Force of Attraction (8 page)

Lattimore clicked to bring up a chart that represented Eye-C's revenue flow for the past six years. “As you can see, despite the street creed of a rap sheet, Eye-C's rap career hasn't recovered from his forced absence from the charts.”

“Money's a bitch.” Cole didn't lift her gaze quick enough to identify the speaker.

“Even money says Shajuanna's going to file for divorce if he can't keep her upgraded,” the FBI agent, Hadley, offered in response.

Ignoring the general laughter, Cole scrolled through the pictures she had been given to download on her computer tablet. The photos of Shajuanna were of a tall and beautiful woman dressed in that expensive-to-know pampered way of all celebrities. Okay, so yeah, she looked like a gold digger. That was the life. It didn't mean she was a gold digger. But what was she?

Every shot of Shajuanna included one or more of the dogs in question. Some were on a leash. In a few she was in the ring, coaching one of her dogs in mid-performance. Finally, there was a close-up of her hugging an Argentine mastiff. The dog was big and muscular and pure white, with small pink-rimmed eyes.

Cole winced at the severely docked ears. And there was Shajuanna, squatting down beside the animal in six-inch platform heels and a very expensive fur and diamonds, planting a big kiss on the dog's face. She wasn't just posing. She clearly had affection for her pet. And the dog—Cesar the notation said—seemed as close to smiling as was possible for a dog with a big pink lolling tongue. Happy dog. Not a tortured killer.

Something didn't add up.

She rechecked the notes she had typed into her notebook so far. Comments by Eye-C about how his wife had made him think differently about dogs. Shajuanna's statements about her intentions to rehabilitate the public perception of these dogs. She'd even hired a celebrity image consultant who had gotten one of her pets placement in a national commercial. Why would they draw so much public attention if they were doing something illegal?

“Too easy.”

She did not realize she had spoken aloud until silence in the room made her lift her head. Ten pairs of male eyes were staring at her.

Lattimore spoke. “Do you have something else you'd like to contribute, Officer Jamieson?”

Scott, who sat across from her, gave Cole a slight shake of his head in warning. That only spurred her to speak up.

“Why would Eye-C be so obvious? He's got to know law enforcement's going to be looking at him for the slightest indication he's slipped back into something illegal. Why draw attention to himself by breeding dogs known for their popularity in dogfighting if he intended to use them to smuggle drugs? Not smart.”

“Smart?” Hadley's bark of laughter sounded as rude as it was meant to be. “Smart's not a category I'd put Collier in. He needs money. His music's gone bust so he falls back into old habits. Pre-music enterprise, he dealt drugs. Once a slinger always a slinger.”

“But—”

“When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras, Officer Jamieson.” Lattimore gave her a sharp glance to see if she understood his meaning.
Don't look for unlikely possibilities when the probable answer is the obvious one.
“Collier's our prime suspect. His wife is our conduit to him.”

“Yes, sir.”

Cole ignored the smirks exchanged around the table though her face stung. It wasn't embarrassment, it was anger. They might know what they were doing as far as drugs and task force business went. But she knew dogs and their handlers. On Shajuanna's side, at least, there was a genuine interest in and affection for her dogs.

“We need eyes and ears on the ground at dog competitions where the wife shows her dogs, something that will give up probable cause to go after them in a more aggressive way. Actually finding puppy drug mules at an event might be too much to hope for. But if any of the animals carried drugs at one time, or was kenneled with those who did, traces of cocaine should remain with them. The vet told us the packets aren't always leakproof. The potency should leave a permanent trail.”

“That's where our dogs come in.” Scott flashed a reassuring glance at Cole.

“Exactly. Officer Jamieson's Bouvier des Flandres is one of the breeds registered to compete in dog sports. We'll be using them to infiltrate the dog competitions. With her training experience they should pass inspection as competitorworthy. Meanwhile Agent Lucca's K-9 will work drug detection backstage at the shows.”

Refusing to make eye contact with Scott, Cole angled her chair toward the front of the room. “Why not go in separately, sir? There's no need to pose as a couple.”

