INFORMANT (3 page)

Day Two

Night

Ronnie is behind the wheel of his Crown Vic. It used to be a police vehicle. Although it’s been repainted, it still has the protective wire cage separating the front seat from the back. He picked it up for almost nothing at a city auction when some mechanic misdiagnosed it as having a blown head gasket. Actually, all it needed was a tune-up and a new set of spark plugs and it was good to go.

Ronnie loves the car for two reasons. First, since he keeps it parked outside Noriega Street Auto, he’s never once had a break-in, a rare occurrence for that neighborhood. Would-be thieves see the car and assume a cop lives in the building and move on to an easier target. Secondly (and maybe just as importantly) it gives him total immunity to drive like an asshole. It doesn’t matter that the flashing lights have been disconnected. When other drivers see a cop car speeding toward them in their rearview, they shift out of the way.

My mom is home with Dally, and Jess is sitting in the front seat beside Ronnie as the Crown Vic careens up and down San Francisco’s famous hills. We’re on our way to Romano’s. So yes, as humiliating as it is, my whole family is now involved.
Kylie has a date
. Repeat three times in a tone of increasing wonder and disbelief. Apparently the news is so staggering I’m surprised the media hasn’t picked up the story yet.

The truth is, I don’t go out that much. My mom was twenty years old when she got pregnant with Jess. Jess was twenty when she got pregnant with Dally. I’m nineteen. Not hard to see where this trajectory is going unless I make a pretty significant course correction. Hence my enrollment at San Francisco State, and my determination to make something of myself. I don’t want to spend my life shuffling from one minimum wage job to another, depending on men who aren’t dependable, buying off-brand groceries and Kmart bras.

I want more than that.

Jess gets it. But my mom? My mom views this as a direct slap to the sacrifices she made. Like I’m looking down on her. There’s been a lot of tension between us lately. Tension neither of us acknowledge, but both of us feel. Who knows? Maybe she’s right. Maybe I am being prissy and condescending to think I can do better. Then again, maybe
I’m
right. Maybe she, Jess, and I deserve more than the crappy, second-hand lives that we’re living.

Speaking of second hand, I’ve got on a red knit dress that Jess picked up at a thrift store a couple of weeks ago. She’s the one who convinced me to go tonight. She’s actually more excited about my dinner with Blue Eyes—um, Thomas Beckett Smith—than I am.

As we enter the Broadway Street tunnel, she swivels around in the front seat and beams at me through the wire cage. “You look great.”

I try to smile back. Not only did she lend me the dress and shoes, she did my hair and make-up, too. I appreciate the effort, but if I could, I’d go home and change. I don’t feel like me. I feel processed and packaged, like some kind of weird pimento cheese loaf, rather than dressed.

“Nervous?” she says.

Yes, actually. But rather than admit it, I manage a shrug. “I’m still not sure why I’m going.”

She rolls her eyes. “Kylie, it’s not complicated. He’s in your class, he’s gorgeous, and he asked you out. You’ve got the night off anyway, so what’s the big deal? It’s just dinner.” In her view, it’s not the least bit weird or creepy that he tracked me down at the Karma. It’s
romantic
.

“And if he turns out to be some kind of psychopath?”

Ronnie takes this as his cue to interrupt. His eyes meet mine through the rearview mirror. “Just let me know and I’ll kick his ass.”

Thanks, tough guy. I feel so much better.

We roll to a stop in front of Romano’s. Valet parking attendants in trim red jackets—yeah, it’s that kind of place—instantly appear beside the car to open the doors, but I’m the only one who steps out.

“Don’t forget to check in,” Jess calls out, holding up her cell phone. That’s our plan. She and Ronnie will loiter in the area for a little while in case I decide to leave and need a ride home. Otherwise, I’m on my own. Steeling my nerves, I send her a quick wave and walk inside.

