hard to say. Seemed sympathetic."

"How could he not be? I knew what you were doing and I still felt bad for you. A perfect play. The right pitch. The right tone. Just an ordinary guy who loves his wife and wants her to be happy. If Soukis is involved, I bet you'll be getting a call."

"Doesn't matter. Just a side play. Main point - "

" - was getting an inside view of the setup and security. The biggest obstacle will be getting through that street-level door, where anyone can see us breaking in. The only windows are up front, and the fire escape is there, which is just as risky - if not more so - than coming through the front door. But we'll come up with something, and after that door is open, it'll be a cakewalk. I'll give you the details over dinner."

I swung around the corner, my fingers grazing the streetlamp. "I was thinking steak before our stakeout, if that's still something you like."

"Always"

"Good. I saw a place a few blocks over. We should probably drive, with your foot - "

"I'm fine. Warm enough. We'll walk."

I nattered on about Jack's great performance for the first block before stopping myself. "Sorry. I really don't need any more sugar today, do I?"

"Things are going well. You're happy. Nothing wrong with that."

"Thanks. Oh, and for a more tangible thank-you, I picked up something at the mall."

From my purse, I pulled a pack of his special brand of cigarettes. His eyes lit up, probably the same way mine had when he'd handed me candy this morning.

He reached for it.

"Not so fast," I said. "It comes with a price. You'll get them after the stakeout, and I'll get a story. You still haven't told me how you hurt your foot."

He nodded, gaze swinging to look down the road. My cheeks heated and I thrust the package at him. "I'm kidding. Like I said, it's a thank-you for - "

He didn't take it. "I'll tell you. Said I would."

"You don't have to if it's - "

"Tonight. After the stakeout. Cigarette and a story. Gotta warn you, though. Not very interesting. Just damned stupid. And embarrassing."

"Those are the best kind. If even you can screw up now and then, there's still hope for me."

Chapter Thirty-five

We had a great dinner. Jack once told me that growing up he'd dreamed of being rich enough someday to have steak every night. He'd tried it, following his first job, and gave up after a few weeks, but a steak house is still his restaurant of choice.

So finding one was a way to put him into a good mood, relaxed, even voluble... or what passed for voluble with Jack. After a quick rundown of the security - couched in terms appropriate for a public setting - conversation turned to the more personal... or what passed for personal with Jack. He told me a story about an old job - also modified for the setting and containing no information to identify the target, location, or even time period, but entertaining nonetheless.

We had dessert at a patisserie three doors from the coffee shop where we'd staked out the Byrony Agency. We went in at 10:30 p.m., which seemed late for dessert, but I'd noticed earlier that the place was open until midnight, presumably to catch the postshow crowd from the theater down the road. Before the show got out, the place was nearly empty, and we easily got a window seat.

I ordered a chocolate torte. Jack got apple pie. I teased him about that - faced with a display of elaborate desserts, he picked something he could have any night at the lodge. When it arrived, he seemed a little annoyed by the attempts to fancy it up with caramel crackles, whipped cream, and chocolate drizzles. After a few bites, he pronounced it decent enough, but not as good as Emma's... and he left the broken crackles and blob of cream on the side.

As the shop started to fill with the theater crowd, two women entered the Byrony Agency. Cleaning staff. By 11:45, as we were settling the bill, they were already leaving, being either superefficient or figuring, with the empty office, no one would know how long they'd stayed.

We took our time. The staff, unlike the cleaners, seemed in no rush to get home, and when we left at 12:10, they'd done no more than dim the lights as a subtle hint to the remaining diners.

As I stepped onto the sidewalk, my gaze scanned the opposite side of the street. Dark and quiet.

"Fuck."

I followed Jack's glare to a homeless guy on the coffee shop steps.

"He's just catching the stragglers from the show," I murmured. "When the shop clears and closes, he'll leave. We can't move until then anyway."