“Actually, there is. Being a couple keeps you and your partner from looking suspicious. You will be expected to have dogs with you wherever you go. The fact that Scott's canine doesn't compete won't look suspicious if he's paired with you. I'm told Shajuanna Collier's a very outgoing young woman. Likes to chat with other dog handlers when on the road. The dog competition circuit is very clubby. You'll be status seekers, new to the game, looking to learn the ropes. We need you to buddy up to Shajuanna. Get in. See what you can stir up.”

Cole nodded. “How long do you expect this is going to take?”

“The faster you do your job the quicker it's over. Two, three weekends of shows should be enough to tell us if this operation can yield anything of value.”

Cole smiled. “So I'm home during the week? I can work my patrols?”

“No. You have to have a home base in case Shajuanna decides to befriend you.” Lattimore clicked through a few slides. “Lucky break for us, Shajuanna owns a home in Potomac, just off River Road, where she breeds her dogs.”

“That's Montgomery County. My patrol area.”

“But you won't be patrolling. Weekdays the two of you are to cozy up at home and work the dogs for the next show.”

“Great.”

“Shit.”

Cole and Scott eyed one another, not sure who had said what. But, clearly, neither was happy about the proposed arrangements.

“I'd prefer not to use Officer Jamieson's home.” Scott didn't glance at Cole. “It's risky. What if something went wrong? She'd have to move.”

“It does seem invasive, sir.” One of the Baltimore reps spoke up. “If anything goes wrong, they'll know where to find Officer Jamieson. Even if she moved, with a bit of snooping they'd have her name, her badge number, everything.”

Lattimore's mouth lifted in one corner. “That's why we're looking for suitable housing. First order of duty is to get our K-9 teams in sync. To get you up to speed ASAP, I've made arrangements for you both to spend a few days at Harmonie Kennels to refresh your skills. So when you go home pack a bag. The training begins in the morning. Ms. Summers has agreed to supervise your training herself.”

Cole was impressed. Yardley Summers, owner and operator of Harmonie Kennels, was nearly a legend. Everyone in the K-9 law enforcement world knew of her. Her kennel was one of the top training facilities for K-9 services in the United States. They trained canines for law enforcement, local, state, and national, as well as for military and Special Forces use. And Lattimore had arranged for Cole to train under her. Cole was impressed all over again.

When the meeting broke for the day, the FBI agent slapped Scott on the back. “Sweet deal you got going there, Lucca. All the perks of a live-in girlfriend without the baggage. Tough break, you're the bracelet on this one.”

Over Scott's shoulder Agent Hadley snagged Cole's eye and winked.

Cole winked back, pleased when surprise was reflected in his expression. Good. She would rather have given him the finger. But that, she suspected, was what he'd wanted, as proof that his needling had gotten to her.

Beyond exhausted after spending hours in a boardroom when she would rather have been doing, well, anything else, Cole stifled a yawn as she gathered her things and headed out the door, not making eye contact with anyone else.

“Hey. Officer Jamieson.”

Halfway down the hall, Cole turned back at the sound of Scott's voice. She'd almost made it out without having to deal with him face-to-face.

He waited until he caught up with her before he spoke. “Lattimore wants to talk to you.”

Cole went still. “What about?”

“My guess? He wants to know what you saw in those photos.”

“How could he know I saw something of interest in the photos?”

“Same way I did. By watching you. I saw your face as you went through those pictures of Shajuanna. You saw something the rest of us missed.”

“Maybe.” Cole found she was having a hard time looking at him. The last time they'd been this close she'd thrown him out.
Because I wanted to kiss him.

If he had guessed her thoughts Scott didn't give any indication. “Don't underestimate Lattimore. He's got as many eyes as a spider. But before you go in there you need to tell me exactly what you're going to tell him.”

Cole shrugged. “It was Shajuanna and the dogs. She's not pretending to like dogs. There's real affection there.”

Scott was nodding when she finished telling him her impressions. “I saw it, too.”

“Then why didn't you say something? Back me up?”

