"Kyle says he doesn't want special treatment. He thinks it will go away if he doesn't back down, like it's some kind of rite of passage. He told me that if these guys were 'serious' about hurting him, they'd use a weapon." Jordan swirled her glass, letting the wine open up. "I can't believe the current upside of my thirty-three-year-old brother's life is that his fights don't involve weapons."
She saw the concern on Melinda and Corinne's faces. "Sorry. Enough about me and my family problems. Let's talk about something else. What's going on with you guys?"
As they ate, the three of them chatted about work. Both Melinda and Corinne were teachers: Corinne worked at a public high school in the one of the poorest districts in the city and Melinda taught musical theater at Northwestern University, where the three of them had gone to undergrad.
Melinda took another sip of her wine and tipped her glass to Jordan. "This is really good. You said it's a merlot?"
"From South Australia. A 2008 Marquis Phillips."
"I like how fruit forward it is."
Jordan was impressed. "Look at you, breaking out the wine terminology." She dabbed her eyes with a napkin, feigning tears. "It's like seeing a child take her first steps. I'm so proud."
Melinda threw a napkin at her. "Just remind me to grab a bottle before I go. I want Pete to try it. He still won't touch merlot because of Sideways."
Jordan heard it all the time. Poor merlot had been disparaged in the film and still hadn't fully recovered its reputation. "I'll straighten Pete out the next time I see him."
"That reminds me-the five of us are still on for dinner next Saturday, right?" Corinne asked.
"Yep. But first let's talk about this weekend. Any special plans for Valentine's Day, Jordan?" Melinda asked.
Jordan paused midsip at the question. This weekend? No special plans, really. Just helping the FBI infiltrate the lair of a wealthy restaurateur who launders money for a notorious drug cartel. You?
Corinne chimed in. "Isn't this the weekend of Xander Eckhart's party?"
"Yes." Jordan held her breath in a silent plea. Don't ask if I'm bringing anyone. Don't ask if I'm bringing anyone.
"So are you bringing anyone?" Melinda asked.
Foiled.
Having realized there was a distinct possibility the subject would come up, Jordan had spent some time running through potential answers to this very question. She had decided that being casual was the best approach. "Oh, there's this guy I met a few days ago, and I was thinking about asking him." She shrugged. "Or maybe I'll just go by myself, who knows."
Melinda put down her forkful of gnocchi, zoning in on this like a heat-seeking missile to its target. "What guy you met a few days ago? And why is this the first we're hearing of him?"
"Because I just met him a few days ago."
Corinne rubbed her hands together, eager for the details. "So? Tell us. How'd you meet him?"
"What does he do?" Melinda asked.
"Nice, Melinda. You're so shallow." Corinne turned back to Jordan. "Is he hot?"
Of course, Jordan had known there would be questions. The three of them had been friends since college and still saw each other regularly despite busy schedules, and this was what they did. Before Corinne had gotten married, they talked about her now-husband, Charles. The same was true of Melinda and her soon-to-be-fiancé, Pete. So Jordan knew that she, in turn, was expected to give up the goods in similar circumstances. But she also knew that she really didn't want to lie to her friends.
With that in mind, she'd come up with a backup plan in the event the conversation went this way. Having no choice, she resorted to the strategy she had used in sticky situations ever since she was five years old, when she'd set her Western Barbie's hair on fire while trying to give her a suntan on the family-room lamp.
Blame it on Kyle.
I'd like to thank the Academy . . . "Sure, I'll tell you all about this new guy. We met the other day and he's . . . um . . ." She paused, then ran her hands through her hair and exhaled dramatically. "Sorry. Do you mind if we talk about this later? After seeing Kyle today with the bruise on his face, I feel guilty rattling on about Xander's party. Like I'm not taking my brother's incarceration seriously enough." She bit her lip, feeling guilty about the lie. So sorry, girls. But this has to stay my secret for now.
Her diversion worked like a charm. Perhaps one of the few benefits of having a convicted felon of a brother known as the Twitter Terrorist was that she would never lack for non sequiturs in extracting herself from unwanted conversation.
