INFORMANT (4 page)

My gaze shoots back to his. I feel shaky. Tricked somehow. Lured here under false pretenses. “What is this?” I manage. “What do you want?”

“Your help.”

“
My
help?
My help doing what?”

“Get close to Ricco. Find out where his father is. When he’s coming back. Does he have any ties to the local Cuban community? Does he—”

“No.”

I stand so quickly my thigh slams against the table. Dishes rattle. My untouched glass of wine tips over, sloshing a dark red stain over the white tablecloth. I don’t care. I’m gone. I wheel around to leave, but Beckett is there to stop me. He catches my arm.

“Kylie, wait.”

Earlier tonight I was dying for him to touch me. Now I can’t shake off his grip fast enough. “Let
go
of me.”

He instantly complies. He releases me and holds up his hands in a position of surrender. But he doesn’t move. He’s blocking the only way out. If I want to leave, I’ll have to push past him. 

“Kylie,
wait.
Just hear me out. Please.”

“I told you, I’m not interested.”

He won’t let up. “Remember that rapist you told me about? The guy in your neighborhood who attacked what—three women? Four? Five? Imagine an animal like that destroying
hundreds
of people. Men, women, children as young as ten or twelve. That’s what we’re talking about with Ricco’s father.” He pauses for a moment, takes a breath. “If I could do this on my own, I would. I tried. It didn’t work.”

My eyes narrow. “What do you mean, you tried?”

“That’s the whole reason I’m at SF State. I was sent in to get close to Ricco. Buddy up. See what I could find out. It didn’t work.”

I hardly know Ricco, but I could have guessed that much. Beckett comes across as too slick, too pretty boy, too American. Exactly the opposite of the sort of guy Ricco might want to hang out with. I put that aside for the moment. “You’re not an actual student, then.”

“No. My transcript’s fake.”

This is all unreal. I cannot believe we’re even having this conversation.

Beckett moves. He holds out my chair. His gaze drills into mine. “Let me tell you about Miguel Diaz,” he says. “When I’m done, if you still want to walk away, I won’t stop you.”

I hesitate for a long moment, and then reluctantly relent. His relief that I’m willing to sit and listen is palpable. What follows is a short history lesson on Cuba under Castro’s regime. The crooked government, the bribes, the violence, the cocaine. Upon their immigration to the US, the most vicious, brutal criminal elements not only survived, they flourished. Billionaires were made overnight. Cuban organized crime—drugs, prostitution, murder, racketeering—spread into New York, New Jersey, LA, San Francisco. Some of this I already knew. What I didn’t know (how could I?) was that Ricco’s father is kingpin of his organization. He’s considered one of the most lethal criminals operating in America today.

I picture Ricco. His cocky strut, his bashful smile, his soulful eyes. Beckett explains that the DEA’s take is that he moved to San Francisco to get away from his father, who operates from the Little Havana section of Miami. Maybe so. But what has he seen? What has he been a part of? My blood runs cold just thinking about it.

I look up to find Beckett silently watching me. I open my mouth to speak, but have no words. I softly clear my throat and try again. “Exactly what are you asking me to do?”

“Get information. Anything you can find out about Miguel Diaz. That’s all we need. Nothing risky, I swear.” A beat, then he inclines his head. “Naturally, you’ll be compensated for your help.”

Naturally. Understanding finally dawns. This was never a date. Not even close. It’s a job interview.

I’m suddenly exhausted. Drained. “Is that the way this works?”

“The way what works?”

“If I’m not hooked by the justice angle—by the thought of innocent people getting hurt unless I do something to help—you try to pay me off.”

His blue eyes grow cool. “I don’t work for free. I wouldn’t expect you to.” He lets that sink in, then continues, “CI’s are generally paid by—”

“Wait, what? CI?”

“A Confidential Informant. That’s what you’d be.”

Beckett keeps talking, but I’m not listening. Oh, my god. This is real. This is actually real. There’s a
name
for what I’d be doing. There’s probably a job description written in bureaucrat speak, hidden between vague paragraphs in some thick federal tome. I might even be a budget item. I can’t get my mind around it.

“Confidential Informant,” I say aloud. I hate the name. I hate the way it sounds and the dirty taste of it in my mouth. I hate everything about it.

He’s looking at me strangely. “Yes. Informant.”