He tried to take her elbow but she lifted her arm out of his palm. Undeterred, he angled his body so that his shoulder touched the wall, forming a shield between them and the rest of the hallway. He lowered his voice, as if they were sharing a personal private moment, but his expression was dead serious.

“I know you're angry as hell at me. But we've agreed to give this a go. That means we have to trust each other to have the other one's back on the job. I'm trying to do that, if you'll let me.”

“You didn't back me just now.”

“That's right. You have to be seen as holding your own weight and taking the heat when it comes, too. This is the big leagues. You can't be viewed as needing a protector or you lose your credibility.”

“Okay. I see that.” Cole held his gaze. “Does everyone on the task force know our history?”

“Hell no.” Scott's eyes narrowed. “Only Lattimore. And it will stay that way.”

Relief tumbled through her. “I wondered, the way that FBI guy Hadley is acting.”

“Hadley's a douche. Smart, good at his job, but a douche.”

“What did he mean about you being the ‘bracelet'?”

To her amazement, Scott's face reddened. “It's a term for the undercover agent who is acting strictly as cover for the main undercover operator. Like a girlfriend.”

Obviously, not a term of respect. “So in this operation you're my stud muffin arm candy?”

Scott scowled.

Suddenly, Cole felt better than she had all day. “Better go see the boss.”

Scott leaned in closer, making her aware of his superior height. “Here's the thing. Lattimore's position requires that he do some political grandstanding. Task forces are funded by public money. There's never enough of that to go around. So, there's no room for any weakness in our plan. If you convince him we have the wrong target, he'll pull this operation.”

“You're telling me to lie.”

“I'm telling you to ask yourself if you're a hundred percent certain you're right. Or if you'd like a chance to test your theory against the weight of developing evidence.”

Cole nodded. “That's smart. Someone's using puppies to move drugs. One way or the other, this is our best lead. At best, we get the right people. At worst, we could develop other leads while discounting our hypothesis.”

Scott's mouth twitched. “I wouldn't use the word ‘hypothesis' with Lattimore. He's not always dealing with heavy artillery when it comes to seeking congressional allocations of money. He needs small-word explanations to pass on.”

“There is something else.” Cole flipped open her tablet and pointed to the graph she punched up on her screen. “Eye-C's lost money on his recordings, but I did a little surfing at lunchtime. He's making good money on residuals and his protégée, PaTreeZ. She's gone platinum this week. He may be a criminal but he knows how to make money without dealing.”

Scott grinned at her. “You may make detective one day. But don't lay all your cards on the table, not even with Lattimore. Hunches are just that until you have hard evidence. Now go get 'em.”

He turned and walked away.

Cole had to stop herself from calling him back. To say thank you. To express gratitude to the man who still made her body hum just by entering a room.

She shook her head. She had some serious mental issues she needed to deal with. Serious. Because she was grateful for his little pep talk. And she was excited about the next few weeks.

She squared her shoulders and went to find Lattimore.

*   *   *

“The Pagans made you?” Dave Wilson stared at Scott across the tiny table space in a D.C. corner deli/grocer. “You didn't think that was something you should have reported before now?”

Scott shrugged. “A cop gets made on the street on any given day. No big deal.”

His former undercover handler shook his head. “An ex-undercover agent gets made two years after a nasty bust, that's news. You got a name?”

“Calls himself Dos Equis. X for short. We rode together for several months.”

Dave made a note in his cell phone. “I remember him. Biker from out West. Always thought it suspect he should choose Pagan affiliation. Anything else?”

“Nothing I can't manage, now I know to keep an eye open.”

Scott had planned to keep to himself the incident that occurred on the road a month ago. He could handle himself. But the drive-by of his parents' home in New Jersey over the weekend hinted at something altogether different. If some sick bastard was scoping out his family, he needed backup. So he had decided to reach out.

Undercover operatives were assigned a handler while undercover. Dave Wilson had been Scott's only point of contact while he was on the job. Dave had monitored him, provided instructions, and assistance. When it all went sideways, Dave had been there with the manufactured backstory that extracted him before he was exposed.