Nightwork, page 34
“I don’t—”
“You don’t get to say you don’t want me to help, don’t need me to help, and you just want me bundled off a few thousand miles away like some helpless, useless, spineless damsel in a tower.”
She’d stalked up to him as she spoke, and accented her words by drilling a finger into his chest.
“I don’t think you’re helpless, useless, or spineless—and never have. Decisive, determined, direct. That’s always been you, so I wasn’t exactly going the princess-in-the-tower mode.”
“You also don’t get to say: But, Miranda, I’ll be worried and distracted unless I know you’re safe.”
He couldn’t help himself. He reached out to run a hand down her braid. “Maybe I was going toward that mode.”
“My feelings count, too. Plus, I have a brain. So you get one more chance. How can I help solve the problem?”
“Just let me…” He lowered his forehead to hers. “Adjust.”
“Make it snappy.”
The laugh dropped the tension out of his shoulders. “Let’s start here. Pack up what you need for now. Your house isn’t secure. I can fix that if you want. But if you pack what you need and stay at my place for a while, it would help eliminate that worry and distraction and let me focus. And,” he added before she could object, “it might help for me to bounce some ideas off you. You know how to plot.”
“That’s better, and I can agree to that. I’ll need a place to work.”
“You can take the guest room for that, or if that doesn’t work, I can move my school stuff upstairs and you can take my office.”
“The guest room’s fine. Give me fifteen minutes.” She started out, paused, and looked back at him with those sea-witch eyes cool. “You’re going to have to keep adjusting, Booth. This particular production? You’re not a solo act.”
He couldn’t be this time, he admitted while he wandered her kitchen. Too many factors, too much risk, too much to lay on the line. So while Miranda packed, he took out his phone and contacted Sebastien.
When she’d finished, and he had the first steps arranged, he loaded her things—more than he’d anticipated—into her car.
“We’re going to take your car back in the morning,” he told her. “Until I know who he’s sent to keep an eye on me, it’s smarter to look like you’re going back and forth.”
“Just booty calls?”
“For right now.”
“I’m fine with that. How will you find out who—if he does send someone—is here to spy on you?”
“He’ll send someone. He didn’t expect me to insist on staying, so he doesn’t have anyone in place now. But by tomorrow, the day after, latest. Finding out shouldn’t be hard. Whoever he sends needs a place to live. Either close to my house or close to the school. Who knows everybody who’s in the market for a house in and around Westbend?”
“Tracey. Of course.” She pulled in beside his car. “I can take that one. We talked about having lunch, so I’ll set it up. I can ask her about that without being obvious.”
His hesitation was knee-jerk, and he knew it, so set it aside. “It’ll most likely be a rental, but LaPorte may authorize a buy.”
“I’ve got this one, Booth.”
“Okay.” He grabbed the suitcase, the laptop case, a messenger bag, and started to reach for a substantial tote before she beat him to it.
“I’ll need keys, and the alarm code,” she told him as they carried her things in and upstairs.
Adjust, adjust, he reminded himself.
“I can set up my work area in the morning. Laptop and messenger bag in there. I’ll need your Wi-Fi password.”
She went about it all so briskly, moving into his bedroom, opening the suitcase. “And a designated drawer, some closet space. Also at least one vanity drawer and some shelf space in the bath.”
She turned, smiled. “Adjusting?”
“Yes.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Little bit. Have you ever lived with anyone before?”
“Other than my father, no. But I think it’s clear I’m more flexible about it. I need my space—personal and work spaces. I’m not a slob, but I’m never going to be as obsessively tidy as you are.”
“I wouldn’t call it ‘obsessively.’”
“Because you’re the one who’s obsessed,” she pointed out. “It’s a good trait, but I’m not going to meet your scarily high standards. You’ll adjust, and I’ll do my best to be respectful. And once we have those practicalities out of the way, we can concentrate on solving the problem.”
He opened a drawer, took out T-shirts—a lot of precisely folded T-shirts—transferred them to another drawer.
“Is that enough?”
Hardly, she noted, but nodded. “For the moment.”
He went into the closet, shifted a few things. Hesitated, then shifted a few more.
“There’s already plenty of room in here. Rods and hangers, shelves. And I’m only using two drawers in the bathroom vanity. It’s got six.”
“Great, I’ll use the other four.”
If he wondered what she could possibly need with four, he didn’t ask. “Do you need any help?”
“No.”
“Great, good. I’m going to throw some food together. I haven’t had dinner. Do you want something?”
“I haven’t had dinner either.”
“You were making popcorn.”
“For dinner.”
Rather than gape, he just closed his eyes a moment. “I can’t even address that. I’m going to pretend you never said that. I’ll be downstairs.”
Alone, Miranda filled the single drawer, made use of the hangers in the closet and the shelf space. As she unpacked her makeup, her skin care, her hair products, bath products, she laughed to herself.
It was, absolutely, a terrible situation, a very real and dangerous situation. Yet she couldn’t deny she would enjoy it—already was enjoying it—on many different levels.
Oh, his face, she thought as she looked at her own in his bathroom mirror. The stunned, blank look on it when she’d reeled off her needs for space in his space.
