When it came down to it, you placed good people around you and trusted them to do their jobs. If you couldn’t, it was time to hang it up. The six undercover FBI agents working the big room were the best—smart and focused.
Savich spotted Director Mueller standing with Rachael. Jack, he didn’t see. He was checking out the catering staff imported for the event. He’d already arranged checks on the extra waitstaff the club had brought in for tonight’s shindig, and the permanent staff for that matter.
Savich smelled a mellow, woodsy perfume and turned to see Laurel Abbott Kostas coming toward him, a flute of champagne in her hand, dressed in an undoubtedly very expensive black dress that did nothing for her. Odd how well he thought he knew her, yet this was the first time he’d ever seen her in the flesh.
She wasn’t wearing a long gown, like most of the women. Instead she wore potentially sexy black fishnet stockings on her heavy legs, but her feet were in low-heeled pumps, a real clash in message. Her coarse graying hail was pulled back and clipped at the nape. She wore a tore a touch of lipstick, nothing else. But the diamonds— she was wearing mounds of them everywhere, her ears, throat, wrist, fingers. She looked like she’d cleaned out a display case. De Beers had to love her.
Her husband, Stefanos, another player whose character Savich thought he understood fairly well, was at her side, dressed in an expensive tuxedo, his black hair slicked back from his swarthy heavy face, a handsome dissipated face Savich didn’t like or trust. He watched Kostas’s eyes roam and assess. He looked bored and restless, and on edge. He held a whiskey in his hand and used it as an excuse not to shake hands when Savich introduced himself.
“Mr. Kostas,” Savich said, and nothing more, very aware that Laurel was giving him the once-over. When he turned back to her he saw a spark of interest in her flat cold eyes. What was that about?
Laurel said in a smooth, dismissive voice, “I know who you are. I saw you on TV, running that ridiculous FBI press conference.”
He smiled at her. “I’m Agent Dillon Savich. And you are Mrs. Laurel Kostas?”
She nodded. “I see you’re wearing a tuxedo, Agent Savich, and it is expensive. A surprise, I suppose, given you’re a policeman.”
Stefanos was looking at a woman’s cleavage. His eyes slid past Savich to his wife, and he said with world- weary contempt, “The whiskey is watered down.” Then he turned on his heel and made his way through the crowd toward the bar, where the woman and her cleavage were standing.
Laurel said, “I suppose you’re here because Rachael is. She isn’t actually going to tell everyone what the senator did, on an occasion like this, is she?”
“You will have to ask her, Mrs. Kostas. I really don’t know.”
He motioned to the waiter carrying a silver tray of champagne flutes. At her nod, he handed her one, took the empty one and put it on the tray.
“Where is Quincy Abbott, ma’am?”
“I left him speaking to the vice president about the current power struggle between the French and the Germans, nothing new there. Actually, no one seems to get along with either of them. In business, as in war, I’ve learned it’s always best to pit them against each other. Where is Rachael? I don’t see her. Perhaps she’s decided not to make a spectacle of herself, not to make us all the butt of malicious gossip?”
He smiled his vicious smile that Sherlock told him could freeze your heart, but it didn’t seem to work on Laurel. He said, “If you look to your left, you’ll see her speaking to Senator Mark Evans. There was a break-in at her house Saturday night. The intruder was careless and left us some evidence.”
She went stiff, her cold eyes suddenly needle sharp on his face, and he’d swear he could see her thinking. He knew she had a formidable mind, and wasn’t easily rattled. She said in a bored voice, “Evidence? Well, it’s about time you found something, isn’t it? What did you find?”
“Sorry, ma’am, I can’t tell you.”
“Why not? Who cares, after all?” He heard it then, fear in her voice, a thick undercoat of it. She moved closer, the movement making her diamonds dance and glitter madly.
He leaned close, as well, and went with his gut. “Do you know who shimmied up the oak tree to climb in through a second-floor window, Mrs. Kostas? Did her scream scare him away? Or was it the alarm going off?”
She took a quick step back from him and looked toward her husband, who was speaking now to a senator from Arizona. She turned, said to him over her shoulder, “Can you really see one of us climbing a tree, Agent Savich? I think not. But it seems to me Rachael has to run out of luck sometime.”
“Everyone eventually does,” Savich said. “You included, ma’am. Ah, here are Agent Sherlock and your niece.”
“She’s not—” Laurel shut her mouth, something, Sherlock imagined, she did neither often nor easily. But she was smart enough to get the lay of the land before she charged into battle.
Savich introduced Sherlock to Laurel, who ignored her to land squarely on Rachael.
“So,” Laurel said, looking Rachael up and down, “you have to have an agent sticking to you now?”
Rachael said, “Yes. I’ve found I prefer it.”
Quincy and Stefanos joined them, probably, Savich thought, because they believed Laurel needed reinforcements. Laurel made begrudging introductions.
Sherlock shook the men’s hands. Stefanos held her hand a bit longer than he should have. She cocked her head at him. “You have such lovely hair, Agent Sherlock,” he said, that accent meant to warm and seduce. “There is no red hair like yours in my country. It is glorious.”
Quincy Abbott looked like he wanted to bolt, but inbred civility won out and he shook Savich’s hand. He gave only a mildly displeased nod to Jack, who was standing at Rachael’s shoulder. When he took Sherlock’s hand, his eyes went hot. Now that was interesting. It wasn’t lust, not at all like the message Stefanos had broadcast to her. What was it? Was it anger? Did his look mean he hated female cops? She’d heard Rachael say he was a misogynist. She looked at Dillon. He was stone-faced.
Stefanos said, “You look magnificent, like a cabaret singer from the thirties, Agent Sherlock.”
“Thank you,” Sherlock said.
Savich agreed with Stefanos. Sherlock was wearing a long black skirt, a black top that bared her shoulders, and her hair was loose, a sunset of curls around her head, pulled back from her face with two black clips. She looked good, that was Savich’s remark when he saw her, and she’d known he wanted to haul her back upstairs. Even Sean, standing at his father’s side, had stared at her. “I wouldn’t know it was you if it wasn’t for your hair, Mama.”
She’d laughed and kissed him soundly. But Savich bet she had no plans to kiss Stefanos Kostas.
Stefanos said, “You’re really an FBI agent? You?”
“You were thinking I was perhaps a runway model?”
“Maybe that’s not too much of a stretch.”
Rachael said, “Agent Savich and Agent Sherlock are married. They have a little boy.”
“What?” Stefanos asked. “You’re actually married to him? But, I—”
Laurel rolled over her husband. “Married? I’ve never heard of FBI agents being married to each other before, but I suppose our government allows just about anything.”
“Not really,” Sherlock said.
“I have two boys,” Laurel continued. “The elder is nearly grown up now. He met a girl in New York City and is convinced he’s going to marry her.”
“How old is he?” Jack asked, though he knew very well.
“Damian is sixteen.”
Quincy said, “Stefanos isn’t happy about this, even though it’s only a young boy’s crush, isn’t that right?”
Stefanos shrugged. “He can have his fun. I only hope he doesn’t contract some disease from her.”
Quincy said, “You’re an expatriate xenophobe, Stefanos—you want both your sons to marry into old Creek families.”
Stefanos smiled at his brother-in-law, sipped at his whiskey like an elegant sloth.
Jack asked Laurel, “What did you think of the FBI press conference?”
Her heavy face froze. “I already told Agent Savich it was ridiculous. To me it smacked of conspiracy theories,
