I stood there, unsteady on my feet, yet unable to look away from him. The eyes that had only moments before reflected the gentle blue of a robin’s egg now danced wildly, a violent flame that was more than ready to burn.
I could see his body tense, his muscles tightening as if he was a wild animal about to spring. The hunger on his face was unmistakable, and my pulse kicked up as I fought the sudden urge to bolt.
Go, I thought foolishly. Don’t you know you’re the prey?
Maybe I was, but I couldn’t look away. I was captured, locked in place by nothing more than a look. And if he intended to destroy me, I knew in that moment that I would willingly let him reduce me to rubble.
And then it was over.
Deliberately, he turned away, then whispered something into the blond bitch’s ear. She laughed, the sound high-pitched and grating. It was a good thing I’d left my weapon in my glove box, because right then I had the urge to get off a few rounds. As it was, it took all my willpower to keep from stomping over there and seeing whether my best punch would shatter her overly Botoxed forehead.
Fuck.
I wasn’t supposed to be this riled up. On the contrary, I’d been trying to rile him up.
Apparently, my plan had boomeranged.
Double-fuck.
With a massive effort, I got my feet to move. Since I couldn’t think of a better option, I headed for the bar, figuring that wine would either help me think or help soothe my wounded pride. I was diverted, however, by the tall, gray-haired man who was heading right toward me. He opened his mouth to speak, but I shook my head once, then continued on my way to the bar. He sidled up next to me a moment after the bartender had handed me a glass of merlot and ordered himself a beer. “Nice party,” he said. “You know the groom?”
“A bit,” I said. “You?”
“You could say that.” He stuck out his hand to shake. “I’m Tom Cray,” he said, which wasn’t exactly news to me since I’d known Tom almost my entire life. He’d worked under my father in the Indianapolis field office of the FBI before moving to Chicago. I’d given his office a call when I’d arrived in town two days ago, but apparently he’d moved on, and was now among the big shots in D.C.
“Sloane O’Dell,” I said, and saw understanding in his eyes.
We’d been moving as we spoke, casually stepping away from the bar and away from other people and prying ears. “You’re on the job,” he said, his words reminding me that I hadn’t come to Chicago to get knotted up about a guy. I’d come to find Amy, and I needed get my damn hormones under control.
“Not officially. One of my CIs back home had a friend go missing. Since I’m riding out the last of my medical leave, I thought I’d help her out.”
“Medical?” he asked with paternal concern.
“No permanent damage,” I said, my hand automatically going to my left hip. “Took a bullet, but it’s healing up nicely. Aches a bit at the end of a long day, but I can handle it.” It ached now, and the ridiculous shoes I’d put on for this shindig didn’t help. Not that I shared that little fashion tidbit with Tom.
“And your partner? Hernandez, right?”
“I forgot you two had met. Bastard bailed on me,” I said, but I was grinning.
“Finally retired?”
“Meredith freaked when I got shot,” I said, referring to my partner’s wife. “Said I was young and could take it, but at his age, he’d be laid up, incapacitated, maybe even dead if he got one of those nasty superbugs that you read about infesting hospitals. Meredith’s a bit of a worrier and a lot of hypochondriac. Not great for a cop’s wife. But he was ready. They moved to Wisconsin. An old Victorian she inherited a few years ago. They’ve kept it as a rental, but I think Hernandez is planning to spend a lot of time fixing it up.” I shrugged. “I’d go out of my mind, but I think he’s pretty happy with the plan.”
“So who’s filling his shoes?”
“No one yet. Captain said he’d make assignments when I got off medical.”
The corner of his eyes crinkled. “And I can see you’re doing your best to rest and recuperate.”
I rolled my eyes. “Damn doctors. I’m perfectly fine, but they insisted I take another ten days. So I’m working off book.”
He glanced around the ornate room. “And you think this missing girl might be hiding among the fancy dresses and bottles of champagne?”
“Unfortunately, she’s not making it that easy for me. She was an exotic dancer,” I added, and when his eyes flicked toward Evan Black, I knew he understood the connection.
“You’re thinking the knights might know something about her disappearance?”
