Street in Chelsea. It was a typical New York brownstone walkup, with eight steps leading from the street to the landing. She checked the street, then let herself in, locked the door behind her and headed straight for the bathroom. She filled the bathtub and lowered herself into the steaming water after securing her gun in a small cavity next to the tub and hidden by the shower curtain. The warmth felt good, even though it was a mild mid-September evening. She let her mind drift back to Tony Stevens and NewPro.
Even though the con hadnât taken her by surprise, the size of the scam had. Including the other cities they had targeted, the take was more than two hundred million. That number was huge. The Bureau was treating the case with the attention it deserved. District offices in every city where Stevens and his accomplices had been active had agents working the scene and trying to identify the players. To date, they had very little. The best penetration into the group was her attachment to the New York chapter. Although Tony Stevens had been tight-lipped, he had inadvertently given them something to work with. Tony had talked about a luxury boat he owned and kept moored in the Bahamas. She wasnât sure where exactly, but he had spoken a couple of times of Freeport and Port Lucaya on Grand Bahama Island. The boys stationed in the Caribbean were running the registered owners of every boat over thirty-five feet, trying to find a connection back to the mainland. It was a long shot, but the best they had right now. The phone logs and utility accounts had netted them exactly nothing. Tony Stevens was no fool. He had been extremely careful to leave no clues.
Alicia pulled the plug and stepped out of the bath. She toweled off and rubbed on some body cream. A full-length mirror was affixed to the back of the bathroom door, and she stood staring at her reflection for a few moments. She was twenty-nine and in prime physical condition. There was no tummy or weight on her hips and no fat on her legs or arms. Her body was lean, her B-cup breasts just the right size for her chest. She had dark hair that fell just past her shoulders and a face that was attractive, but not beautiful. She could turn some heads when she put on makeup, but if she really wanted to get noticed, she just needed to dress in Spandex. She never did.
Alicia slipped into her bathrobe and headed for the kitchen. Tuesday night and no date. No friends calling on the phone to have coffee. Nobody wanting to spend time with her. Such was the life of an FBI agent. All the glamour of getting to carry a gun to work, none of the James Bond love life. But tomorrow was a new day, and her boss had hinted he may have another assignment. Time to go undercover again. No truths, all lies. Never let anyone close. Never let your guard down. Never.
C HAPTER E IGHT
Alan Bestwick pulled up in front of the old Victorian and left the motor running. He stared at the for sale sign and took a couple of deep breaths. This just kept getting better. The U2 song finished on the radio, and he switched off the ignition. He locked the five-year-old Mazda and made his way slowly to the front door.
Inside the house was dark, the curtains and blinds drawn, cutting off the afternoon sunlight. He slipped off his shoes and walked silently in his sock feet through the house to the kitchen. Taylor was sitting on the window bench in the bay that overlooked the tiny backyard. A closed hardcover book rested in her lap. She was staring into the yard as he entered. She glanced up, then looked at the clock.
âYouâre early,â she said.
He sat beside her and put his hands on her knees, which she tucked up to her chest so he could sit. âGus is shutting down the company,â he said. âIâm laid off, effective immediately.â Angus Strang owned the corporate security company he worked for.
Taylor stared at him. âWhat?â she said, her voice a whisper. âWhen did
Even though the con hadnât taken her by surprise, the size of the scam had. Including the other cities they had targeted, the take was more than two hundred million. That number was huge. The Bureau was treating the case with the attention it deserved. District offices in every city where Stevens and his accomplices had been active had agents working the scene and trying to identify the players. To date, they had very little. The best penetration into the group was her attachment to the New York chapter. Although Tony Stevens had been tight-lipped, he had inadvertently given them something to work with. Tony had talked about a luxury boat he owned and kept moored in the Bahamas. She wasnât sure where exactly, but he had spoken a couple of times of Freeport and Port Lucaya on Grand Bahama Island. The boys stationed in the Caribbean were running the registered owners of every boat over thirty-five feet, trying to find a connection back to the mainland. It was a long shot, but the best they had right now. The phone logs and utility accounts had netted them exactly nothing. Tony Stevens was no fool. He had been extremely careful to leave no clues.
Alicia pulled the plug and stepped out of the bath. She toweled off and rubbed on some body cream. A full-length mirror was affixed to the back of the bathroom door, and she stood staring at her reflection for a few moments. She was twenty-nine and in prime physical condition. There was no tummy or weight on her hips and no fat on her legs or arms. Her body was lean, her B-cup breasts just the right size for her chest. She had dark hair that fell just past her shoulders and a face that was attractive, but not beautiful. She could turn some heads when she put on makeup, but if she really wanted to get noticed, she just needed to dress in Spandex. She never did.
Alicia slipped into her bathrobe and headed for the kitchen. Tuesday night and no date. No friends calling on the phone to have coffee. Nobody wanting to spend time with her. Such was the life of an FBI agent. All the glamour of getting to carry a gun to work, none of the James Bond love life. But tomorrow was a new day, and her boss had hinted he may have another assignment. Time to go undercover again. No truths, all lies. Never let anyone close. Never let your guard down. Never.
C HAPTER E IGHT
Alan Bestwick pulled up in front of the old Victorian and left the motor running. He stared at the for sale sign and took a couple of deep breaths. This just kept getting better. The U2 song finished on the radio, and he switched off the ignition. He locked the five-year-old Mazda and made his way slowly to the front door.
Inside the house was dark, the curtains and blinds drawn, cutting off the afternoon sunlight. He slipped off his shoes and walked silently in his sock feet through the house to the kitchen. Taylor was sitting on the window bench in the bay that overlooked the tiny backyard. A closed hardcover book rested in her lap. She was staring into the yard as he entered. She glanced up, then looked at the clock.
âYouâre early,â she said.
He sat beside her and put his hands on her knees, which she tucked up to her chest so he could sit. âGus is shutting down the company,â he said. âIâm laid off, effective immediately.â Angus Strang owned the corporate security company he worked for.
Taylor stared at him. âWhat?â she said, her voice a whisper. âWhen did
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