So used to having it to himself, being on his own, running his own schedule. Now he had to make room, share his plans, his space, and—at least for now—his life.
“Things change, Booth,” she murmured. “And not just your name this time.”
She stepped out, and glanced in the spare room—her temporary office—as she started downstairs. It made her grin, just grin when she imagined how he’d adjust to the fact that her work space would turn the room into chaos—on his scale—within twenty-four hours.
So she’d shut the door, she thought as she kept going. He had more important things to worry about. And now, so did she.
Whether he liked it or not, she was in this for the duration.
LaPorte had shattered her hopes, her young and lovely dreams, once. She—they—wouldn’t let him do so again.
As she approached the kitchen, she saw him working at the stove, a cloth tossed over one shoulder.
Her heart sighed, just as it had at twenty. It sighed, she thought, even though now she knew what he was.
She’d deal with that, she promised herself. She’d deal with her feelings, and any hopes and dreams that radiated from them.
After they’d solved the problem.
She stepped in.
“So, what’s for dinner?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
He performed some sort of miracle with pasta, grape tomatoes, cannellini beans, some olives, some spinach. After he plated it, he grated Parmesan on top.
When they sat, she sampled the first bite.
“I don’t know how you put this together in the time it took me to unpack.”
“Mad skills.”
“You joke, but you have them. So what mad skills do you need to deal with the problem? Idea bouncing,” she reminded him when he hesitated. “I’m not just here for the food and sex.”
“It’s a layered problem, so you deal with the layers. Once I know who and where LaPorte’s person or people are—I expect at least two, probably a couple—two posing as a couple—I can decide how to give them the impression I want reported back.”
“And that way he thinks he’s won the first round?”
“Sure. It might mean driving to Georgetown one night, or a weekend morning, letting them tail me if they want.”
More relaxed now that Miranda was where he needed her to be, more focused on the steps and stages, he drank some wine.
“That also gives me a firsthand look at the target and its environment. I’ll need to do that two or three times, even when I have the blueprints.”
“You can just get the blueprints of a private home?”
He twirled some angel hair around his fork. “Mad hacking skills, and if mine aren’t mad enough, I know a guy. The treasure room’s likely near Mountjoy’s private space—the guy who has the Goddess now.”
“His name is actually Mountjoy?”
“Alan C. Oddly enough I have his place on my list of potentials.” He caught her look. “Which has been tucked away since we struck our deal.
“Anyway, his treasure room’s likely near his home office, den, or the master suite. It’s going to be heavily secured, so I’ll need to get the security schematics.
“What’s he got?” Booth went on as they ate. “Alarms, cameras, maybe motion detectors, security lights, possibly a human element. Guards doing a ground patrol. Does he have a dog? He didn’t last year when I put him on the list, but things change. I have to know if he has a dog. A pet, a guard dog. I normally give a pass if there’s a dog, but if he has any, we’ll deal with it.”
She looked him dead in the eye. “You’re not going to hurt the dog.”
“Right now it’s a possible dog, Miranda, and if it turns into a reality dog, no, I’m not going to hurt it. Red meat. A dog’s a dog, and dogs go for a nice, fat steak. If I can’t get by it that way, I find another. One of us will lure it away.”
“One of us?”
He gave her a level look in return. “In this case, that doesn’t include you. I contacted Sebastien. He’ll start dealing with another layer of the problem. LaPorte has a kind of network,” Booth continued. “People in my line of work, researchers, information gatherers, muscle. His own bodyguards and security, and ones who can travel if there’s someone he wants to intimidate, threaten, pressure. Or worse.”
Outwardly, she ate calmly, but her insides shuddered. “You’re talking about assassins? Murder for hire?”
“That’s right. Say he wants a piece of property in Lyon and the owners don’t want to sell—and certainly not at his price. He sends someone to persuade them. One way or the other.”
He’d told her some things about LaPorte, he thought, but she simply didn’t understand the full power and twisted nature of the man.
And she’d need to.
“He covets things, Miranda, especially if they belong to someone else. Important things, unique things, priceless things, and when he covets something, nothing gets in the way of possessing it. Killing—ordering a killing—it’s just removing an obstacle.”
“He’s evil.”
Booth lifted his shoulders. “I think of him more as warped, but you can have ‘evil.’ He doesn’t know I’ve spent a lot of years studying his patterns, his methods. I know some of that network, and Sebastien will work that level.”
“What is that level?”
“I need a patsy. I’ve got someone in mind, but we have to work out the logistics.”
“A patsy? That’s not a word you hear every day.” She stabbed a tomato. “What do you need a patsy for?”
“To take the fall, and connect to LaPorte so he goes down, too.”
“Wait, wait.” She’d reached for her wine, now set it down again. “Booth, you’re going to frame someone? One of your own … associates?”
“Not an associate. Someone in my line of work who doesn’t have what you called my squishy moral center. Somebody who really gets off on home invasions, and terrorizing the people in those homes. And hey, if the only way to get the combo of the safe is to pound on the guy’s wife, or worse, that’s a bonus. Fuckers like that give the rest of us a bad name.
