INFORMANT (13 page)

Day Forty

Afternoon

Beckett is waiting for me. My pulse beats to the tempo of those words. Beckett is waiting. Beckett is waiting. For me. For me! I am a child on Christmas morning, giddy with delight, and he is the package I am dying to unwrap.

We’ve texted back and forth (Jane and I, that is) and arranged to meet at the San Francisco zoo. I guess he figures the zoo is relatively safe from a meeting standpoint. It’s full of tourists and families with young children, so there’s a minimal chance of our being spotted together. Fine by me. Where we meet doesn’t matter. All that counts is that I get to see him, talk to him, hold him. I want his mouth on mine, his fingers tangled in my hair, my body crushed against his. I want his taste, his scent, his caress. I am a bundle of raw nerves and aching need. I want Beckett.

This game we play—ignoring each other in chem lab, brushing past one another in the SFSU student commons without a single glance—is driving me crazy. I imagine that it’s worse for him, because he has to watch Ricco touch me, smile at me, flirt with me. At one point I delighted in torturing him, but not anymore. Now that I know Beckett feels
something
for me, that perverse thrill has waned.

Still, I hesitate to call what we share ‘a relationship’. Maybe a more appropriate term would be nuclear strength longing. If our lust was properly harnessed, we could light up the entire Bay Area with one hot, smoldering kiss.

The bell rings, signaling the end of class. Relief pours through me. I cram my notes in my backpack and bolt toward the door.

“Miss Porter?”

I turn to see Brad Morris, my legal ethics professor, looking at me expectantly. “Yes?” I say, trying not to sound as annoyed at I feel.

“Do you have a minute?”

“Um, sure.”

Shit.
I don’t want to miss my bus. Also, there’s nothing about Brad Morris or his class that I like. The course guide calls it Law and Ethics in a Scientific World. I took it because it filled a humanities requirement and I thought it would be interesting. I imagined thoughtful debates about cloning, using animals in medical research, the limits of genetic engineering, etc.

But we talk very little about ethics or science. Instead, the entire class is treated to listening to Brad Morris talk about his former life as one of San Francisco’s top prosecuting attorneys. Morris is in his late-thirties, blond, good-looking, and has a peacock swagger that probably drove courtroom judges insane. He loves to tell stories about himself: the high-profile criminals he prosecuted, the media accounts of his exploits, his meteoric rise to political stardom.

His fall must have been pretty spectacular as well, but he doesn’t talk about that. I heard he’s connected to a major SFSU financial donor, and that’s how he got the job here. He certainly didn’t earn it based on his skill as an instructor.

“Yes, Mr. Morris?”

He props one hip on the edge of his desk, loosens his tie. He leans slightly forward, an expression of earnest affability on his face. I imagine him practicing this pose in the mirror, running it past every juror he’s ever addressed. I assume this is how we’re supposed to read him:
Yeah, I know I’m one hell of a good-looking guy, but don’t hold that against me. You can still trust me. I’m a straight shooter.

“Brad,” he says.

“Excuse me?”

“Call me Brad.”

Ugh. “All right. Brad. Is there something I can do for you?” I know he doesn’t need to talk to me about my class work, because he hasn’t bothered to assign us anything yet.

“Actually,” he says, “there’s something I can do for you.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“I was at the farmer’s market on Sunday. I saw you there.”

I give a blank smile. Shake my head. “Yeah?”

“I know a few things about that young man you were with. That Ricardo Diaz. Handsome kid, lots of money. But I’m willing to wager you don’t know where that money comes from, do you?”

I don’t have to fake being surprised at his words. Shock courses through me. “What are you talking about?” I stammer. 

He smiles at that. “It’s all right,” he says. He rests his hand on top of mine. “Don’t be scared.”

Scared?
Fuck you. I’m furious. I jerk my hand away. It takes every ounce of willpower I’ve got not to slap that arrogant smirk off his face. “Ricco’s a friend of mine,” I reply tightly. “I’m not interested in hearing any ugly gossip.”

“Really?” A blond brow arches skyward. “How commendable. Except what I have to say isn’t gossip. It’s fact. You’ve obviously forgotten my background. I know people who know people. That kid’s as dirty as they come.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Morris.”

His voice stops me. “Ignorance won’t protect you, Kylie. You’re my student. I’m just trying to help. You should fully understand what you’re getting into. Or better yet, back out while you still can. Ricco Diaz is dangerous.”