Corinne reached out and squeezed her hand. "No one has stood by Kyle's side more than you, Jordan. But we understand. We can talk about this some other time. And try not to worry-Kyle can handle himself. He's a big boy."
"Oh, he definitely is that," Melinda said with a gleam in her eye.
Jordan smiled. "Thanks, Corinne." She turned to Melinda, thoroughly skeeved out. "And, eww-Kyle?"
Melinda shrugged matter-of-factly. "To you, he's your brother. But to the rest of the female population, he has a certain appeal. I'll leave it at that."
"He used to fart in our Mr. Turtle pool and call it a 'Jacuzzi.' How's that for appeal?"
"Ah . . . the lifestyles of the rich and famous," Corinne said with a grin.
"And on that note, my secret fantasies about Kyle Rhodes now thoroughly destroyed, I move that we put a temporary hold on any further discussions related to the less fair of the sexes," Melinda said.
"I second that," Jordan said, and the three women clinked their glasses in agreement.
Jordan took a sip of her wine, breathing a sigh of relief. Three more days-that's all she had to make it. Then everything would be back to normal.
Six
IT IS A truth universally acknowledged that an FBI special agent in possession of great skill and talent is likely to engage in trash talk every now and then.
Nick-being possessed of said skill and talent-was, on that Thursday night, partaking in this practice, along with his coworker Jack Pallas, Davis's supposed other "top" special agent. The two of them had just finished working out in the state-of-the-art gym located on the building's second floor that was open twenty-four/seven. Some agents fell out of shape after graduating from the Academy, but not in Davis's field office. He held his agents to high physical standards and, as he bluntly told everyone in their welcome-to-Chicago speech, expected to see their asses in the gym.
Sweaty in their T-shirts, Jack and Nick grabbed towels from the shelf as they entered the locker room. They'd completed a seven-mile run on the gym's indoor track only moments earlier. While subtly trying to outpace and outdistance each other, they'd caught up on various odds and ends that Nick had missed during the six months he'd worked undercover on Fivestar. Eventually, their conversation turned to the arrests of Roberto Martino and the other members of his organization, and the investigation into Xander Eckhart.
"I hear you're taking orders from Seth Huxley nowadays," Jack said as they edged their way through the crowded locker room. The end of the workday, not surprisingly, was the gym's busiest time, with most agents squeezing in a workout before heading home. "How's that going?"
"If by 'taking orders' you mean providing my much-learned undercover expertise as a favor to our boss, then I'd say it's going great." Nick feigned confusion. "What I've been trying to figure out is why Davis had to bring me in on this case in the first place. I could've sworn another agent was already running the Martino investigation . . . Oh, wait-that would be you, Jack."
Jack took a seat on the bench in front of their lockers. "I've been a little busy these days. Thirty-four arrests in the last four months, McCall. That's a new record for me."
Nick stripped off his damp T-shirt, baring his chest. "Try twenty-seven arrests in the last week. That's a new record for the office."
"You're still seven arrests behind me, buddy."
Not for long, if Nick had anything to say about it. "It'll only be five after Eckhart and Trilani."
Jack scoffed at this. "Eckhart is a money-laundering case. Anything from Financial only gets you half a point." He stood up and peeled off his own T-shirt, revealing several scars, electrical burns, and a bullet wound on his chest.
Having worked on and off with Jack for several years, and given how they were both regulars at the gym, Nick had seen the other agent's scars before-souvenirs of the two days Jack had been tortured by Roberto Martino's men. Two days where he'd given them absolutely nothing in exchange. The scars were a quick reminder not only of the pride Nick felt in being a special agent in one of the toughest FBI field offices in the country, but also of the grudging respect he had for Jack. All trash talk aside, they understood each other's commitment to the job.
Davis wasn't getting any younger, and when he retired as special agent in charge, either Nick or Jack likely would be asked to fill the position. Neither was entirely sure he wanted it, although the satisfaction that would be derived from beating out the other for the job provided strong motivation to at least consider the possibility.