Reluctant Burglar: A Novel Read online

  On the screen, a frumpy-looking woman in a shapeless dress and scuffed loafers stepped across the museum lobby She appeared and disappeared between knots of people, always moving with slumped shoulders and a flatfooted gait. No trace of the confident stride of Desiree Jacobs, businesswoman. She was swallowed up in another persona altogether.

  “Remarkable!”

  Stevo let out a harsh laugh. “Told you this babe was a piece of work. Too bad she isn’t on our payroll instead of working for the lowlife who’s got her on a short leash.”

  Tony stood. “Let’s go find out who that is.” He crumpled his foam coffee cup and tossed the remains into the garbage can by the door.

  “Not you, pal o’ mine.” Crane got up and stretched. “Cooke wants you front and center in his office right after we leave this room.”

  Tony’s gaze dissected his partner, trying to read beneath the cool, almost cocky exterior. What did the second in command of the Boston Field Office want to see him for? Tony rubbed between his eyes. The headache that had begun at 3:54 a.m. grew larger by the minute.

  Bernard Cooke, Assistant Special Agent in Charge, closed a manila file and set it on his desk. The light-skinned African-American sighed and drummed the top of the file with his fingertips. Tony stood in front of the desk, hands at his sides, feet planted apart—braced for a blow.

  Cooke frowned up at him. “I understand you were aware of Ms. Jacobs’s duplicity last night and took no action. Would you care to explain your reasoning?”

  “A judgment call, sir. She knew I knew. I’m trying to gain her confidence. Get her to see me as an ally, instead of an enemy. But when I had to roust her out of bed at four-thirty this morning and haul her down here, that strategy got blown out the window.”

  Tony didn’t bother to disguise his irritation. One person besides Desiree knew that he’d let her escapade slide, and Stevo had wasted no time informing the powers that be. He’d even rousted a top bureaucrat out of bed and into the office by seven on a Saturday morning. Crane had just crossed a line with him … but why?

  Tony gritted his teeth. He should have filled out that report on his partner instead of giving him the benefit of the doubt.

  Cooke tapped the folder. “This report claims you’ve developed a romantic interest in the suspect that’s clouding your judgment. Your partner is worried you won’t be able to follow through if hard choices become necessary.”

  Tony hid fisted hands behind his back. “I have no idea what would give Crane such a poor opinion of my professional capabilities. Or a clue about my so-called romantic inclinations.”

  Wry amusement passed over his superior’s face, only to be doused by a stern look. “The counterterrorist squad is very interested in this case. They’re about a half step away from taking it over. Any hint of mishandling and that’s what will happen. Ms. Jacobs won’t be treated like a lady if they move in. To satisfy them, the kid gloves come off today.”

  Tony opened his mouth to protest.

  Cooke pointed a finger at him. “Crane’s handling the interrogation. Solo. If he gets nothing, you’ll have your turn—your way. I’ve studied your file. Female suspects tend to like you. To trust you, just like you want with the Jacobs woman. Even that case five years ago, the one where the wheels came off and things got messy. You did your job, and the case was closed to the satisfaction of the United States government.”

  “Not to my satisfaction.” Tony clamped his jaw shut on further comment.

  Cooke shifted in his chair and looked away. “Understandable.” He bobbed his chin at Tony. “Nevertheless, I’m betting national security that you’ll do your job … whatever the cost. Do you understand?”

  Tony stared at a place on the wall above his boss’s head. “Does Lourdes agree with your assessment of my … skills?”

  The ASAC couldn’t possibly have cleared this off-the-books procedure so fast with his direct superior, the top dog at the Boston office. No way was he going to become a government gigolo, or even look like one. That other time happened by accident and people got killed, even though the outcome looked good on paper. Bad guys—and one traitorous woman—dead at each other’s hands. Nothing for the FBI to do but take the glory.

  Some glory! He’d survived by God’s grace. If anything like that happened again …

  Cooke cleared his throat. Tony looked down. The man held out a fax, and Tony took the paper. The header identified it as from Special Agent in Charge Jason Lourdes’s home fax, timed an hour ago.

