Crossing Lines by Adrienne Giordano

15

After sneaking aroundthe city with Shane — an oddly fun excursion, all things considered — Faith retrieved the folders her boss had left for her in his campus office. Their office, she supposed. And wasn't that a nice thought that gave her a sense of belonging? She’d spent the better part of her life in search of that elusive feeling, but somehow it always seemed just out of reach. Maybe now could be different. Maybe.

She glanced over at Shane, who’d lowered his window to snatch the ticket out of the parking garage entry machine. Maybe.

Ticket in hand, he hit the gas, climbing the first three levels of the garage before finding a spot.

“Phase two,” Faith said, reaching back and storing the folders on the backseat.

While Shane drove, she flipped the visor down, checked that the wig — blond — she’d slipped on was straight and her gun was hidden under her T-shirt. During the ride, she’d had the unenviable task of dragging a pair of jeans over her bike shorts. Thankfully, she was short. Shane had opted to wear cargo shorts instead of running clothes, so he’d avoided the whole quick-change dilemma.

They exited the car and both headed for the stairs, something that typically minimized interaction with other folks who might be waiting for the elevator.

They hit the street level and Shane held the door open. Bright sunshine blinded her for a few seconds until her eyes adjusted. He pointed to his right and she turned, weaving around the pedestrians crowding the sidewalk on a beautiful spring day.

Mission or no mission, walking the city streets with Shane gave her a taste of what life could be. The aroma of freshly baked bread and pastry from the bakery on the corner. The oddly comforting sound of honking cars and garbage trucks. All of it so normal.

She wanted this. Wanted to stroll with Shane, maybe holding hands, while they stopped for fresh brewed coffee. And a doughnut. Nothing beat a fresh coffee roll.

Two blocks later, Faith followed Shane into a side door entrance to the Le Meilleur hotel. The name on the door read Le Café in a swirling gold font that screamed high-class.

Shane, his short blond hair covered by a baseball cap, held the door open for her and met her gaze with laser focus. “You ready?”

She was most definitely ready. “You know it. Watch me work.”

They’d gone over — and over and over — the plan. She liked to work off script while Shane was downright anal about who said what and when. Another of their differences. Shane, the ultimate team player against Faith, Queen of the Pivot.

But she'd do her best to stay on script. That said, Shane might have to compromise. After all, this was their pretext, their charade to confirm that the Matthew Ortega staying at this hotel was Brutus. Sometimes things went sideways during recon missions. When it happened, she improvised. A lot.

She scanned the area behind the U-shaped bar where a male bartender messed with the cash register. It gave Faith a second to take in her surroundings. Given the mid-afternoon hour, the dozen tables stood mostly empty. A man and woman dressed in business attire sat near the window engrossed in documents spread across the table. They wouldn't be a problem. The bar stools, except for one patron perched at the end of the bar, were also all open.

The abundance of available stools — a green light if she'd ever seen one — made her choice easy. Part of their plan required her to be the cute, wronged woman who needed the bartender’s help. The fact that he was a man helped. Sexist or not, men loved the whole woman-in-distress angle. Every time. It was part of their DNA and she'd learned to tap into the hero complex when necessary.

Taking the stool next to her, Shane picked up the beer menu sitting wedged in a holder on the bar.

The bartender closed the register and faced them. Faith tagged him as mid-thirties. His short brown hair was neat and gelled into place. His face — more rugged than handsome — had interesting angles with a wide chin and deep-set eyes.

He dropped two coasters emblazoned with the hotel logo in front of them.

“Welcome in,” he said. “What can I get you?”

Shane ordered a craft beer while Faith stuck with club soda and lime. A minute later, the bartender — Rory, according to the name tag attached to his black tuxedo vest — set their drinks down. “Would you like a menu?”

“We’re good,” Shane said.

“Okay then. Let me know if you need anything.”

Rory turned back to the register, his back to them, but well within earshot. Go time.

“He's here.” Faith added an amped-up, rough edge of desperation to her voice that Rory would be deaf not to hear. “I know he is.”

Playing his role, Shane patted her hand. “We’ll find him.”

“The mortgage is three months past due. I can't move my kids again. They've been through enough.” She jabbed her finger into the bar. “He has to meet his responsibilities.”

Her gaze was fixed on Shane, but from the corner of her eye she spotted Rory's head turn. Not completely looking over his shoulder, but enough for her to know she'd gotten his attention.

