INFORMANT (5 page)

Day Five

Afternoon

Stephanie has dropped out of chem lab. This leaves Beckett without a lab partner, so he’s assigned to a pair of hard-working Asian students. From what I can tell, this arrangement suits him beautifully. No more distractions, heavy perfume, or push-up bras. Just the three of them bent over a lab table, analyzing cell samples.

He doesn’t acknowledge me. Not once. Never even looks in my direction. It’s been two nights since our dinner at Romano’s, and I can’t help but wonder if I’ve done something wrong. Maybe I blew it. Maybe he found someone else to work with.

Ricco has cooled off, too. He seems distant, preoccupied. I find myself constantly verifying the numbers he gives me before recording them in our field log. He’s transposed the temperature and weight readings twice. When the class ends, Beckett bolts. I make a point of loitering outside the science building with Ricco, just to see if he suggests we go grab a coffee. Maybe I’ve turned him down one time too many, because even though I’m doing my best to look available and interested, he doesn’t take the bait.

Instead, a girl strides up to us. She’s wearing a SF State sweatshirt. She has her hair in a ponytail and a backpack slung over her shoulder.

“Ready for lunch, Kylie?” she asks brightly. “I saved us a table. I am
sooo
glad you offered to walk me through that bio assignment. It’s a nightmare.”

I stare at her stupidly. I’ve never seen her before in my life. Fortunately, she doesn’t wait for a response. She turns to Ricco and smiles. “Hi. I’m Sarah. You look familiar. Are you in Dr. Greene’s anatomy class?”

Ricco shakes his head. Sarah gives a perky shrug, then she turns back to me. Although she’s still smiling, her eyes are sending me an unmistakable message.
Move.
“Ready, Kylie? I’m starving.”

“Uh, yeah,” I say, playing along. I have no idea what’s happening, but I strongly suspect it has something to do with Ricco. What else could it be?

As she and I stride across campus, Sarah chatters on without pause, not allowing me to slow my pace or interject a single question. When we reach our destination (an Asian noodle place off-campus), she ushers me inside. Like turning off a spigot, her flow of words abruptly stops. She ditches me without a word and stations herself on a single stool by a window overlooking the street.

Beckett stands. He’s got a booth near the back. With a nod, he invites me to join him.

I realize I’m going to have to get used to this. To the unreality of strangers like Sarah suddenly popping into my life and acting like we’re best friends. Of never quite knowing where I stand, who I can trust and who I can’t. Of having every move I make watched and analyzed. I am swimming in murky water.

The current carries me directly to Beckett.

He’s got on jeans and a pale blue t-shirt. His hair is a bit too long—it’s brushed away from his face in thick, dark waves. In the filtered light of the noodle house, his eyes are so intense they nearly glow. His cheeks are sculpted, his waist is lean, and his forearms are strong and tan. Don’t ask me how it’s possible for him to get sexier every time I see him. It just happens.

“Everything all right?” he asks.

“Peachy.” I slide onto the vinyl bench across from him. “I got a ninety-four on last week’s quiz. How’d you do?”

He scowls at me. Apparently sarcasm is not appreciated. “I meant, how’s it going with Ricco.”

So he’s just assuming that I’m in. A big assumption. But since it’s also true, I can’t act offended.

“So far… nothing,” I admit.

Beckett shrugs. “He’ll come around. Don’t be afraid to make the first move if you need to. Keep it subtle, though. Maybe a study session or something like that.”

Perfect. Beckett’s my new dating coach. Just what I wanted.

I glance away and my gaze falls on Sarah. She’s sipping tea and gazing out the window, studying the faces of anyone who comes near the restaurant. Although she looks like just another college student, there’s an alertness to her stance that I don’t miss. I imagine what might happen if Ricco were to approach the restaurant. She’d signal Beckett. He’d disappear through the kitchen, exiting out the back alley. Before I could blink, she’d be sitting in his place, chatting away, biology textbook open and notes spread out over the table. A perfectly orchestrated DEA dance.

That thought spins into another. I wonder how much of the world is real, and how much is simply fabricated to look real. Federal agents—CIA, FBI, DEA—placed among us as bus drivers, bartenders, college students, all busily operating on an entirely different level, responding to entirely different cues. Sort of like ants, with miles of hidden, linking tunnels connected beneath the surface.

“Why me?” I ask. “Why not Sarah?”

