Body Checked (Center Ice Book 1) (20 page)

I keep scrolling, then freeze. Yes. This is what I want. A client who’s concerned her daughter’s boyfriend has ties to organized crime, and might be using her firm for money laundering.
I approached the authorities, but they said that without any hard proof, their hands are tied.
 

I need Beckwith Consulting to help me get that proof.
 

“Once you find something you’re interested in,” Todd continues, “then you flag it for review, we’ll submit you to the client for acceptance, and it’s all yours to run with.” 

“Thank you.” My voice catches. “Seriously, Todd, thank you. This is—this is what I want to do. This is why I got into criminal justice.” 

He falls silent for a moment, but I know the stunned expression that’s sitting on his face right now. “You’re welcome,” he finally manages. “But really, Jael, I should be thanking you. With your skills—” 

“You don’t have to butter me up, Todd. I’m already on board.” 

He laughs. “Well, it’s important to keep my consultants happy.” 

“Keep bringing me cases like these, and put that check in my account every two weeks, and we’ll have no problems.” 

“That I can do, Jael.” 

I hit
Review
on the case and flop back on my bed. 

It’s the day before Thanksgiving and the Thanksgiving Classic, and DC is deader than a gun reform bill trying to clear the House floor. Thanksgiving has always been a bullshit holiday, in my college experience. Beth and I usually can’t afford to go home to our respective families, and for people like Monique’s family, it’s not serious enough of a holiday for them to put their workaholism on hold. Now that the Eagles are hosting the Classic, that’s doubly true—Monique’s going to be down at the arena all night helping with setup. That leaves Beth and me to huddle on my bed, binge watching all the Netflix shows Beth missed out on while she was cramming for the LSAT. 

Something’s bothering me, though, about the whole Sergei/Vladimir issue. Between the gun in Sergei’s waistband when he came over last night and the voicemail Frederica left me, it’s just not adding up. Once Sergei and I split, that effectively ended Vladimir’s ability to force Sergei into following his wishes via threatening me. If I don’t mean anything to Sergei, then what does he care what Vladimir threatens to do to me? 

But surely Vladimir found some other way to threaten Sergei. He’s nothing if not resourceful. Slippery. Vile. Sergei is surely still following through on Vladimir’s demands to aid his business. 

Yet Frederica said their search of the plane didn’t turn up anything. 

Well, that doesn’t mean he isn’t working with Vladimir. There are still plenty of ways Sergei could use his wealth and privilege to help the Bratva. Like the money laundering I was looking into—the contracts Sergei had signed for “freelance security” from some of Vladimir’s goons. An easy way to overpay for services that are difficult to audit. 

Sergei must be working for Vladimir still. Right? 

I sit up straighter on my bed and angle myself to check the street. No signs of black SUVs lurking around. But I can only see a few houses down in either direction; the deep blue haze of twilight shields the rest of the street from me. 

“Earth to Jael,” Beth says. “Hot German guy getting naked.” 

I slump back onto the bed with a sigh. Sergei doesn’t want my help—he’s made that abundantly clear.
Not my problem,
I tell myself, over and over. 

Maybe once the Thanksgiving Classic is over, I’ll even believe it. 

The Eagles Arena is an absolute mob scene when we arrive, two hours before the game is set to start. The entire Chinatown block the arena occupies is shut down—police barricades, news vans from all over the United States and Canada, and a huge broadcaster stage where the biggest talking heads in hockey are droning on and on about the Eagles’ and the Forge’s chances of winning, and earning the right to host the All-Stars game later in the year. 

“This is bonkers.” I duck around a street vendor, hawking plush Sergei dolls—complete with a black patch for the missing tooth in his big cheesy grin. Everyone makes such a big deal about his missing tooth, but it certainly didn’t affect his kissing abilities. Or other things he excelled at doing with his mouth. My face flushes thinking about it. 

Sergei is everywhere. His last name is plastered along the back of at least half of the jerseys in the crowd. Sergei dolls, Sergei bobbleheads, even ceramic mugs of Sergei’s head. Marcus Wright, Erik Magnussen, and Brian Osbourne make a good showing, as well, but Drakonov is clearly the crowd favorite. 

Monique reaches out and squeezes my hand. “You’ve loved the Eagles for three years before that dickwheeze showed up. You can love them still.” 

I laugh-snort so hard I think I might have pulled something. “He’s not a—a dickwheeze.” I let go of her hand. “If anything, I’m the dickwheeze.” 

“Then he’s a moron for not loving you anyway,” Beth says. 

We ride the escalator up to the box level, and the jerseys-and-draft-beer crowd is replaced with tailored suits and cocktails. I’ve opted for a comfy and warm dark red sweater dress and low-heeled riding boots, since Todd’s bringing a client for a meet and greet, but I’ve got my Eagles scarf and hat on. Technically, I’m still rocking the red and blue for my team. 

“Jael! There you are. Thanks for agreeing to come early.” Todd rushes up to me, buttoned into another three-piece suit. “This is Helen Ng, one of our consulting clients.” 

“Nice to meet you, Helen.” I put on my brightest smile and shake her hand firmly. She’s gorgeous, a rail-thin woman in a sheath dress, hose, and heels, her raven-black hair falling over one warm brown shoulder. “I’m Jael Pereira. I understand you’d like our help with a sensitive issue.” 