  Give Lucano his head with this one. He’s got good instincts.

  A neat way to authorize what no one wanted to be accountable for. But nothing there about romancing a woman under false pretenses, so he was basically free to follow the lead of his true Superior. Good deal, Lord.

  He smiled at Cooke. The ASAC smiled back.

  “I can live with this,” Tony said.

  “Thought you might feel that way. I’ll put the sheet in your personnel jacket. It’s a nice commendation.” He shot Tony a sharp look. “As long as you live up to it.” Cooke stood. “Let’s go watch an interrogation. Crane has his … ah … skills, too. Yours may not prove necessary.”

  A knot jerked tight around Tony’s insides as he followed Cooke out of his office. Crane’s skills had their roots in the rough edges of his New York street cop beginnings. Just like Tony had been given his head with this case, no doubt the powers that be had given Crane carte blanche to throw the full force of his abrasive techniques at Desiree.

  Stevo was smart and slick and had never demonstrated a conscience. Case in point, his speed in filing a negative report on his partner in order to protect himself. The man was starting to be a menace. He must have suspected that Tony was less than happy with his behavior, and by filing a report first, he’d done an end run around any possibility that Tony could take his concerns to their superiors. A counterfiling would look like retaliation.

  Tony was stuck juggling a sociopathic partner, a sneaky suspect, and a murder/theft case that showed no signs of turning out well. He took a long, deep breath before stepping into the observation room. Talk about walking by faith. This was it.

  Big-time.

  Desi had never been claustrophobic, but the walls of the stark white interrogation cubicle closed in more each second. Her lungs expanded and contracted, but oxygen didn’t seem to reach her arms and legs. A creeping numbness had taken over her fingers and toes.

  “What time I am afraid, I will trust in Thee.” The verse from a favorite Psalm whispered inside her.

  All right, Lord, You’ve got me pegged. I’ll follow Your advice … or try anyway.

  She took her elbows off the battle-scarred table, sat back, and wiped her palms on her slacks. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Tony—Agent Lucano—had been all business when he picked her up this morning, but she could stomach him. At least he’d be around to curb his partner’s rabid instincts.

  A noise at the door brought her heart into her throat. Here goes!

  Steve Crane entered the room. The door swung shut. No Tony.

  Desi’s gaze swiveled to the opaque window that covered the upper half of one wall. Was Lucano just going to watch?

  Crane walked to the other side of the table, between her and the observation window. She stared up into pale, unblinking eyes.

  Desi gulped. Should she spill what she knew? A viselike pressure closed around her chest. No! Trusting the wrong person would be worse than keeping her counsel. More lives than hers hung in the balance.

  The agent walked around the table, shoving chairs in as he went. He came all the way to her side and invaded her space. His bulk towered over her.

  Don’t give him the satisfaction of cranking your neck backward to look at him. But her eyes had a mind of their own. They traveled up the buttons of his shirt, found his bull neck, then jumped up to meet his cold stare.

  “Ms. Jacobs, are you aware that withholding information in an FBI investigation is obstruction of justice and a federal offense?�
�

  She cleared her throat and pulled her rebellious gaze away from him. “Now that you told me, I am. What leads you to believe I’m withholding information?”

  Was that her talking? How had she managed that cool, calm tone?

  Crane pressed a rough-knuckled hand onto the table and leaned toward her. She smelled stale coffee, cigarettes, and the barest hint of spearmint. He cracked gum behind a set of large teeth. The sound of bones breaking. She shuddered.

  He grinned.

  “You wandered away from your surveillance team yesterday dressed up as someone else. Not the action of an innocent woman … or one that needs protection.” He eyed her up and down, like she was lower than roadkill. “If you’re so sure of your safety out there on your own, you must be in bed with this load of thieves and murderers. Now you’re gonna tell us how, when, where, and why so we can catch the guy who killed your papa. Or maybe a woman like you doesn’t care about that.”