“If he's here,” Shane said, “we’ll find him and call the cops.”

“He has money. He just won't pay. His own kids. What kind of man does that?”

She paused, drew in a hard breath and thought about the day her grandmother died. The anxiety and fear. The absolute shredding of her system because at eighteen years old she was officially alone in the world. As it did then, her chest locked up. Every time, every damned time she thought about getting that phone call, about the shattering of her life — again — the emotion welled up, filling her chest until it might explode.

Now, fully engaged, Rory peered over his shoulder at her.

Come on, Rory. Don't make me put myself through this for nothing.

“Dude,” Shane said to Rory, “can we get some water?”

In less than a second, Rory threw ice in a glass, hit a button on the little handheld thingamajig that dispensed beverages and passed her the water.

She took a healthy gulp, the cold shocking her system and sharpening her focus on the task at hand.

She set the glass down again and dabbed at her lips with one of the napkins Rory had finally set in front of them. “I'm so sorry. How humiliating.”

“No. It's okay. Believe me. I'm a bartender. This is nothing compared to some of the things I see. Are you sure you're okay?”

“Yes. And if all goes well in a little while, when I find my rat bastard ex-husband, I'll be even better.”

Beside her, Shane made an art of clearing his throat. “We're, uh, looking for him. Her ex. He hasn't paid child support in a year. They have four kids.”

Rory's jaw dropped. “Come on, man.”

“I’m a private investigator,” Shane said. “Mike Abrahams. Becky hired me to help find this guy.”

Faith bobbed her head. “He’s so kind. He's been working pro bono for six months.”

The ad-lib earned her a little side-eye from Shane, but he’d have to deal with it.

“Wow,” Rory said. “That's cool.”

Shane lifted one shoulder. “Four kids and no child support. How can I charge her? Anyway, this asshole moved out of state, but we think he's here for a conference.”

Rory eyed them. With any luck, his thoughts had gone exactly where Faith had hoped they would. After all, he was a bartender in the hotel where her rat bastard ex-husband was staying.

“Look,” Shane kept his voice low as he peered around the restaurant. “We need help finding this guy.” He pulled out his wallet, retrieved a photo of Brutus they'd gotten from Sully and slid it across the bar. “This is him. Matthew Ortega. His hair might be blond now. Have you seen him?”

Before even glancing at the photo, Rory's gaze ping-ponged between Faith and Shane, the panic clearly taking hold. Hotel employees, in Faith's opinion, were like lawyers. Client/attorney privilege and all that. Some of them were vaults. Impossible to crack.

But Rory was also a guy who lived on tips and by the looks of this place, it was a slow day.

Shane dragged two hundred-dollar bills from his wallet and set them under his coaster. “Anything you can tell us would be appreciated.”

“Please,” Faith said, widening her eyes and softening her voice, playing up the damsel in distress.

Sometimes being a cute, petite woman played to her advantage and she wasn’t opposed to using every tool in her arsenal.

Rory’s gaze shot to the cash and then to the photo, studying it a minute longer and then . . . “He's here. He’s not blond, though. His hair is dark now. Like the photo.”

For a second, the words floated just outside her mind’s reach. Brutus. Here. Warring fight or flight instincts took hold. She peered at the lobby entrance. The man could walk through those doors any second. Then what? Shoot-out in the restaurant?

Run?

No. They’d see this through.

“He’s here?” she asked, hoping to hell she hadn’t dreamed it. “He probably complains about the food, right?”

Thank you, Leslie, for that bit of intel.

Rory's eyebrows shot up. “Wow. You do know him. He was here earlier and moaned about his lunch. Said the bread was stale. That's nonsense. We get a bread delivery every morning and the owner donates anything that's left at the end of the day.”

“He's a food snob. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s spit in his food.”

“He's a crappy tipper too.”

Shane rested his elbows on the bar and leaned in. “Any chance we can get his room number? I’ll call the sheriff and have him arrested.”

Rory shook his head. “Sorry. I'll get fired.”

Dammit.So close. Faith made a show of slouching. Time for the big guns. She thought back to that day in her dorm. The call from Mrs. Tully, who checked on Gram each morning while Faith was at school. Mrs. Tully had found Gram still in her bed. At least she’d died in her sleep. Faith was grateful for that. That Gram hadn’t tried to get up and call for help, but collapsed — alone — on the floor.

