On Best Behavior (C3) (24 page)

Grant shrugged and moved into to Jernigan’s line of vision before the man kneeled down to spin the safe’s combination. The hideous dogs-playing-poker painting still hung on the wall, but apparently the safe was no longer tucked behind it. Or perhaps this was Jernigan’s private stash.

From the safe, Jernigan pulled his own messenger bag and set it on the table. He removed a bundle of twenties and slid off the rubber band. Each bill stacked on top of another as he counted them off. Then he gathered them back into the rubber band and stuffed the bundle in the bag. “There’re twenty bundles in here.”

Grant lifted the strap of his bag over his head, and they made an even exchange. “These bills better not be marked,” he warned.

Jernigan glared back. “And this better be quality rock.”

They stared at each other for a few tense moments, then burst out laughing.

“We make horrible criminals,” Jernigan said, shaking his head.

Grant’s smile faded. “Maybe we should stop trying so hard.”

Jernigan leaned down to stuff the methamphetamine into the safe. “It’s too late for me. But maybe you can get out?”

“I don’t think the Russians will just let me go. Once the Mafia gets you, you never get out.” Logan’s words mocked him from the grave. “
You’re a Barberi. This stuff runs in our blood.
”

“You’re probably right. C’mon, I’ll show you the back way out.”

“The
back
way out?” Why the hell hadn’t he known about that three years ago? He would’ve never gotten arrested!

“Yeah, right here,” Jernigan said as he led them out the door, yanked it closed, then stopped in the darkened hallway.

Grant pulled the bag’s strap over his head and across his chest, and in the dark he made out the faint outline of a door. Damn it—he wished he’d seen that when the captain had thwarted his exit on the stairwell. He’d have never gone to Gurnee.

Oh.
But then he’d never have met Sophie.

If he had to do it all over again, would he have left Captain Lockhart on the stairwell and hustled to this exit instead?

No. He would’ve served a
ten
-year sentence if it meant bringing Sophie into his life. If only he could make it up to the captain somehow, though. Hopefully this operation would stem the flow of bad blood between them…but there was still a lot that could go wrong.

Jernigan pressed the emergency exit door handle, and Grant almost reached out to stop him. But there was no alarm when it clicked open. Grant peeked out the door and saw a patch of night sky at the top of the shadowed stairwell—the perfect place for one of Jernigan’s buddies to hide and attack him.

He patted the strap of the messenger bag as he studied Jernigan for one long moment. “There’s nobody waiting up there to ambush me, is there?”

Jernigan tried to hide his look of surprise with a grin. “Nope. Wish I’d planned that, though.”

“I think you
did
plan that,” he shot back.

Jernigan’s grin vanished. “Look, my guy’s waiting at the top of the
other
stairwell, in case you pull anything funny. Since the drugs look legit, I’m letting you out the back way.”

Grant’s eyes traveled from the crumbling concrete steps back to Jernigan’s face.

“You think I’d try to screw over the
Russians?”
the man asked, exasperated. “That’d be suicide.”

Grant’s heart thumped. Suicide wasn’t on his agenda when
he
planned to screw over the Russians. “Okay.” He reached out to shake his hand. “Good luck.”

Jernigan’s scowl softened. “You too, man. Don’t get dead.”

In another life, he sensed they could’ve been friends. But in this life, depending on how quickly Captain Lockhart ordered the search and interrogation, Article 112a of the Uniform Code of Military Justice—
Wrongful Use, Possession, Etc., of Controlled Substances
—was about to rain down on Jernigan.

Grant took the stairs two at a time, and just like Jernigan had promised, no one waited to ambush him. He rounded the side of the bar, his palm squeezing the butt of the handgun in his pocket. After a scan of the parking lot revealed no threats, he slid into the Mercedes.

“Give,” Andrei demanded, and Grant passed the bag. He held his breath while Andrei counted the cash.

Suddenly Andrei was all smiles. “Very good.” He patted the crown of Grant’s head, and his rough hand was cold. “We report back to Vladimir. He is happy.”

Anything to make Vladimir happy
.

“The weapon,” Andrei said, holding out his hand.

He handed over the Glock, and Andrei stuffed it into his jacket and peeled out of the lot.

Relief washed over Grant once they were back on the highway. This time his trip to the bar had a happier ending.

He hoped.

***

Andrei was quiet as he drove, leaving Grant to his thoughts. He mused about the past couple of hours. They’d driven from Great Lakes to West Town, this time stopping at another ancient, drafty house. He wondered how many of these Vladimir owned.

Andrei had handed the bag of cash to Vladimir, who seemed unimpressed. Just a drop in the
vedro
, Grant surmised. He’d waved them off and returned to making out with Katya on the leather sofa. Grant wanted to get the hell out of there before he hurt somebody. The bruise on Katya’s skinny arm made him want to steal back the gun and shoot the don’s freaking head off. His homicidal impulses abated somewhat when Andrei took them to a local bar to give his boss some privacy.

Now that they were done with another long evening, he couldn’t wait to get away from the Russians. “You didn’t have to drive me home,” he said. The three vodka drinks hadn’t seemed to affect Andrei at all, but Grant’s head buzzed from the alcohol and adrenaline. He sensed the Russians were preparing him for bigger deals in the future, now that tonight’s deal had built some trust.

Grant’s eyes grew big as the car sailed past the lobby entrance of his apartment building. “Where are we going?”

“Home, like you ask.” Andrei winked. “I come see where you live.”

He gripped the armrest. Apparently the trust tests were ongoing.
Please don’t make a surprise visit tonight, Sophie
.