“But I thought… I thought informants were druggies who turned on their dealers.”

“Not always. I’ve worked with informants who were wives, secretaries, golf partners, constructions workers…where they come from isn’t important. The only thing that matters is their ability to get close and personal. The more powerful the person we’re trying to take down, the more critical it is to have an inside man. The intelligence community would grind to a halt without them.”

“And I’m your inside man.”

“In this case, yes, you would be.”

“What makes you think I’ll be able to get close and personal with Ricco?”

“He’s male and he’s breathing.”

The comment is raw, real, and obviously unfiltered. We are instantly thrown back to the place we were minutes earlier, when a crazy sexual heat smoldered between us. But it is clear that Beckett regrets saying it. He lets out a short, harsh breath and turns away. Drags a hand through his hair. When he turns back to me, his features are cool and composed. “I’ve seen the way Ricco looks at you in class. He’s definitely interested.”

I think of Ricco’s macho bravado. His sweet, unrequited advances. I give a noncommittal shrug. “Maybe.”

“All right, then.”

“So do I get a gun? Or wait—free birth control?”

He’s annoyed. “We’re not asking you to sleep with the guy.” He pauses, thinking it over. “In fact, it’d be better if you didn’t.”

I suck in my breath. I don’t need Ronnie. I might just kick Beckett’s ass myself. 

If he senses my anger, he doesn’t respond to it. He’s in cop mode now. Processing the CI. “I know this is a lot to take in, but if you’re ready, I’d like to discuss compensation.” At my tight nod, he continues, “Five thousand a month for as long as this operation is viable. In addition, the DEA will cover all your ongoing tuition and expenses. You’ll get a full ride.”

The air is sucked out of my lungs. It’s like I hit the lottery—or traded my soul to the devil. I’m not sure which.

The money is huge. Ridiculous. Jess needs it. I need it. But uncertainty holds me in its grip. I waver.

My gaze meets Beckett’s. “I don’t want to hurt Ricco.”

He heaves a sigh. “Neither do I. He seems like an okay guy.”

He pauses for a long moment, thinking something over. Finally he reaches into his suit pocket—the same pocket that held his badge—and removes a photograph. With an air of weighty reluctance, he passes it over.

I glance at the photo and recoil. It shows a guy in a hospital bed. He’s been badly beaten. Bruises, cuts, swelling everywhere. I’m about to turn away when something about the guy’s eyes catches my attention. My stomach heaves. It’s Ricco.

Beckett looks at me. “If you can help get his father out of his life and permanently locked away, I think you’d be doing him one hell of a favor.”

Day Three

Morning

“Well?” Jess says. She’s beaming at me. She’s already showered and dressed for work. Dally is happily situated in his playpen. It’s obvious she rushed through her morning routine so we would have time to talk. “How’d it go? Tell me everything.”

“It was… nice.”

“Oh.” She pulls a face. “Nice? As in, nice but no chemistry, nice?”

“No—we definitely had chemistry.”

She gives a knowing smirk. “Bad kisser, huh?”

I cannot imagine Beckett being a bad kisser. Just the opposite. I think his kiss would be so hot it would actually scorch my soul. This is pure conjecture, of course. Obviously our ‘date’ didn’t end with a kiss. He just drove me home and dropped me off.  Said he wanted to give me time to think.

“So? Are you going to see him again?”

“I haven’t decided.”

She looks disappointed, but shrugs it off. “Oh, well. There’s always that Cuban hottie.”

I give a choked laugh that’s just shy of hysterical. How perfect that I finally go out, only to find myself caught between a DEA agent and the son of a Cuban crime boss. God, my life. I look at Jess and am suddenly dying to unburden. I want to tell her everything.

But I can’t. It wouldn’t be fair to ask her not to tell Ronnie, and so of course she would. And then he would tell the other mechanics about it. And they would tell their grease monkey friends about it… and so on and so forth, until wild whispers and rumors flooded the entire neighborhood.

As if to underscore that point, the bathroom door opens and Ronnie strolls out in a cloud of steam, naked except for the towel draped around his waist. His entire torso and both arms—wrist to shoulder—are blanketed with tattoos. A couple of them are actually good.

He pulls Jess into his arms and begins to nibble her neck.

“Ronnie!” she chides. “We’ve got company.”

He doesn’t stop. “Kylie’s not company. She’s here all the time.”