“So yeah.” With a shrug he wound more pasta. “I’m going to frame him. LaPorte’s going to hire him to steal the Goddess, instruct him it’s a quiet job. Meaning, no violence, no trace. He’ll leave trace, and plenty.”
“I don’t understand. Why would LaPorte hire him when he has you?”
“The patsy will think it’s LaPorte, but I’ll do the hiring.” Booth smiled at her, and his voice became soft, arrogant, and southern. “A million cash ought to do it, with a deal for two more on delivery.”
“That’s good. That’s what he sounds like?”
“You can hear for yourself on the recording.” He considered as he ate, began to wind the plan like he wound the pasta. “I need a place in Lake Charles, something comparable to LaPorte’s. We need to find the time and the place—and work it so LaPorte’s shaky on an alibi for that time. I lure the patsy to that place at that time.”
He looked off, visualizing it. “We’d need time to set it up, need the house empty for five to ten hours to do it right. Bring him in at night, have the meeting in what will look like LaPorte’s office, make the deal, then break down the set and move out.”
“You’re making it sound easy. It can’t be.”
“Not easy. Layers, steps, timing. Details.” He frowned over the ones already running through his head. “It’ll take some work to fine it down.”
“But hasn’t this patsy seen LaPorte, and been to his house?”
“I can’t confirm—yet—if he’s been to Lake Charles, but he’s dealt with LaPorte in person. That part’s not a problem. I earned the name ‘Chameleon’ for a reason. I need to stay behind a desk. I’ve got a good three inches in height on LaPorte, but I can make it work. I need the location and that five to ten hours. I’ll work on that.”
He topped off her wine. “You’ve seen The Sting, right?”
“Newman and Redford? A classic. Sure.”
“This won’t be as elaborate or involve as many people, but it’s the same concept at the base of it. And we bag two bad guys at the end. It’ll work. I’ll make it work.”
Absolute confidence, she thought. She could admire that even if she didn’t share it.
“You sound like you’re looking forward to it now.”
“I am. If I’ve had one goal since I left Chapel Hill, it’s been to pay him back, to bring him down hard. I’ve got a clear shot at that goal now. I’ve got the endgame, so I just have to figure out how to get to it.”
“What if this patsy contacts LaPorte?”
“I’ll make sure he doesn’t. I know the pattern. LaPorte doesn’t want to be bothered, or leave any trail back to him. You take the job, you do the job, and you don’t make contact—unless he gives you a contact. Maybe you get caught, and some get caught. Maybe you pull out his name to try to make a deal. Some investigator might go have a chat with LaPorte, but that’s as far as it goes because there’s no connection, no evidence linking him.”
“But this time there will be?”
“Oh yeah.” He smiled now, not only confident but with a trace of humor. “Trust me.”
“Apparently, I do. I’ve got a good hand with research myself. I’m going to use some of those mad skills to learn more about this diamond. And I’d like to see the recording.”
“Okay. I need you to remember I was playing him. The things I said…”
“I wasn’t wrong about you twelve years ago. I’m not wrong now. Just one more question. What do you plan to do with the Red Goddess once you have it?”
“I’ve got some ideas—working that out. But none of them involve keeping it or selling it.”
“That’s good enough for the moment. I’ll make a date with Tracey, find out what she knows about rentals or purchases, and tell her I want to extend my lease through August.”
“Miranda—”
“For the duration, remember? I’m in this, Booth. Not on the periphery, not at a distance, but in it.”
“If something goes wrong, if I get caught—”
“You won’t. Didn’t you just say you’d make it work? If you’re that confident in yourself, spare a little for me. This time you’ve got backup. You’ve got a team. Get used to it,” she suggested, then rose. “You cook, I do the dishes. I think that works out best for both of us.”
She carried plates to the sink. “Oh, don’t forget. I need the keys and the code.”
* * *
He’d lived his way for a long time—his space, his schedule, his rhythm. Booth didn’t see himself as a man who’d have issues with making room, sharing, merging. More, he wanted her there—for her own safety, for himself.
He just wanted her.
Still, he experienced quick, unexpected jolts at seeing her clothes in his—in the—closet, and her toothbrush on the bathroom vanity.
She had, in short order, set up her work area. And within the first twenty-four hours turned the casual charm of the guest room into a kind of creative chaos.
Because part of him actually itched to straighten it all up, he began to wonder if he did have a problem.
He told himself he’d learn to ignore it, and, more importantly, he had other things to worry about besides scattered papers and stray coffee cups.
As always, he compartmentalized, the only way he could manage the lives he’d chosen.
He taught his classes, graded papers, dealt with the occasional unruly student—or worse, whining parent.
He had rehearsals, and first dress loomed.
He spoke with Sebastien, and filed the accumulated data.
And he planned the multiple levels of his job.
Most of all, he wanted to separate Miranda from all those plans. Maybe he did want to bundle her away in a tower—and what was so damn wrong with that?
He hadn’t been able to protect his mother from cancer, and he’d lost her.
He wouldn’t lose Miranda.