“Yes, that’s correct.” Her smile fades. “I’m not here to discuss the specifics of the case, however. I just want to get to know you all. Understand the sort of people I’ll be doing business with.” She eyes my Eagles gear. “At least you have good taste in hockey teams.” 

I grin. “Should be a good game today.” 

“Let’s hope.” Helen sighs. “My daughter refused to come home for Thanksgiving. It was very kind of Mr. Beckwith to invite me out here.” 

“Even if the Eagles su—uh, don’t perform well, at least we know we’ll eat well, right?” I gesture to the banquet spread that the servers are still setting up. Duck confit, brined turkey, fragrant herbed stuffing, and more. 

Helen pats her stomach. “Turkey coma. Can’t wait.” She tilts her head. “So tell me, Miss Pereira, about yourself. Why do you think you’re the right person to handle my case? You’re only a few years older than my daughter, after all.” 

“Well, for starters, I think I can relate to her more because of that.” I smile. “In my criminal justice training, I’ve learned the importance of studying people for their motivations, their fears and hopes. I can understand why your daughter’s in the—ah, the situation she’s in—and use that to better understand the web of deceit that may or may not be surrounding her.” 

“These are dangerous people, Miss Pereira. We’ll get into the details later if I decide you’re right for my case, but trust me when I say that I highly doubt three and a half years of theoretical college courses have prepared you to deal with them.” 

I ignore the tiny pang in my heart. Dangerous men. Yeah, I think I know a little something about those. I smile back at Helen. “You might be surprised.” 

I chat with Helen a little longer, offering up a vague summary of my experiences in internships, classwork, and my woefully-neglected senior year project. I think she’s warming up to me, though she’s a little hard to read—very guarded, especially when it comes to discussing her daughter. Finally, Todd arrives to rescue me, and Helen thanks me for my time and wanders off to chat with Todd and his other prospective clients. 

I move through the buffet line and join Monique and Beth at one of the side tables inside the box. “What, she’s already done interrogating you?” Monique asks. 

“For now.” I dip a chunk of the artisanal bread in one of the four styles of herbed butter. “I’m sure there’s more to come.
If
she likes me. I mean, these are people whose Thanksgiving meal has four different kinds of herbed butters. Twelve flavors of cupcakes and macarons. A menu of thirty craft beers and artisanal cocktails. She’s certainly not going to trust me with her daughter’s safety after one meeting.” 

“You can talk a good game,” Monique says, “but it’s all in your actions.  You just have to do something to impress her.” 

“Something to impress her? Like a magic trick or something?” I shake my head. “I’m not going to go all Sherlock Holmes on her. I’ll just make the best case I can, and go from there.” 

“I still can’t believe you’re working with
Todd Beckwith
.” Beth rolls her eyes. 

I ease my shoulders back, defensive, though I don’t feel nearly as defensive as once would have felt. It’s nice not to feel an emotional attachment to him. “Actually, I’m excited about it. He makes a way better boss than a boyfriend—I’ll give him that.” 

As for the boyfriend hole in my life, well, I’m not prepared to try to fill that just yet. Not while Sergei’s name is ringing in my head and being chanted on the lips of every Eagles fan in the arena. Not while my heart still races with the memory of his kiss. 

“Eagles fans, it’s time to get on your feet and make some noise!” The arena lights dim and a throbbing rock number starts up. Spotlights sweep across the stadium in wide arcs as a blazing red and blue archway flashes to life at one end of the ice. Beth, Monique, and I are on our feet, pressed against the railing. 

“Here are your Washington Eagles, playing in today’s 2015 Thanksgiving Classic. Rock the red and blue! Number eleven . . . left winger Sergei Drakonov!” 

The announcer drags out Sergei’s name as long as he can, amid the frantic screaming of the crowd. I can’t help it—I’m screaming too, stomping my feet and clapping, as Sergei skates through the red and blue archway and sparks spray from the two pyrotechnics cannons that frame the archway. He holds one hand high in a wave as he circles the ice, grinning, gliding effortlessly. His gaze slips toward our box, and I could swear his grin falters, but I keep cheering all the same. 

“Number twenty-three . . . center Marcus Wright!” 

The announcer runs through the entire team, and they line up along our edge of the ice. The Pittsburgh Forge are next, starting, of course, with Stéphane Carson, and then the Forge’s hulking bruiser of a defenseman, Vadim Karparov. The Pittsburgh fans in the arena are screaming their lungs out, but they’re drowned out by the booing Eagles fans. 

Adrenaline is pumping through me—nothing matters right now but excitement over the game. We’re going to win this. I have a good feeling about it. No matter what’s happened between Sergei and me, it feels amazing to be here, surrounded by a crowd, rooting for my team. Loving the game for the game’s sake. 

The opening buzzer sounds, and we’re off. Sergei and Marcus are getting aggressive right away—Marcus wins the first face-off and they carry the puck deep into Forge territory and keep it there, with Magnussen backing them up. Sergei makes two shots on goal, one after the other, but the Forge’s goalie slaps them both away. The refs blow the whistle and it’s another face-off on Forge ice.