He shakes his head. “She might look young, but she’s thirty. She’s married with two kids. It’d be too hard to construct a plausible backstory. Too many holes if somebody decided to check up on her.”

His words are telling. I get a chill, immediately followed by a flash of red hot anger. I’m pissed, but I manage to suppress it. I look at him long and hard. “You checked up on me?”

To his credit, Beckett doesn’t deny it. “We had to.”

“What’d you find out?”

“The usual stuff. Family connections, work and school history. No incidents of drug or alcohol abuse, no run-ins with the law. You’re clean. You’re exactly what you say you are: a local girl working her way through college.” He cocks his head, studying me curiously. “It’s funny, though…”

“What?”

“You’re also smart as hell. Straight A’s, off-the-chart test scores. You could have applied to any school you wanted. Stanford, for example. I bet you would have gotten a full ride. So why San Francisco State?”

I don’t expect this. I’m suddenly flustered, embarrassed. Yeah, Stanford was a dream. But then Jess got pregnant and my mom needed help paying rent. “It wasn’t just about me,” I say. “Sometimes the choices we make go deeper than that. Especially when family’s involved.”

For some reason, that strikes a nerve. Beckett clenches his jaw and nods once. He can’t seem to hold my gaze. I think of the photo of Ricco, stretched out on a hospital bed. For just an instant, Beckett radiates the same shattered pain. What’s
his
backstory, I wonder. What happened in his family to send him on the road he’s on now? I ask him directly.

He looks at me, obviously surprised by my perception. Then he gives a slow smile and shakes his head. “Christ,” he says, “I’m gonna have to remember just how smart you are.”

That’s not an answer, but clearly it’s all I’m going to get. He holds out his hand. “Can I see your phone?”

I pass it over and watch as he adds himself as a contact. When I check the name, I notice he’s not Beckett, Thomas, or even Smith.

“
Jane?”
I quirk a brow at him.

“It’s safer that way—in case your phone is ever compromised.”

Compromised? Sounds like cop talk to me. Exactly how does a phone get compromised? Will it dance around a pole and peel off its protective plastic case? Will my phone sleep with Ricco’s phone? The whole thing’s ridiculous, so I let it go. “What happens next?”

“Has Ricco said anything at all that might be of interest?”

I shake my head. “Actually, he’s been pretty preoccupied the past couple of days. Not really there, you know?”

He nods. “Maybe something’s worrying him. See if you can find out what it is.”

He looks around the room. It’s three-fifteen, an odd time of day. The lunch crowd has evaporated, but it’s way too early for dinner. Aside from Sarah, we’re the only customers. Beckett and I are tucked away in a booth at the back of the room. The waitress dropped off a pot of tea and a plate of crispy pot stickers, but as neither of us is interested in the food, she’s left us alone.

Beckett removes a large manila envelope from his backpack and leans forward. He doesn’t wear cologne, I realize with a jolt. That incredible masculine scent is just his skin.

He sets a grainy, black-and-white photo on the table. The sort of photo that might have been cropped from a surveillance film: a man in a gaudy tropical shirt leaving a restaurant. Beckett gives me the guy’s name, and goes on to describe his height, weight, identifying marks, and how he’s connected to Miguel Diaz. “Let me know immediately if you see him, or if Ricco talks about him,” he says.

The process repeats six times. Obviously I won’t be keeping the photos (hard to explain that to Ricco, should he happen to find them in my backpack), so I try my best to commit everything to memory.

Beckett sets out the seventh and last photo. One look at the guy’s crooked smile, at his dark, soulless eyes, and a shiver runs through me. He looks like Ricco, if Ricco was a sociopathic sadist. “Miguel Diaz,” I say.

He gives a grim nod. “Yeah.” He studies the photo for a minute too long. Suddenly I understand something that I didn’t before. Beckett isn’t just doing his job. Taking down Miguel Diaz is deeply, deeply personal. He is committed to this in a way I cannot begin to fathom.

Good to know, because that tells me something else. Beckett is not going to let anything get in his way. Especially not me. He is not my friend, not my confidante, not my crush. I am nothing but a pawn to him. A means to an end. I cement that fact in my brain and slide out of the booth. I’ve had enough for today.

“Thanks, Jane. I think that’ll do it.”

Beckett stands as well. Our bodies are just inches away. I can feel the heat radiating off his skin. “That reminds me,” he says. “CI’s use aliases to protect their identity. Something gender neutral. It can be anything really, I just need an identifying tag to put on a report. Do you have a preference?”