“You mean Black, Sharp, and August? Yeah, maybe. Them or someone who works at Destiny. At the very least it’s a starting point.” I glanced across the room at Tyler. “You called them the knights?”
He slipped his hands into his pockets. “From what I understand, Howard Jahn gave them the nickname, and it stuck. You’re familiar with Jahn, I assume?”
“Sure.” It was no secret that Tyler Sharp, Cole August, and Evan Black had been mentored by the late Howard Jahn, one of Chicago’s most revered entrepreneurs.
That relationship, actually, made me wonder about Kevin’s suspicions regarding the three men. I’d done my research, and Howard Jahn had a pristine record and had left a stunning legacy that included a charitable foundation and an endowed chair at the business school at Northwestern. If Sharp, August, and Black were as dirty as Kevin said they were, would Jahn really have associated with them?
I didn’t know. But I intended to find out.
“So that’s why I’m here,” I said to Tom. “What’s your story? Something going down I should know about?”
“I’m here entirely unofficially. I’ve known Angelina’s father—the senator—for years, and I saw her quite a bit when she was dating Kevin. I even know the groom, too. I met him a few months ago through some task force business.”
“Wait, back up. Are you talking about Kevin Warner? He dated Angelina? Why isn’t he here?”
“Not the best of breakups. I think the fact that he tried to nail Angie’s fiancé for Mann Act violations rubbed her the wrong way.”
“I guess it would,” I said, even as the low buzz of anger built in my belly. I worked hard to keep my expression bland and my voice casual. “Question for you—I know you may not be able to tell me much, but just how dirty do you think those three are? I know they got immunity on the Mann Act violations when that whole task force sting went down, but …”
“My take? Usually I think that where there’s smoke, there’s fire,” he said, echoing my thoughts about guilt and immunity deals. “But one thing gives me pause about those three, and that’s Senator Raine.”
“What do you mean?”
“He oversaw the Mann Act task force, so I imagine he knows as much about those men as anyone, at least as it goes to the trafficking allegations. Seems to me, he must think they’re clean. If he didn’t,” he added, with a nod toward Angelina, “I doubt this marriage would be going forward.”
I could see his body tense, his muscles tightening as if he was a wild animal about to spring. The hunger on his face was unmistakable, and my pulse kicked up as I fought the sudden urge to bolt.
Go, I thought foolishly. Don’t you know you’re the prey?
Maybe I was, but I couldn’t look away. I was captured, locked in place by nothing more than a look. And if he intended to destroy me, I knew in that moment that I would willingly let him reduce me to rubble.
And then it was over.
Deliberately, he turned away, then whispered something into the blond bitch’s ear. She laughed, the sound high-pitched and grating. It was a good thing I’d left my weapon in my glove box, because right then I had the urge to get off a few rounds. As it was, it took all my willpower to keep from stomping over there and seeing whether my best punch would shatter her overly Botoxed forehead.
Fuck.
I wasn’t supposed to be this riled up. On the contrary, I’d been trying to rile him up.
Apparently, my plan had boomeranged.
Double-fuck.
With a massive effort, I got my feet to move. Since I couldn’t think of a better option, I headed for the bar, figuring that wine would either help me think or help soothe my wounded pride. I was diverted, however, by the tall, gray-haired man who was heading right toward me. He opened his mouth to speak, but I shook my head once, then continued on my way to the bar. He sidled up next to me a moment after the bartender had handed me a glass of merlot and ordered himself a beer. “Nice party,” he said. “You know the groom?”
“A bit,” I said. “You?”
“You could say that.” He stuck out his hand to shake. “I’m Tom Cray,” he said, which wasn’t exactly news to me since I’d known Tom almost my entire life. He’d worked under my father in the Indianapolis field office of the FBI before moving to Chicago. I’d given his office a call when I’d arrived in town two days ago, but apparently he’d moved on, and was now among the big shots in D.C.
“Sloane O’Dell,” I said, and saw understanding in his eyes.
We’d been moving as we spoke, casually stepping away from the bar and away from other people and prying ears. “You’re on the job,” he said, his words reminding me that I hadn’t come to Chicago to get knotted up about a guy. I’d come to find Amy, and I needed get my damn hormones under control.
