Twisted Fate (Dark Heart 2)

“Mmkay.” I make a mental note that if Max and I have any other fake dates and I feel him up, it’s gotta be the right side. I’m not asking why. I know he got hurt before he came back stateside, but it’s not my business.

“I’ll stick to these rugged paws.” I grin as I hold my left hand out, and he laughs as he gives me his right one.

“This is fucking weird, Galante. You owe me.”

“Oh, c’mon. I’m a catch.”

“You’re that big fish that turns out to be a tree limb.”

I give a low hoot. “That’s some harsh shit, Romano.”

He gives me a grin I’ve heard slays all the dudes.

“You’ve got long eyelashes,” I notice. “Do the other dudes like that shit?”

He looks at the boat’s floor. “I don’t know.” He sounds defensive, and I realize maybe he’s embarrassed. Surely not, though.

I’m still holding his hand, so I turn it over like I’m reading his palm. “Ahh, damn.” There’s a burn scar on his palm that hurts to look at.

“Sensitive area,” I remark. I curl my hand into a fist atop his palm.

He rubs the scar with the fingers of his other hand. “Burn. Couldn’t feel it. Anyway, so…you want more specifics?”

“What I really want is a doorway to their files. “You know who’s got the goods? Who’s been doing most of this ‘detective’ work?” I clarify.

“Yeah, but…” He looks puzzled.

I give him a smug grin. “Just tell me whose computer you think they’re on. Or who’s got server access. Give me names for every possibility. I’ll take care of the rest.”

He gives a low whistle. “That’s some smooth shit, Houdini. We both know it’s not you, either, is it?”

“Do we know that, though?”

He sort of rolls his eyes. “Your brother’s damn near famous.”

“It’s not my brother.”

He snorts. “Anyway, I think the most damning stuff’s the shit about the pills. They know you’re getting them from a woman, Patrice—or you were.”

I nod slowly. That is fucking inconvenient. “How long have they been on this?”

“A long time, I think—like a year. They say you’re hard as hell to get a trace on.”

“Not that hard.” I smirk, and he snickers.

“I do have one question,” I say.

His brows arch.

“Do you know when they’re gonna take it to the D.A.?”

Max smiles, wolfish. “I heard soon. What does it matter, though? You got a time machine?”

“Fuck you, Romano.”

“You saying you want to?”

I lean in, and Max leans closer so our foreheads nearly touch.

“You think this looks romantic?” I ask.

“Central Park Lake—peak romantic.”

“Even on a cold-ass day?”

He leans back, adjusting his scarf as he does, so it covers the lower portion of his face. I do the same, just being careful. “So, you giving me those names or what?” I ask him.

“How’re you going to remember?”

I’ve got a burner phone in my coat pocket, but that thing’s keys suck and my hands are numb. I tap my forehead, and he frowns like he’s skeptical.

“Hit me.”

Max gives me four names, which I commit to memory. “Thanks, dude. You wanna head toward one of those hot chocolate stands and then split?”

“Yeah, you gotta get your own, though,” he says. “I’m going dairy free.”

“Fancy shit.”

“Says the motherfucker with six-hundred-dollar sneakers.”

I smile at my limited-edition kicks. “Says the shoe hound who wishes he had some.”

I pick up the oars, winking as I row, because I think I know a thank you gift for Sgt. Max Romano.6Elise“Tags: Houdini. Risotto. Bulgur. Name: C. Madden. Date: November 21st, 2016. Summary—”I pull my phone out of my jacket pocket, squinting at the bright light as my glove-clad fingers fumble at the screen. My pointer finger connects with the pause button, quieting the mechanized voice of the text-to-audio software we use at work, and I slip the phone back into my pocket.

I look left and right—discreetly, of course—in case someone is watching. But no one is. I’m not that important.

The next few minutes walking west on pre-dawn East Seventy-Second Street are spent belly breathing. I’m wearing studded trainers that won’t slip on ice, so all I have to pay attention to are the white clouds my breaths make against the cityscape. They disappear in wispy tendrils in the charcoal sky. As I approach Fifth Avenue, tiny flurries start to fall.

I pull my beanie over my ears and pop the collar on my thin, black fleece. The snow is fine. I’ve been running this same trek through Central Park for I don’t know how long. I guess four years, when I moved from SoHo, where I lived with Dani and Ree, to the Park Avenue condo I inherited when Mom passed. It was hers before she married my dad, purchased for her by her parents.

I blow a breath out, focus on the here and now. It’s New Year’s Day. In five days, I’ll be sworn in. Then I’ll really be the D.A. Soon, circumstances will force me to listen to the files I copied off my work server and onto my computer’s drive, and then had funneled through the text-to-voice software.