I tilt my chin and look directly into his brilliant blue eyes. “Blue,” I say. The word comes out before I can stop it.

A beat, and then he gives a nod. I reach for my backpack at the same moment he reaches to pass it to me. Our hands brush and a jolt of sexual awareness—like a zap of electricity—rushes up my arm. At an
accidental
touch. I can’t breathe. What would happen if we touched each other with actual intent?

Beckett feels it, too. This rush, this heat, this
burn
between us. I watch it register on his face. Then I see him brush it off, compartmentalize. Rationalize. I am an informant. Nothing more, nothing less.

I have to leave. Get away from him. I pivot and head toward the door.

His voice stops me. “Kylie.”

I pause, turn around.

“Be careful,” he says.

No shit.

Day Eight

Night

Wood-fired buffalo chicken pizza with Ricco. He accepted my invitation to grab a bite to eat. I am all aflutter. In full-on Confidential Informant mode. If I knew what it meant to be a CI, that is. I don’t, not really, so for the time being I’m faking it. I’m bright and attentive, but not too attentive. I want this to work.

After my last meeting with Beckett, I gave myself a firm talking to. If he can compartmentalize, so can I. This is a job. That’s all it is. If I’m smart enough, careful enough, I might just pull it off.

I slide the last slice toward Ricco. He hesitates, then picks it up.

“You like it?” I ask, watching with satisfaction as he polishes it off. I told him I wanted to introduce him to an American specialty.

He hesitates, and then shakes his head. “Awful,” he says. He reaches for his glass of water and gulps it down.

I laugh, thinking he’s kidding. I slowly realize he’s not. “No… really?”

“Horrible,” he says with a shudder. “How can Americans eat like this?”

“If you didn’t like it, why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

He playfully bats his eyes—his lashes are incredible—and leans closer. “Because I am big, handsome Cuban man,” he replies, exaggerating his accent. “And I do not want to insult my pretty American friend.”

I ignore his use of the word ‘pretty’ for now. That’s not the direction I want this to go. “Ah-ha,” I say. “I get it. You’re being
polite
. Like when an explorer sits down with a group of natives and is served a bowl of monkey brains. He has to eat them, or he risks insulting the powerful chief and touching off a war.”

“Yes, exactly. You are the chief.” I happen to be wearing my hair in a loose braid. To underscore his point, he reaches for the tip of my braid and gives it a soft tug.

He is definitely not Beckett. If Beckett played with my hair, I would dissolve into a shivering, quivering puddle of need. Irritated with myself, I push the thought away. I cannot, will not, compare the two of them.

“Tell me what you like to eat,” I say.

He speaks with rapturous delight of hearty Cuban stews, black beans and rice, mojo pork chops, spicy shredded beef, and Havana style eggs.

This time I shudder. I’ll admit it: I’m a picky eater. “That sounds really, really... interesting.”

We both laugh. “That’s it,” he declares. “We are at war. We can no longer be friends.”

“You’re right,” I breezily agree. “It’s over.”

He releases a sigh. His gaze softens as he looks at me. “Kylie Porter,” he says. Just my name.

“Ricco…” I say, then let my voice trail off. I tilt my head in quizzical invitation.

“Ricardo Diaz,” he supplies.

“Nice to meet you, Ricardo Diaz.” I hold out my hand and we shake. Although we’ve been lab partners for weeks, we are finally getting to know one another. “Tell me about Cuba. I’ve never been there.”

He pulls back slightly, shrugs. Although it’s subtle, I read a slight tension in his body language. “It’s a small country,” he replies flatly. “Not like this city. There it’s very warm.”

“And beautiful, right? I picture miles of beaches and brightly colored houses. Swaying palm trees, vintage cars, lots of clubs, hot Latin music, and dancing all night.”

He relaxes slightly at the fantasy I paint. “Yes,” he says. “But there is more to Cuba than music and dancing. That’s like imagining America full of speakeasies and jazz, with gangsters like Al Capone running through the streets.”

“You don’t have gangsters in your country?”

His eyes shutter. “Yes. There are gangsters in my country.”

Idiot,
I silently scream.
Slow down
. I am pushing too hard, moving too fast. I know better. This isn’t supposed to happen in just one night.

The waiter drops off our check and Ricco insists on paying, even though I invited him. We leave the restaurant and step outside.