Ricco?
I shake my head. “No, that’s not right. You mean, Ricco’s father.”

Brad Morris gives a slow, satisfied smile. “So you do know about him.”

Shit—I’ve said too much. But all I can do at this point is maintain my role as hard-working student, trustworthy friend. “Ricco isn’t his father.”

“True. He’s not. At least… not yet.” The words hang there for a beat. Ominous silence fills the room. Then Brad shrugs. “Effective January first, I’ll be crossing the aisle, setting up shop as a criminal defense attorney. Fascinating work.  Like I said, I know people who know people. I hear very interesting things. Things you might want to hear. I think you and I can help each other.” He passes me a card. “We’ll talk later.”

Not if I can help it.

*    *    *

An hour earlier I was sitting on
Go
, dying to see Beckett. Now, however, the creepy conversation I had with Brad Morris is weighing me down. I jump off the bus, pay my zoo admission fee, and slip through the gates. I find Beckett waiting for me at the giraffe barn, just as we’d planned. I take one look at him and am overcome. That might sound dramatic, but there are no other words to describe the feelings that engulf me the instant I see him. My emotions are like a boiling pot, churning and roiling and constantly on the verge of spilling over.

Without a word, I catapult myself into his arms. Beckett wraps me in his embrace and steadies us both. He feels so strong, so sure, so solid—comfort beyond measure. (Although if I was forced to define exactly what it was that I needed to be comforted for, I don’t think I could put it into words. Just… everything.)

He locks his arm around my waist and pulls me tightly against him. We kiss. It is as wonderful and breath-taking as it always is. The luscious interplay of tongues and teeth, the aching satisfaction of my breasts flattened against his chest, the subtle thrill of his groin pressing into my hip. We kiss as though we’d been separated for years, and not mere days. But even then, he is tuned in enough to recognize that my equilibrium is off.

“Hey,” he says, drawing back slightly, “Is everything okay?”

I nod and give a weak smile. “It’s nothing. School.”

“You sure? Nothing going on with Ricco? With his father?”

“No.”

I slip out of his embrace and search his gaze. As if moving of their own volition, my fingers trace his eye. The swelling is gone, but the discolored bruising remains.

“Listen,” I say, “if it’s all right with you, let’s not talk about Ricco, or Miguel, or any of that stuff for the next couple of hours, okay? Let’s just be together.”

I realize the moment the words leave my mouth just how risky they are. I am swept by a wave of naked vulnerability. I know Beckett is attracted to me sexually. I know I am instrumental to him in getting close to Miguel Diaz. But does he want to be with me, just for the sake of being with me?

In answer, he takes my hand in his. “Good idea.”

Relief courses through me. All is right with my world once again. We spend the next few hours just goofing off. Me and Beckett. No dark shadows or imminent threats hanging over us. We follow the trail that winds through the zoo, visiting the various enclosures. Lions and tigers and bears, oh my! But we don’t stop there. We check out the monkeys, hippos, alligators, zebras, and all the other zoo creatures.

Beckett asks me what my favorite animal is, and then surprises me later with a souvenir. I spend the rest of the afternoon walking around with a stuffed gorilla tucked under my arm. It’s silly, childish even, but we’re having a great time.

We round a corner and come across a small boy standing by himself. He can’t be more than five or six. He looks at us, and his lower lip trembles with the effort of holding back his tears.

“Hey,” I say softly. “Is everything okay?”

For some reason, my words trigger utter panic. The little guy’s eyes widen. He shakes his head frantically as tears begin to stream down his cheeks. Between sobs, he answers in a stream of choked Spanish that I can barely make out. I catch the words
mama
, and
papa
, and
perdido
. He’s lost.

While I mentally scramble to reply, Beckett squats down on his ankles, bringing himself eye-to-eye with the boy. Keeping his voice low and soothing, he speaks to the kid in perfect, fluent, fluid Spanish. I’m beyond speechless. Beckett sounds better than Don Diego, my own high school Spanish teacher (to whom I obviously should have paid more attention in class).

Within a minute or two, the kid is not only no longer terrified, he’s actually giggling at Beckett’s teasing. The boy even trusts him enough to allow Beckett to perch him up on his shoulder, where he swells up his scrawny chest and boldly shouts out his parents’ names. Hearing him, his family comes running. With a smile, Beckett swings the kid down and passes him into his mother’s arms. It’s a lovely scene, and I’m touched beyond reason just to have witnessed it.

“Where’d you learn Spanish so well?” I ask.