On cue, tears welled up. She squeezed her eyes closed and the pressure sent waterworks down her cheeks. She swiped and swiped again.

Shane patted her hand again. “Don’t worry. We’ll have the sheriff get a warrant. It’ll take time, but hopefully he won’t check out.”

All while poor Rory stood there, totally hustled by two people who’d made a career out of hustling people.

Finally, he leaned in. “Hang on.”

He turned back to the register and rifled through a pouch tucked beside it. Faith met Shane’s eye and waggled her eyebrows. Yes, she was that good.

A minute later, the bartender swung back to them placing a leather portfolio on the bar. A white slip of paper stuck out of the top.

“Here's your check,” he said, making hard eye contact with Faith.

Then he left them, moving on to the man at the end of the bar.

Shane picked up the check and held it between them. Definitely a bar bill.

But not theirs.

This was no mistake. This was Rory earning himself a $200 tip by handing them Matthew Ortega's lunch order. Turkey and Swiss on whole wheat. Side of fruit and coffee. Grand total of $31.82. At the bottom, the guest had printed his name, then signed it, adding his room number.

There it was: Room 232.

Bingo.

Damn,the woman was downright scary.

After confirming Rory was still out of earshot, Shane swiveled his stool to face Faith.

“Great job,” he said. “Although, you went rogue on me with that bit about me working pro bono. We didn't practice that.”

“Sometimes that happens. I'm good on the fly.”

He wouldn't argue the point, and in the grand scheme, her improvising hadn't been an issue. Still, he wasn't a fan of surprises.

He checked his watch: 4:05. They'd already been sitting here twenty minutes. At any time, Brutus could show up looking for cocktail hour. Shane didn't expect it since the guy liked to lie low, but sitting here? Too much of a risk.

He opened his wallet, grabbed another twenty and stood. He waved at Rory, who watched him set the cash on the bar with the other bills before wandering toward them.

“Thanks for the help,” Shane said. “Keep the change.”

The bartender eyed the two hundreds. “Thanks, man. That's good of you.”

“Maybe it'll make up for my jerk of an ex,” Faith added.

Now she was laying it on thick. Shane shot her a look. “Let's head out and make those calls.”

They exited via the same door and turned right on the sidewalk where the evening rush of pedestrians picked up.

“If he sticks to his plan,” Shane said, “and has dinner at 6:30, he'll either be leaving the hotel or ordering room service before six.”

“Two hours to kill.”

“I’d prefer he leave the hotel.” Faith halted at the corner to wait for the light, then glanced around, making sure they were alone. “We could grab him on the street. Inside is too confining. Never mind the security cameras.”

Total agreement there. “If he leaves the hotel, we’ll grab him. If it’s room service, we have to get into that room. Somehow get him out of the hotel and take him somewhere to question him. We’ll get answers and . . . you know.”

And how the fuck did killing a man seem like a reasonable ending? It wasn’t. But he’d consider it doing the world a favor by eliminating a man known for terrorizing people.

A teenager pushed around Shane, stepping into the street and rather than be overheard, Faith went on tiptoes, kissing his cheek and whispering in his ear. “I can be a drunk woman trying to get into the wrong room. See if he'll open up.”

As soon as traffic cleared, the kid darted across the street leaving them alone on the corner. “He'll never open for a stranger. Too disciplined.”

The green Walk sign flashed and Faith stepped off the curb, nearly getting clipped by a cabbie making a right on red. Shane grabbed her arm, pulling her back onto the curb until the cabbie cleared out. Close one. Faith? Totally unfazed. The woman might be nuts.

“We know food is his weakness,” she said, whispering in his ear again. “The room service waiter. Maybe we use him as a distraction.”

He stepped into the street, walking to the other side and drawing her down the side street away from the crowd. He stopped between a dry cleaner and a coffee shop that had closed an hour ago. “What are you thinking?”

“It's bold.”

Shane shrugged. “We're spitballing here. No judgment.”

“If he's as anal as Leslie said, he'll want food in front of him right at 6:30. If we time it right, we can be in the hallway pretending to be guests and when the waiter comes out, we catch the door before it closes. Then we go in.”

It was doable. But . . . “Security cameras are an issue. You’ll need to ditch the wig since the cameras already caught you in the bar. We’ll get you a hat and keep our heads down. Faces covered.”

“We won't be in the hallway long. A minute at most. Does that work?”

He cocked his head, pictured it playing out. “I hope to hell it does.”