The interior is pretty much what I expected: polished mahogany floors, white tablecloths, candlelight. The atmosphere is upscale and intimidating as hell. Hushed conversation and the sound of cutlery clinking against fine china. When I give the hostess my name, she leads me through the restaurant to a salon in back—the sort of space that is usually reserved for large, private parties. But when she pulls back the drapery for me to enter, I find an intimate table that has been set for two.

Thomas Beckett Smith pushes back his chair and politely comes to his feet.

Christ, he looks good.

I’m used to seeing him dressed for class: garage band t-shirts and worn jeans riding low on his hips. Now he’s wearing an immaculate, charcoal gray suit that looks as though it’s been custom tailored to accommodate his athletic build. The jacket stretches snugly across the broad lines of his shoulders, then tapers past his torso to his trim waist. Beneath it he’s wearing a crisp white shirt and gray silk tie. His dark chestnut hair is slicked back with careless perfection. And as for his face—clean shaven, his expression cool and controlled, so handsome and ruggedly virile he makes my teeth ache.

“Hello, Kylie.” If he’s at all surprised to see me, it doesn’t show.

“Hello...” I begin, then pause. “Do you prefer Thomas or Tom?”

He gives a small shake of his head. “It’s Beckett. My dad’s Tom.”

Beckett. The name suits him. He moves around the table and holds my chair for me. As his shoulder brushes mine, I breathe in the subtle aroma of his cologne. It’s intoxicating. It really is. Just the
scent
of his body makes me dizzy.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says once we’re both seated.

I’m surprised I’m here. Since I don’t want to say to that, I don’t say anything at all. Instead, I watch as he pours us both a glass of wine. Technically, I’m underage. But I suspect he already knows this. I have a hunch that the wine is some kind of test: what sort of lines—both legal and illegal—am I willing to cross? I nod my thanks, but leave the glass alone for the moment.

“So,” he says. “What do you think of San Francisco State?”

Small talk. I relax slightly. I can do that. “So far, so good.”

We chat a bit about the campus, the professors, then he asks, “You’re a biology major?”

“Forensics, actually.”

I read the surprise in his eyes. “Really?” A hint of a smile plays about his lips. “You want to work in law enforcement?”

“Actually, most of the cops I’ve met are assholes.”

His smile widens. “I agree. So why forensics?”

“Because…” I hesitate, debating how much of myself to reveal. I could just tell him it’s because I always got straight A’s in science. That I like test tubes. That lab coats turn me on. Instead, I find myself revealing the truth. “Because no one can hide from science—at least, not in a courtroom.”

I go on to relate the dark source of my inspiration. Two years ago, there was a series of brutal late night rapes in my neighborhood. The victims were so shattered they couldn’t provide a cohesive description of their attacker. But the physical clues the animal left behind—DNA, blood, semen, hair fibers—provided enough of a trail for the cops to track him down and the judge to lock him away.

Beckett nods, studying me. His expression gives nothing away. “You see yourself as an instrument of justice?”

“Maybe.” I’ve got to do something with my life, why not that? Then I recall where we are and send him an apologetic smile. “This is a weird topic for a first date. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m impressed.”

A plate of calamari arrives. It’s Romano’s specialty. They serve it hot and spicy, grilled rather than fried, and people go nuts over it.

Beckett looks at me. “I went ahead and ordered an appetizer. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Actually, I’ve never been here before. I’m dying to try it.”

He serves us both a generous portion and we dig in. Absolutely delicious. Even better than I’d heard. It’s so good, in fact, that when the waiter returns to take our dinner order, I contemplate ordering another plate, just so I can have it all to myself. Instead, I decide to try one of the nightly specials: baked sole with lemons and capers, served with a side of steamed broccoli. Beckett asks for lasagna. 

My cell vibrates.
Shit.
I’d completely forgotten I was supposed to check in with Jess. She’s probably panicked. I grab it and punch in a quick message, explaining to Beckett that I’m just reassuring my sister that he’s not a serial killer.