“Not officially. One of my CIs back home had a friend go missing. Since I’m riding out the last of my medical leave, I thought I’d help her out.”
“Medical?” he asked with paternal concern.
“No permanent damage,” I said, my hand automatically going to my left hip. “Took a bullet, but it’s healing up nicely. Aches a bit at the end of a long day, but I can handle it.” It ached now, and the ridiculous shoes I’d put on for this shindig didn’t help. Not that I shared that little fashion tidbit with Tom.
“And your partner? Hernandez, right?”
“I forgot you two had met. Bastard bailed on me,” I said, but I was grinning.
“Finally retired?”
“Meredith freaked when I got shot,” I said, referring to my partner’s wife. “Said I was young and could take it, but at his age, he’d be laid up, incapacitated, maybe even dead if he got one of those nasty superbugs that you read about infesting hospitals. Meredith’s a bit of a worrier and a lot of hypochondriac. Not great for a cop’s wife. But he was ready. They moved to Wisconsin. An old Victorian she inherited a few years ago. They’ve kept it as a rental, but I think Hernandez is planning to spend a lot of time fixing it up.” I shrugged. “I’d go out of my mind, but I think he’s pretty happy with the plan.”
“So who’s filling his shoes?”
“No one yet. Captain said he’d make assignments when I got off medical.”
The corner of his eyes crinkled. “And I can see you’re doing your best to rest and recuperate.”
I rolled my eyes. “Damn doctors. I’m perfectly fine, but they insisted I take another ten days. So I’m working off book.”
He glanced around the ornate room. “And you think this missing girl might be hiding among the fancy dresses and bottles of champagne?”
“Unfortunately, she’s not making it that easy for me. She was an exotic dancer,” I added, and when his eyes flicked toward Evan Black, I knew he understood the connection.
“You’re thinking the knights might know something about her disappearance?”
“You mean Black, Sharp, and August? Yeah, maybe. Them or someone who works at Destiny. At the very least it’s a starting point.” I glanced across the room at Tyler. “You called them the knights?”
He slipped his hands into his pockets. “From what I understand, Howard Jahn gave them the nickname, and it stuck. You’re familiar with Jahn, I assume?”
“Sure.” It was no secret that Tyler Sharp, Cole August, and Evan Black had been mentored by the late Howard Jahn, one of Chicago’s most revered entrepreneurs.
That relationship, actually, made me wonder about Kevin’s suspicions regarding the three men. I’d done my research, and Howard Jahn had a pristine record and had left a stunning legacy that included a charitable foundation and an endowed chair at the business school at Northwestern. If Sharp, August, and Black were as dirty as Kevin said they were, would Jahn really have associated with them?
I didn’t know. But I intended to find out.
“So that’s why I’m here,” I said to Tom. “What’s your story? Something going down I should know about?”
“I’m here entirely unofficially. I’ve known Angelina’s father—the senator—for years, and I saw her quite a bit when she was dating Kevin. I even know the groom, too. I met him a few months ago through some task force business.”
“Wait, back up. Are you talking about Kevin Warner? He dated Angelina? Why isn’t he here?”
“Not the best of breakups. I think the fact that he tried to nail Angie’s fiancé for Mann Act violations rubbed her the wrong way.”
“I guess it would,” I said, even as the low buzz of anger built in my belly. I worked hard to keep my expression bland and my voice casual. “Question for you—I know you may not be able to tell me much, but just how dirty do you think those three are? I know they got immunity on the Mann Act violations when that whole task force sting went down, but …”
“My take? Usually I think that where there’s smoke, there’s fire,” he said, echoing my thoughts about guilt and immunity deals. “But one thing gives me pause about those three, and that’s Senator Raine.”
“What do you mean?”
“He oversaw the Mann Act task force, so I imagine he knows as much about those men as anyone, at least as it goes to the trafficking allegations. Seems to me, he must think they’re clean. If he didn’t,” he added, with a nod toward Angelina, “I doubt this marriage would be going forward.”