  An icy burn spread through Desi’s insides. “You have no clue about me or about my father.” No matter that she wasn’t so sure of her father anymore. “Your job has stuck dirty glasses on your face. You see everything ugly.”

  An odd expression—surprise? dismay?—ghosted across Crane’s face. He whirled and stalked to the other side of the table. Pulling out a chair, he flipped it around, then straddled it and leaned his arms on the back. His upper lip curled.

  “All right then, Daddy’s Girl. Why don’t you paint me a pretty picture? What was a creepy crawly like Leone Bocca doing in your papa’s apartment?”

  “I’ve answered that question a dozen times. Looking for something.” She left the duh! off, but he got it.

  His face reddened. “And what might that something be? You know. You tell. ’Cuz if we find out later that you’re keeping secrets, you’ll go from designer clothes to an orange jumpsuit in a New York minute. Might have a hard time salvaging that precious business of yours from a suite at the Iron Hilton.”

  Silence draped the room.

  Beyond weary, Desi hugged herself. She didn’t want to disrespect her faith by lying—especially to the authorities that Scripture said were ordained by God. But what was a citizen to do when honest answers might put lives in danger? Maybe it was a good thing Lucano wasn’t present. She might be tempted to let down her guard.

  “Stolen art.” There. She’d told the truth. He could take her statement any way he liked.

  “Now ain’t that the newsflash of the century.” Crane shook his head. “You can do better. Like telling me where you went yesterday afternoon.”

  Desi arched her brows and lifted her chin. “I wasn’t aware that dressing up and avoiding a tail was a crime. I’ve just become an orphan. That hits hard at any age. I needed to be alone, away from prying eyes and listening ears, to commune with my father.”

  He chuckled. “You’re a spiritist now? What did you do? Hold a séance?”

  “I’m a Christian. We don’t talk to the dead. Grieving people sometimes need to get away by themselves to relive their memories. Or don’t they teach that in Fibbie Psych 101?”

  Crane slammed a meaty palm onto the table. Desi jumped. He half rose from his chair, face aflame.

  “So you’re saying you went to all that trouble yesterday in order to take a walk down memory lane?”

  Desi fought back tears. Her hands shook. She gripped them together. Don’t act pitiful Don’t act pitiful. She clenched her teeth and sucked in a breath.

  “Look. I rode lots of buses yesterday afternoon. Not only do I need to deal with my father’s murder, but I have to face the idea that he might not have been the man I thought he was. If that makes me act a little strange, then so be it. Now, if you’re going to charge me with something, go ahead. Otherwise, I’m leaving.” Back stiff, she stood.

  Crane’s lunged to his feet. “One step, and we’ll find a reason to hold you.” He pointed to her chair.

  Desi hesitated and then sank back down. “Do a lie detector test. You federal guys like that sort of thing, don’t you? Ask me this: ‘Miss Jacobs, have you ever stolen works of art from homes or museums?’ I will say, ‘Yes, of course I have.’”

  Crane’s head jerked backward. Then his eyes narrowed, and he rasped a laugh. “That’s a trick answer, Ms. Jacobs. We all know you’ve walked off with plenty of pieces that came right back in the door after you proved to the owners you could take them. Try another question, and give me an answer that means more than spit in the wind.”

  “All right.” Desi spread her hands on the table. “How about this one? ‘Miss Jacobs, have you at any time conspired to steal art for personal gain?’ Answer: ‘No.’ ‘Were you aware that your father might have been involved in such activities?’ Answer: ‘No, and I want to deck you jerks for suggesting it.’ ‘Do you have any idea who might be involved in this theft ring or who might have killed your father?’ Answer: ‘Absolutely not, but I wish I did so I could turn them in so fast their heads would spin … after I draw and quarter them myself, of course.’ Is that enough Q and A? I guarantee the detector needle will show negative on every one of them.”

  Veins stood out in Crane’s fists.

  He wants to hit me. Chills chased themselves up her spine. What held him back? The watchers behind the one-way mirror?

  The agent’s fingers loosened.