Instead of being offended, he nods approvingly. “Smart.”

I show him the text message:
still alive
.

His lips quirk. “Very encouraging.” He reaches for my phone. “May I?” I pass it over, watching as he types something and hits send. When he passes it back, I glance at the sent message.

The calamari is delicious
.

He gives me a conspiratorial wink. “That way we’ll trick her into believing you’re actually having a good time,” he says, his blue eyes twinkling. He’s got
dimples
. Honest-to-God dimples bracketing the sides of his sexy, sexy smile.

I could melt right there. My insides are more liquid than the wax dripping down the side of the candle. The next hour passes in a blur. I don’t touch the wine. I don’t need to. I’m loose and relaxed, enjoying myself. Beckett, the food, the conversation, the atmosphere… it’s all been great. I read his body language. From what I can tell, he’s enjoying himself, too. Thank God Jess pushed me into this.

I want to kiss him. I really do. I want to feel his lips on mine. I want his tongue in my mouth and his hands on my thighs. He looks even more delicious than the food. I imagine slowly unknotting his tie. Unbuttoning his shirt. Running my fingers across his broad, muscular chest. I am suddenly aching for Thomas Beckett Smith. On fire for him.

He must read it in my face, for his expression changes. It’s subtle, but there’s no mistaking it. Heat builds in his gaze. A muscle ticks on the side of his jaw. Then, without warning, he abruptly looks away. He hasn’t been drinking either. Now he reaches for his wine and takes a deep swallow.

“Kylie,” he says, his voice strangled, “we have to talk.”

I blink. We have been talking, but obviously that’s not what he means. The mood shifts, and sharp tension replaces the low-key atmosphere we were just enjoying. A strange anxiety creeps over me. Everything’s wrong. I get a sense of something dark and dangerous looming in the distance. Instinct tells me to leave. To stand up and walk away. Thomas Beckett Smith is exactly the kind of trouble I don’t need.

He says, “You must wonder why I wanted to get together with you.”

My chest tightens. “Of course,” I lie. No. I hadn’t wondered at all. In my conceit, my naivety, my…whatever, I’d assumed he’d wanted to get to know me. Maybe just
wanted
me. How humiliating.

I watch as his expression hardens. He glances around the small, intimate space, as though assuring himself we are absolutely alone. I know I don’t want to hear whatever’s coming next.

“Well?” I prompt, anxious to get it over with. “Go on, I’m listening. What is it—you need a tutor or something? Want to cheat off my midterm?”

“No. I need to talk to you about Ricardo Diaz.” At my blank stare, he impatiently adds, “Ricco.”

Ricco.
If I’d made a list of a million words he might say, that wouldn’t have been one of them. I slump back in my chair. “Ricco?”

“What do you know about him?”

What do I know about Ricco? Nothing.
Less than nothing.
But because I’m certain I saw a spark of interest in his face only moments ago, I give a reply that’s both crass and punitive. I want him to feel as shitty as I do right now. “He’s my lab partner. He’s got a great ass and a sexy accent.”

Beckett stiffens slightly, and I know I’ve hit the mark. “A Cuban accent,” he says.

“Yeah, so?”

“His father is Miguel Diaz.”

Again, “So?”

Beckett doesn’t reply right away. Instead, he takes a minute to gather himself. When he looks at me, his handsome face is stripped of all expression. “Kylie, earlier tonight you said you wanted to be an instrument of justice. This is your chance.”

I shake my head, thoroughly confused. “What are you talking about? Is Ricco in some kind of trouble?”

“No. As far as we can tell, he’s clean. But Miguel Diaz? Definitely not.”

Silence reverberates between us, and I ask the question I’m not sure I want answered: “Who is
we?”

He reaches into an inner suit pocket and passes over a thick leather case roughly the size of a playing card. It opens like a dual frame. On one side is a photo of Beckett’s face, with his name embossed beneath it in official-looking type. On the opposite side is his badge. He’s DEA.