I don’t miss the jibe, but decide to ignore it. This is how my relationship with Ronnie works. Lots of surface neutrality and back-handed digs. We may not like each other, but we both love Jess and Dally. Our truce is as fragile as spring ice.

I watch him tighten his grip around her waist, pulling my sister away from me. Just like that, I make a decision.

“Hey,” I say. “I’ve got some news.”

Jess is leaning back in Ronnie’s embrace. Her eyes are closed, and a drowsy smile of contentment curves her lips. “Hmmm?” she says.

“Remember that study grant I applied for last August? That really important one that I thought I’d never get?”

Jess gives a vague nod. “Sure.”

The truth is, there never was a study grant—not that I expect her to know that. She pretends to be interested, but I know she’s not. School was never her thing. But it’s the best excuse I could come up with for a sudden influx of heavy cash in my checking account.

“I got it,” I say, desperately trying to inject a note of excitement into my voice. “Can you believe it? I thought I didn’t make the cut, but they just announced the finalists. The grant covers my tuition, and I’ll actually get paid to go to school.”

“Really?” I’ve finally got Jess’s full attention. “See—I knew you were brilliant!” she declares loyally. “It’s about time everyone else saw it, too.”

Ronnie lifts his head and studies me. A spark of interest lights his eyes. “How much?”

I bring up my chin. “Five thousand a month.”

Jess lets out a shocked breath. Ronnie releases her from his embrace and steps toward me. His eyes narrow as he calculates.

“So that means… fifteen thousand by December one. Thirty thou by March.” Ronnie can’t add two plus three. But put a dollar sign in front of any number, and suddenly he’s a math genius.

“Wow.” Jess looks happy for me, but also confused. “What do you have to do for the money?”

Excellent question. I scramble to answer it. “Well, it’s a federal grant. So I’ll be working for the federal government, I suppose. It’s an ongoing research project, primarily based in New York, but I’ll be stepping in to help with the work here in San Francisco. Mostly observation and reporting, I guess. There are a few other students who will be involved in the project, as well.”

I’ve never lied to my sister before. Now I can’t seem to stop myself. I’m appalled at how easy it is.

Ronnie looks at Jess. She frowns and shakes her head, but he ignores her. “Hey. Jess told you we’re trying to buy the garage, right?”

“Ronnie—”

“I’m just sayin’, babe.” He silences her with his hand, then swings back to look at me. “You could be an investor, if you want.”

“Oh, yeah?” I give a nonchalant shrug, running my hand along the kitchen counter. Of course I’ll lend them as much as I can. I know that, and deep down Jess knows it, too. But Ronnie doesn’t, and it’s fun to leave him hanging.

“I don’t think we’ll need it,” Jess blurts out, breaking the silence. She looks at me. “Dad said he’s gonna pitch in. He says he’s got twenty thousand tucked away in his retirement account, just doing nothing.”

I don’t say anything at that. Instead, my gaze locks on Ronnie’s. For once, he and I are on the same page. He’s only met our dad a few times, but he understands him as well as I do. That twenty thousand is pure fantasy. It doesn’t exist. And even if it did, it would never go to Jess and Ronnie, no matter how desperately they need it. Jess has a better shot paying off the garage with Monopoly money.

Here’s the thing about our dad: he means well. He never intends to hurt or harm. His neglect is always benign. Good-looking, blue-collar guy. Nice smile, firm handshake. One bullshit promise after another. He’ll be at the soccer game. Pay the electric bill. Pick up groceries for dinner. Never his fault the car broke down, his boss fired him, his buddy wanted to meet him for a beer. Who knew the supermarket closed at midnight, anyway?

My parents were together for ten years. They never married. My dad simply drifted in and out of our lives, a shadowy presence always just out of reach. A happy-go-lucky smile on his face after he missed the one and only performance of our school play. Our concert. Our graduation. “Hey, no problem, right? I’ll catch it next time.”

I glance at the clock. “Oops, I don’t want to miss my bus.”

But first I have to say goodbye to my nephew. I stride over to the playpen and lift Dally. I pull up his shirt and plant a raspberry on his soft baby belly. He squeals and kicks his legs in delight.

I can feel Ronnie watching us. He’s silently working things out. If he wants my money—and of course he does—he’s gonna have to be
nice
to me. It’s killing him.