Jack jerked the steering wheel of the car, pulling off US 1 and into an abandoned used car lot.
“Funny,” he said, “my memories are a bit different.”
“Oh, then, by all means, entertain me with your story. Is that still your MO, Jack? Entertain the young, wide-eyed recruit, get her to believe you’re a nice guy, screw her for a while, and then dump her when the next one comes along?”
“Fuck you, O’Malley!” he yelled.
“Who’s the hottie of the week, Jack? If my memory serves me right, you dumped me for a big assed bitch named Emily. Who did you dump her for?”
“I married that big assed bitch.” Jack threw his hands in the air. “I can’t believe I just called Emily that.”
“Truth is truth,” Sin seethed.
“You’re way out of line, Sin.”
“Am I?” Lighting a cigarette, she inhaled deeply. “Why don’t you tell me the truth? The truth according to the great Jack McGuire.”
“I wanted Veloz as much as you did. I’m the one who argued for us to go into Central America and find him.”
“And when we were told that it was out of our jurisdiction, you’re the one who tucked his dick between his legs and scurried for the first piece of ass you could find.”
“That’s bullshit! I was working with Folsom Westcott to formulate a plan along with the CIA to go after Veloz, but you fucked that up. You had to play cowboy, go against orders, and shoot up half of Nicaragua.”
Sin dropped her head and raked her fingers through her black hair. “I didn’t think you were that stupid but I guess I was wrong.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Sin wanted to tell Jack all about Westcott. She wanted to tell him that his buddy, Westcott, was as guilty as Veloz. She wanted to tell him that she was the one who killed the bastard—but, she didn’t. Jack McGuire wasn’t worth breaking her promise to Frank Graham.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” she said. “None of this conversation means anything.”
Opening the door, she stepped out of the car. Sin walked a few feet and stared off into space trying to collect her emotions. Her concentration was broken by the sound of Jack’s wing tips clicking on the asphalt.
“The truth is,” Jack sighed, “I fucked up. I was afraid.”
Sin turned to face him and used her hand to shade her eyes from the sun. “Afraid of what?”
“I don’t know—”
“Not good enough.”
“I was afraid of losing you, okay? We were in over our heads, and I,” he paused, “didn’t want to ruin my career.”
“So instead,” Sin’s voice quieted to a whisper, “you ruined mine. Way to go, McGuire.”
Sin brushed past him and went back to the car. She turned and saw Jack, hands on his hips, staring off in the same manner that she’d been just moments before. “Coming,” she said, “or should I call a cab?”
Jack reached down, grabbed a rock, and threw it at the boarded-up building.
He seemed to be releasing his frustration along with the stone.
Jack pulled his aviator sunglasses over his eyes, and walked back. “I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction,” he mumbled.
“Glad to know some things haven’t changed.” Sarcasm drenched Sin’s words.
Jack threw the car into drive, stomped the gas, and fishtailed out of the lot, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake.
They drove the last ten miles without talking. The only sound was the drumming of Jack’s fingers on the steering wheel.
The Stokler Gallery was easy to spot. It was the bottom floor of a two-story building. The top floor appeared to be residential.
Sin had the car door open before Jack could put it in park. Guns strung low on her hips, she waited for him to get out.
“Is that really necessary?” Jack said, pointing to her holster.
“Very,” Sin replied. “They’re like my American Express card. I don’t leave home without them and they get me into all sorts of places.”
Jack shook his head. “How about you let me do the talking. If we need to shoot anyone, I’ll let you handle that part.”
“Be my guest, you always did have a way with words,” Sin said, walking in front of him.
Jack hurried to catch up and opened the door first. The gallery was empty except for a rainbow-tressed young woman wearing too much makeup, dressed in a fitted business suit.
He held his credentials out for the girl to see and smiled as he introduced himself. “I’m Agent Jack McGuire and this is Agent Sinclair O’Malley of the FBI. Is the owner available to speak with?”
The young woman eyed his badge. “More FBI agents?” she said with a sigh. “I’ll let George know you’re here.”
“More agents?” Jack said. “I thought we were the only people from the Bureau working this case.”
“We are,” Sin acknowledged, her mind spinning. “How about you let me handle George. You know; bad cop, good cop.”
“I don’t have to guess which one you’ll be,” Jack mumbled.
The blond reentered the room with a man behind her. He appeared to be in his early thirties and very well kept. It was mid-afternoon and there wasn’t one wrinkle to his designer suit, nor a single hair out of place.
“I’m the proprietor, George Stokler. I don’t understand why you’re here.” His words seemed hurried. “I told the agents this morning that I didn’t know anything about the drugs or the property they want to search.”
Well, I have to admit, Sin thought, walking forward, that’s one explanation I hadn’t thought of. “Lucky for you, Mr. Stokler,” she said, flashing her badge, “you won’t have to repeat your story. We’re here on a different matter entirely.”
George crossed his arms and pursed his lips. “What is it this all about.”
“There was a young woman found