  Her insides melted, but she held her spine straight. She stared at the mirror. Who was back there, and what did they think of this waste-of-time interview? Had they even noticed how close one of their agents had come to abusing a suspect? Did they even care?

  Standing in the observation room, Tony suppressed a chuckle. Desiree turned the tables on Stevo like he was some first-office agent fresh out of Quantico. If Tony didn’t want to throttle the truth out of her himself, he’d cheer her performance.

  Beside him, Cooke let out a long groan. Sweat beaded the man’s forehead, and his hands trembled—as if he’d been the subject of the interrogation.

  “You all right?” Oh, great! He could top off the morning by calling an ambulance for the ASAC.

  Cooke pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. “Sure. I just get jittery if I don’t eat breakfast. I’d better go grab a bite. Doesn’t look like Crane is going to pull any useful information out of the suspect. Too bad. Your turn now. Report straight to me and no one else as soon as you know anything.” The man left like his shoes were on fire.

  Blood sugar problem? No way. Tony knew that brand of sweat. High anxiety. Someone with a lot of clout must be leaning on the agency to solve this case by any means necessary. Oh, joy! Politics had to be in play if he was being ordered to report to one of the professional paper pushers instead of his squad supervisor.

  Tony turned back toward the interrogation room. Desiree was on her feet, sweeping up her purse. She moved toward the door like a queen on the way to a state banquet. Stevo growled something about watching her step.

  Tony waited thirty seconds and then left the room. Desiree was just boarding the elevator. She didn’t look at him.

  Crane stood in the hallway. He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m going home to get some rest.” He went for the next elevator car.

  Tony shook his head. How many six-packs would his partner slurp down to put himself out?

  Tony turned in the other direction and took the stairs double time. As soon as he hit the ground floor, he spotted Desi’s petite figure heading for the exit. A few male agents coming on duty followed her with their eyes but made no move to approach. No doubt she’d fry them with a look. He strode after her.

  “Ms. Jacobs. Desiree, wait!”

  A marginal pause in her step; then she hurried on. He caught up to her at the doors. She stopped and turned her face toward him. Oh yeah, fire all right. He could be incinerated for talking to her, but a man only lived once.

  “Let me give you a lift home since I’m the one who dragged you here.”

  Desiree shook her head, mouth flat. “I don’t care for any more FBI company today. Th
ank you, but I’ll take a cab.”

  Tony watched her go. Right back out into the danger zone. And if she wouldn’t cooperate with the law, not a soul in the world could protect her from herself or any other menace out there.

  Like a cold-blooded killer.

  The poor cabdriver must think I’m crazy.

  Another sob snuck past Desi’s clenched teeth. She wrapped her arms tight around her middle.

  So she won that round. They let her go. Big deal. She was still alone. How could she tell friend from foe? What if her silence today was a fatal mistake?

  “Miss?”

  She blinked at the driver.

  “I got something for ya.” He held something small and round and flat over the side of the seat.

  Desi took it from him. She looked down at the coinlike object in her palm. A bus token?

  What? Why?

  Blackness edged her vision. She grabbed for breath.

  “Why did you give me this?” She shot forward and clutched the seat between them.

  “Take it easy lady. Some dude stopped me down the block from where I picked you up. Said to give it to my next fare. And there you were on the curb, flagging me down. Thought it would be a kick to follow through. I sure don’t need a bus ride.” He laughed.

  Steve Crane? Of course! That goon wouldn’t be happy if he didn’t get the last word.

  “Was this man built like an ape with ice-blue eyes?”

  The driver frowned at her in the rearview mirror. “Naw. Small guy. Kinda scrawny. Hoarse voice. Didn’t really see him good.”

  Not Crane? Then who? Desi wilted back into her seat.

  No one but me knew about the bus rides until less than an hour ago in that interrogation room. Unless … The token burned in her fist. Someone followed me from the museum! Her heart sped up.

  Did they stay with her all the way to the warehouse? Not possible! By the time she quit the buses and took a cab to the wharf, she’d doubled back and turned around enough to make a bloodhound dizzy. What was she missing?

  “Did this man say anything else?”