“No,” Charles said. “You’re the guy who dove into the waves to rescue a drowning girl when no one else would.”
Janie knocked on the door, vibrating the mirror beneath Nate’s shoulders. Charles lifted his face to the sound, smiled enigmatically.
Fear invaded Janie’s voice. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Nate said, rising. “I’m okay.”
* * *
Straining to steady his hand, Nate spooned tomato soup to his lips. When he’d admitted, under Janie’s line of questioning, that he hadn’t eaten in a day and a half, she’d heated some Campbell’s. If ever there was a time for comfort food.
In his uncertain grip, the spoon handle rattled against the brim of the bowl, so he set it down gently. “We have forty-eight hours until that list is due in Shevchenko’s hands,” he said. “Our only advantage is that we know
“Two days to come up with an alternate game plan.”
“Let’s put you and Cielle on a plane tomorrow. Get you out of here. But we’ll be cautious as hell. We’ll buy tickets the day of, a few hours before the flight. Doesn’t matter how much it costs. And we’ll leave the house separately, at different times.”
“And if Shevchenko finds out anyway?”
Nate pressed the edges of his teeth together. “The deal was that
“Doing what?”
“That FBI agent, Abara-he suspects me. But he also knows there’s more to the story.”
“So you’ll go to him?”
“Right now what do I have? A story about a list that went up in smoke? I’ve got to get him something concrete. Something definitive enough that he can move on Shevchenko and his men and arrest them immediately. Something serious enough that they’ll be held with no bail.”
“Which means a murder charge,” Janie said.
“Right. I need to find out
“Witness Protection. Jesus.” Janie slid the pot from stove to sink and threw the faucet handle. Steam rose. “How are you gonna go about this now that Cielle burned the list? We don’t even have the names anymore.”
“We’ve got three of them.” Nate slid his computer over and clicked on the history function in the browser. Sure enough, there were the last three Google searches.
Janie nudged his bowl closer to him. “Eat more.”
He reached for the spoon, but his hand was vibrating, the strain of typing having taken a toll. He withdrew it, hiding it in his lap, but not before Janie had noticed. Again. She came around the counter, moving close enough that she pressed against his knees.
She beckoned, a nurse’s impatient gesture. “Lemme see.”
“It’s fine.”
“Come on. I owe you. That day on the beach.”
He mustered a grin. “The tidal wave in the tropical monsoon.”
“The very one. You saved my life.”
“Nah,” he said. “You saved mine.”
Her teeth tugged at her lush lower lip, emotion working on her face. “Don’t get philosophical. It doesn’t suit you.”
Their proximity made itself suddenly known. Her thighs pushing lightly against his knees. Her standing, him sitting on the stool, her mouth slightly higher than his, but close. They searched each other as if trying to read some hidden code. He prayed silently that she wouldn’t step away, and she didn’t.
She twisted the engagement ring around her finger, then became aware she was doing it. Her eyes moved to the diamond. “I think I knew somewhere,” she said slowly, “even when I said yes, but it made sense, kind of, and then it was this
He leaned forward on the stool, bringing his lips to hers. Tender, close-mouthed. She softened into him. Her fingers went to his cheeks, but then she stiffened, shrugging up and out of his embrace. “Sorry. Look, with everything going on…”
“What?” he prompted.
“What if this isn’t real?”
“It’s real,” he said.
She smiled sadly, taking a few backward steps before turning for the stairs.
Chapter 29
High-end condos sprouted up along the water’s edge in Marina del Rey, sturdy structures of tinted glass, rounded by a scalloping of balconies. The weekend was getting into swing, sorority girls shuffling from juice bars, surfers pedaling beach cruisers, their longboards tucked under tanned arms. Wafting inland from the small-boat harbor, the breeze carried salt and the faint sewer tinge of low tide.
Lincoln Boulevard ran straight through the class divide, the apartments to the east severed from the ocean view and the organic cafes. The complex where Luis Millan lived, at least according to several online directories, was three stories high, with bubbling pink stucco and wedding-cake railings. Work trucks proliferated in the parking lot, which backed on a body shop. Window air conditioners cantilevered out into space, dripping water and evoking calamity of the Looney Tunes variety.
After looping around the block a few times to ensure he wasn’t being followed, Nate climbed the first flight of stairs, double-checked the address, and rang the bell. He had yet to land on a point of entry for the conversation to come, but having had plenty of practice knocking on doors and delivering bad news, he figured he’d wing it.
The guy who answered wore a porkpie hat, Bermuda shorts, and a V-necked undershirt. His facial hair was delicate and elaborate-soul patch, thin ridge lining either side of the jaw, strip along the upper lip that could have been stenciled on using eyeliner. His gold box-chain necklace looked like it had fallen out of a vending machine in 1983, all the more pronounced given that it was strung around a pillowy cervical brace holding his head regally erect. Though he was slight, his freckled shoulders bulged like softballs, masses of sinewy muscle. Two men on a couch were playing Xbox, working joysticks sophisticated enough to land a fighter jet.
“Luis Millan?”
The guy nodded. “That’s me.”
“Can we talk a minute? Alone?”
Luis’s hand rose to his brace, which, Nate realized, was upside down. “You from the insurance company?”
“No.”
“You look familiar. Did you go to North Hollywood High?”
“Nope.” Nate glanced at his watch. Three hours before he’d attempt to get Janie and Cielle on a plane to Manhattan, where they’d try to lose themselves among 9 million people. “Listen, I’m sorry to walk in on your Saturday, but I really need to talk to you.”
Luis stepped back, letting him in. “Go on, homeys. You heard the man.”
His friends grumbled and rose, administering elaborate handshakes and shuffling out. Luis grabbed a Pacifico from the fridge and leaned against a cabinet in the galley kitchen. “You