The light, playful mood we enjoyed earlier is gone. Ricco’s eyes are hooded, and there is an edgy restlessness about him. I can’t help but feel guilty. It was beyond stupid to directly ask him about Cuba, about gangsters.

I wish Beckett had never shown me the photo of Ricco lying in that hospital bed. I wish I didn’t know anything about his past. But I can’t
un
know it. That’s like trying to unscramble an egg. I look up at him now. He’s shifting uncertainly, clearly hopeful that our night is not over. Neither of us wants it to end on a bad note.

“Which way?” he asks.

My bus stop is to the right. We should head in that direction. But the moon is full and the night air is crisp and dry, with no hint of fog. On impulse, I direct Ricco to the left, and we follow the sidewalk until we reach Grand View Park. There the sidewalk ends and a well-worn trail begin.

It’s late, and ominous shadows lurk behind every scrubby bush. But Ricco is bigger than the average guy. I feel totally safe with him by my side. We follow the trail’s circular route, hiking uphill until our thighs are aching, our lungs are burning, and we reach the summit.

We round a corner and Ricco draws in a sharp breath at the unexpected beauty of the panoramic view. The moon hangs fat and low in the sky, a brilliant silvery orb. Beneath it, San Francisco is aglow with thousands of twinkling lights. Lights cascade up and down the city’s hills with the undulating rhythm of a magic carpet. Glittering lights shimmer in the sky, silhouette the bridge, and reflect off the bay. Ricco and I stand side by side, silently drinking it all in.

“Beautiful,” he says at last.

“I know.” I’m a native San Franciscan. Born and raised here. But I never get tired of looking at my city—or of showing it off. “My sister and I used to come here all the time. We’d sneak out of our room and stand here for hours, sharing secrets and dreaming about the future.”

He doesn’t miss the wistfulness in my voice. “You and your sister no longer come here?”

“No,” I admit. “She has a husband now. A job and a baby. Her life is very busy.” Jess and I were once inseparable, but that feels like a long time ago. I turn and look at him. “I’ve never brought anyone else here before.”

I wanted to even the score, to reveal something personal about myself, since I know so much about him. That’s all this is about. But the second the words are out, it occurs to me that Ricco might misconstrue them as an invitation to make a move. He doesn’t. He slips his hand in mine, gives it a soft squeeze, and then releases it. “Thank you for sharing this with me,” he says.

I swallow past a sudden lump in my throat. After my dinner with Beckett, I went home and Googled Miguel Diaz. He didn’t take long to find. His organization is credited for hundreds, maybe thousands, of violent crimes. The internet is littered with gory photos of his alleged victims—bloody corpses belonging to those who betrayed him. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to grow up with him for a father. It gives me shivers just to think about.

I study Miguel’s son. Ricardo Diaz looks dashingly handsome in the moonlight. Despite his American clothing, there is something distinctly foreign about him. He doesn’t belong here. This isn’t his city, and as much as he enjoys the view, I can tell he’s thinking of other vistas, other places. The space between us suddenly seems too huge to fill. But because he’s making an effort, so will I.

“I’m glad you like it,” I say.

That’s probably the first truly honest thing I’ve said all night. I want to be his friend. I get the sense he desperately needs one.

We leave the park and Ricco escorts me to my bus stop.

“Maybe it’s not too late for a drink?” he asks as we huddle inside the bus shelter. “A little rum?”

I shake my head. “Sorry. School night.”

It’s clear he’s never heard this expression. “School night?”

“Yes. That means we have class tomorrow. All the good little boys and girls go home and do their homework.”

A mischievous grin curves his lips. The light of challenge sparks in his eyes. He rests his hands lightly on my hips, leans down, and whispers in my ear, “What makes you think I’m good?”

I raise myself up on my tiptoes to whisper back, “What makes you think I’m not?”

He smiles at that. “I like you, Kylie Porter.”

My bus rumbles to a stop in front of us. I give him a quick peck on the cheek and climb inside.

I flash my Muni pass at the driver, grab a seat, and look out the window. Ricco hasn’t moved. He’s waiting—wanting to make certain I’m safely underway. I give him a wave as the bus pulls out into traffic. Then I lean my forehead against the window. My breath softly fogs the glass pane. “I like you too, Ricardo Diaz,” I murmur.

Damn.
This would all be so much easier if I didn’t.