He shrugs. “My best friend growing up was Latino. I picked it up hanging out at his house with him and his brothers. But as it turns out, it comes in pretty handy for work.”

“Oh?”

“I did six months in Columbia once, trying to break-up a drug cartel. Then there was a year in LA, working to get evidence we could use in court against a pair of warring Salvadorian gangs.”

His words chill me. I can’t stand the thought of Beckett being exposed to that kind of danger. So far he’s made it through alive, but one day he might not be so lucky. “Is that why you were assigned to the Diaz case?” I ask. “Because of your language ability?”

He pauses, and his expression changes. Hardens. “No,” he says flatly. “I wasn’t assigned to Miguel Diaz. I requested him.”

It’s clear there won’t be any more discussion on that topic—at least not now—so I let it go.

The zoo is located in the southern part of the city, its western edge perched up against the Pacific. As dusk begins to fall the air grows cold and damp. Beckett insists I take his jacket. I wear it slung over my shoulders, and am engulfed by his scent. As we make our way toward the exit, we happen across one last enclosure.

Panthers. Three magnificent jungle cats with vivid emerald eyes and coats darker than night. It’s almost closing time, and it’s clear the cats know they’re about to be fed. They pace back and forth, impatiently howling. Their bodies are lithe and beautiful, all sinuous muscle and savage grace. The sign says that although they were born in captivity, they are not domesticated. That much is obvious. They are stunning creatures, but there is a calculating cruelty about them. They prowl and hunt and wait, ready to strike their prey the instant there’s an opportunity.

Watching the panthers, I am forcefully reminded of Ricco, Miguel, and Beckett. Not wild, not tame, but some dangerous state in-between.

Day Forty

Night

Beckett’s apartment is in Nob Hill, on California Street. Top floor, northwest corner. When we left the zoo and he mentioned grabbing a bite to eat, I assumed he’d want to go out. Instead, he brings me back to his place.

There’s nothing special here, but I am unreasonably fascinated by everything I see. I want to interpret it all as a window into Beckett’s soul, so I take it all in with one voracious glance: black leather sofa and club chair, polished Scandinavian coffee table littered with magazines, flat screen TV, expensive stereo, laptop computer. Everything sleek, modern, and minimalist—including the artwork.

Beckett watches me wander around his living room. I must be more transparent than I thought, for his lips curve in an amused smile. “Well?” he says, arching one dark brow, “What do you think?”

I nod at the wood flooring, broad bay window, lofty ceiling. “Nice place. No wonder our taxes are so high. DEA agents must make a fortune.”

He laughs at that. “I definitely don’t pay for it with my salary at the DEA. This comes out of my side income.”

“Oh?”

“Online stock trading. I buy options and sell derivatives. Essentially it’s legalized gambling, but I’m pretty good at it.”

“At making money?”

I thought it was a simple question, but Beckett considers it carefully before answering. “Indirectly, yeah. But it’s not just about making money. The key is being able to read a company’s investment portfolio, study their balance sheets, sales strategies, top personnel, and then interpret how that will be effected by overall market growth within their sector.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“Sometimes it is, sometimes it’s not.” He shrugs. “If things had been different, I would have gone into finance in college, rather than criminal justice.”

That comment is maddeningly like Beckett. If
what
had been different? Before I can pursue it, he moves to the stereo and flicks a switch. A track by Elliot Smith floods the room. 

“Anyway,” he continues, “you haven’t seen why I rented the place. I mean, the apartment’s fine, but later on I’ll show you what really clinched the deal.”

“Why not now?”

“I thought we’d eat first.”

He moves to where I’m standing and slips his jacket from my shoulders. As he does, his fingers brush my collarbones. Pleasure shoots through me at that simple touch. I turn slightly to receive his kiss. His lips brush mine, but it doesn’t last nearly long enough.

“Hungry?” he asks.

Hiding my disappointment, I wrap my arms around myself and nod.

“Perfect,” he replies. “I’ll throw something together.”

“Can I help?”

“Nah, I got it.”

He slips around the counter and into the kitchen, leaving me alone in the living room. His bedroom is down the hall. Glancing in that direction, I see his bulky leather holster and revolver are draped over the edge of his headboard. I imagine him doing a quick draw, whipping out his gun. In a flash that mental image abruptly turns dark, scary. Like watching a movie, I picture him staring down the barrel of someone else’s gun. I stand there, completely frozen, as the trigger is pulled. Beckett goes down.