It took some circling for Andrei to find a parking space. Once they did, Grant started down the sidewalk, only to realize Andrei wasn’t following him. He remained standing near the hood of the car. He tilted his head toward the parking meter.

He expects
me
to pay for parking? Unbelievable
. He shook his head as he swiped his Mick Saylor credit card on the meter. The power dynamics were clear in this relationship.
Just wait till I take you down
.
Get Innochka and Katya out of there, and get you and your boss behind bars.
Then the power would definitely shift.

“Chicago make you pay all day and night for park,” Andrei mused as they began to walk. “Is bullshit. Corrupt government.”

He suppressed a chuckle.
Mafia
complaining about corruption?
Pot, meet kettle
.

He rubbed his hands together as they entered the lobby and nodded at the doorman. He extracted the fob on his keychain and buzzed them through the door leading to the elevators. He was about to press the button when Andrei blocked him with his arm and pressed the number for his floor himself.

A chill bloomed up his spine. When had Andrei been in the building? Had he seen Sophie? Kirsten?

Andrei looked at the shining chrome handrail lining the elevator car. “Nice building. You hold back money from us?”

“I pay you everything I have,” he countered. “Just wait till you see inside the apartment—it’s not that nice. But the rent kills me all the same.”

“Is not rent killing you,” Andrei said. “Is way you lose at cards.”

“Thanks,” he muttered as he stepped out of the elevator. He mentally checked off the items in his apartment as he’d left them. The FBI’s secure phone was hidden away in his dresser drawer. Sophie’s clothes were all upstairs at Kirsten’s. The props were in place. The button mic on his shirt was still recording as far as he knew.

What was he missing?

His heart fluttered as he unlocked the door. Andrei followed him into the dark one-bedroom apartment. He tossed the keys on the counter between the kitchen and living room. “Want a drink?”

One of Andrei’s eyebrows approached his hairline.

He felt like an imbecile. He went to the kitchen and filled a couple of glass tumblers with ice. As he reached into the cabinet above the refrigerator for a bottle of whiskey, he caught a glance of the Russian thumbing through some books on a shelf.

With the two glasses, he approached the bookshelf. Andrei turned to him with a wicked grin. “Books not work for you.”

He looked at the gambling instructional manuals then back at the mobster. “So you come here to insult me, then?” He pulled the drinks to his chest. “The door’s right over there, bud.”

Andrei chuckled. “Sorry to offend host.”

“Hmph.” He paused before extending a glass.

“No,” Andrei said, pointing to the drink Grant held in his other hand. “That one.”

He gave him the drink he wanted. “Did anyone ever tell you you have trust issues?”

“Not if he want to live.” Andrei took a sip. “Poker like sex,
da?
If you not have good partner, you better have good hand.”

Grant laughed.

The uninvited guest stepped over to the record collection. “You have old record player. Why?”

“It was my mother’s.” When they’d stocked his apartment with Mick Saylor props, he’d asked for a collection of records from the Frank Sinatra era. He couldn’t believe it when the FBI found that record player at a second-hand shop—almost exactly like the one his mother had owned. They’d lost just about everything when she’d taken him and Logan to Joe’s after his father’s arrest, and it calmed him to have a piece of family history back.

“Your mother dead?” Andrei asked.

He swallowed. “Yes.”

“Your father beat her.”

He blanched, wondering if his cover was blown, then remembered telling Andrei about the abuse when he refused to whip Innochka. He looked down at his whiskey, then raised the glass to his lips.

Andrei asked, “He kill her?”

“No.” He sighed. “She died from cancer when I was twelve.”

“Make you tough,” Andrei said as he patted his cheek. He gestured around him to the plain walls. “No photos. Why?”

“Would
you
put up photos of the man who beat your mother?”

“I would not.” Andrei replied. He took a long sip. “I do not.”

He nodded. He’d
thought
Andrei gave him a strange look that night at the house. “Your dad beat your mom?”

He looked away. “Is okay he beat me and brothers. Is way we learn.” His jaw clenched. “Is not okay he beat
Mama
.” He swirled his drink, and the ice cubes clinked against the glass. “Is not okay he kill her.”

Grant drew in a sharp breath. “He killed your mother?”

“Is okay now.” Andrei smiled. “We take care of it.”

“
We?”

Andrei strode toward the back of the apartment, all business. “Toilet here, yes?”

“Uh, yeah.”

When the Russian closed the bathroom door, Grant poured most of his whiskey down the drain. He blew out a breath as he leaned over the sink, his elbows resting on the countertop.

“What is this?”

He straightened. To his horror, Andrei held Sophie’s makeup. How had he missed that bottle of foundation? “You’ve been scrounging around in my medicine cabinet? That’s not cool, Andrei.”

“You have lover here?”

He blinked. “No. The truth is…I sometimes wear makeup on nights I sing.” He manufactured a blush. “Frank Sinatra did it too.” He thought that juicy tidbit would make Andrei laugh, but the Russian kept scowling.

Andrei then held up a tube of lipstick. “You wear lipstick too?”

He tensed. “Uh…”

“You have girlfriend. Just say it.”

His mind raced as he searched for a plausible explanation. Damn Sophie for leaving her makeup all over the place!

“I will meet her.” Andrei nodded. “Bring her to show tomorrow. We have drinks.”

“But—”

He’d already tossed the makeup on the sofa and returned to the front door. “This place a dump, Saylor. Hope your lady look better than this.”

When the door closed, Grant realized his mouth was hanging open. What the hell just happened? There was no
way
he’d bring Sophie near those thugs.