Irrational terror shoots through me—I am only imaging this, and yet it feels so real. But it’s not. It can’t be. I won’t even allow myself to think it. Probably just leftover tension from the stories he told me about infiltrating Columbian drug cartels and Salvadorian street gangs. 

Badly in need of something else to occupy my mind, I move to the window to check out the view—his apartment faces the street, so there’s not a lot to see—when I spy an old yearbook sitting on the bookshelf. I bring it with me and slide into a counter stool. “You mind?” I ask.

He glances at it and shakes his head. “Go for it.”

I open it and flip through the pages. I had halfway hoped to find something funny or embarrassing: Beckett with thick glasses, nerdy clothes, an awful haircut. Just the opposite is true. Beckett hasn’t changed. Every photo shows a handsome, popular jock who was obviously well-liked. Lots of photos of him captaining varsity teams, sitting behind the wheel of a flashy Saab convertible, or with a pretty girl tucked under his arm.

“Just as I suspected,” I say. “You were the hot guy in high school.”

He lets out a breath and shakes his head. “I don’t even remember high school.”

Doesn’t matter. I’m sure his classmates remember him.  Hell, the women probably still fantasize about him.

“What about you?” he asks. “Were you the hot girl in high school?”

His question is so absurd I can’t control my shocked bark of laughter. “Oh, my God. No. Guys were never interested in me in high school. They didn’t even notice I was there.”

He stops what he’s doing. Looks me straight in the eye. “You can’t actually believe that.”

“Believe what?”

“That guys didn’t notice you.”

“It’s true. I was the smart one. Jess was the pretty one.”

“Jess? Your sister? That blonde you were with in the student commons the other day?” He gives an indifferent shrug. “Yeah, she’s pretty, but kind of obvious. But you—” he stops abruptly as his gaze runs me up and down. “You would have driven me fucking crazy.
Crazy.
A body, face, and a brain like yours, combined with an attitude that said you had no use whatsoever for men.” He gives a shout of laughter and shakes his head. “Holy shit. Pure torture. I feel sorry for any guy who had to sit next to you in class.”

I blink, speechless. Unless I was totally oblivious, that’s not even remotely close to how I remember high school. But the picture he paints of me is so absurdly flattering, I don’t want to talk him out of it. I watch as he opens the refrigerator, removes a frosty Heineken, and twists off the top. He takes a deep swig. 

“You’re not going to offer me a beer?”

He thinks about it, shrugs. “Probably not a good idea.”

True, so I let him pass me a Coke instead. This is tricky for both of us, but I suddenly realize how much is at stake for Beckett. I remind myself that he’s law enforcement. A federal agent. Hard to justify serving alcohol to someone who’s underage. By that same token, sleeping with a paid informant probably wouldn’t be considered a great career move, either. Time to change the subject.

I slide off my stool and move into the kitchen. He’s got cutting boards spread out, knives, piles of chopped vegetables, and chunks of cubed chicken. “What’s going on here?” I ask.

“I hope you like stir fry.”

“I love it—and I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be. I wok everything.”

“Everything?”

“Yup. Even my eggs in the morning. It’s the only way I know how to cook. I’m a one wok kind of guy.”

My favorite kind. We pour on the sesame oil, garlic, and Sriracha sauce—we both agree spicy is the only way to go—and a few minutes later we’re sitting down together at his dining table, eating.

We’re at an odd place. From the moment we met, everything has been beyond intense. We’ve shared secrets, taken insane risks, had sex, and come closer to dying than I ever thought I would. But there are things we don’t know about each other, and the holes that lie between us have become too gaping to ignore.

I’m normally not a big talker, but Beckett makes it easy. I tell him about growing up in San Francisco, about my career ambitions, about my perpetually exhausted mom and flaky, part-time dad. I talk a lot about Jess—how inseparable we were growing up, but how that’s changed now that she’s married and has a baby.

Then I wait. It’s Beckett’s turn. He starts with the basics. He moved around a lot when he was young—his dad’s a retired Marine—but he considers upstate New York his home. His mom’s an artist; she specializes in equestrian portraits and has an intensely loyal following. He grew up with two older sisters. One of them is an elementary school teacher who married an attorney and lives in Saratoga Springs.

“And your other sister?” I ask.

He shifts back in his chair. When he looks at me, his face is expressionless, totally impassive. “She died when she was twenty-one.”

I draw in a sharp breath. I hadn’t expected this, but for some reason it’s not a surprise, either. Beckett, for all his hard-edged beauty, burns like a candle. He is fueled not by oxygen, but by tension and pain. I am finally beginning to get a glimpse of the source.

“What happened?” I ask.

He toys with the tines of his fork as he gathers his thoughts. Then he looks up at me. “I was sixteen, a junior in high school. Emma was twenty-one, a senior at Skidmore. She was the kind of person everyone loved. Smart, funny, beautiful… her whole life ahead of her. Once she finished her degree in cognitive therapy she planned to work with autistic kids.”

He pauses, and I can tell by the faraway look in his eyes that he’s no longer with me. He’s seeing his sister. Remembering Emma. Then he gives a subtle shake of his head.

“Anyway. It’d been a brutal winter, lots of snow, and Em and her friends planned a blow-out spring break trip. They’d made it through midterms and wanted to take off and go someplace warm—you know, beaches, bars, dancing, that sort of thing. They looked at Aruba, Cancun, and the Bahamas, but finally settled on Miami. I don’t remember why, maybe cheap air fares or something.”  

At the mention of Miami, my stomach tightens. Dread courses through me. My fingers curl around my glass of Coke, and I suddenly wish I’d insisted on something stronger.

Beckett’s story ends as abruptly as it began. “The night before they were supposed to fly home, Em and her friends went dancing at a club in South Beach. A local hot spot. They didn’t know it, but the club was a popular hangout for up-and-coming drug dealers. That night, one of the deals went wrong. Weapons were drawn, shots fired. One person died right there, three others were wounded.”

I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. “And Emma?” I prompt softly.

“She was hit three times. One bullet lodged in her spine; the doctors couldn’t get it out. If she lived, they told us she’d never walk again. But Em was a fighter.” His lips curl slightly, but there’s no warmth in his smile. His words have a rusty edge, and I sense it’s been a very long time since he’s spoken of any of this. He’s unearthing a memory that was buried deep. “She hung on for two weeks in intensive care. We were all so sure she was going to pull through. But in the end, there was just too much internal damage. She went into cardiac arrest and died.”

I am stricken speechless. I don’t know what to say. His sister’s death is one of those senseless, horrible tragedies that devastate utterly. I try to imagine how it would feel if something like that happened to Jess, but it’s so horrific my mind won’t go there. I ache for Beckett, even though everything about his posture tells me he doesn’t want my sympathy. Still, I have to say something. I find my voice and struggle for words. “Beckett—”

He shoves back his chair before I can get another word out. He stands and holds out his hand. “C’mon,” he says. “I promised you I’d show you why I rented this place.”

The transition is jarring, but I don’t object. If that’s all he can handle for tonight, so be it. He leads me into his bedroom and I assume he’s taking me to his bed. Instead, he opens his closet door and pulls down what appear to be a set of folding attic stairs. He climbs up first, throws open a bulky door that looks like a ship’s hatch, then disappears. Cold air whizzes past me as he reaches down and holds out his hand for me to grip. I reach the top of the ladder and allow him to pull me up the rest of the way.

We are on the roof of his building, standing beneath a pergola that has been strung with thousands of tiny, twinkling lights. There are potted trees and plants all around us, and two lounge chairs with thick cushions. It is spectacular—a private oasis in the middle of the city. I had no idea anything like this existed. The beauty of it takes my breath away.

I do a complete three-sixty, drinking in the view. The world stretches out before me. I can see all the way to Oakland, Sausalito, San Jose. The bay shimmers and sparkles, black and glossy against the night sky. There is only a sliver of a moon—the night is all stars. In the distance, a fog horn sounds its lonely cry. I don’t know how long I stand there, entranced, but when I turn I find Beckett watching me.

He looks shattered. Completely broken. I realize he’s not on the rooftop with me, but back in that hospital room with Emma, helpless to do anything but watch her die. Guilt, pain, and longing war for dominance on his face. He takes a deep breath, and then pulls me into his arms without a word.

He kisses me for the same reason he drags air into his lungs. He kisses me because I am alive and he is alive, and no matter what ugliness brought us together, the fact that we are together remains cause for celebration. 

I understand this. At the same time, he’s hurting me. His kiss is harsh, punishing, brutal. His lips grind against mine. Our teeth gnash. His fingers dig into my flesh and his grip around my waist is so tight it burns. He holds me against him as though we are bound. I am forcefully reminded of how much larger he is than me, how much stronger.