I can’t even force myself to look at David right now. To hear him admit that he’s involved, regardless of his reasons, makes me sick. He’s cuffed and sitting next to me in the back seat of the SUV. His left eye is puffy and closed over, the skin over his right cheekbone is split, and the blood under his nose and on the side of his chin is dry and crusty. He groans in pain whenever the truck rolls over a pothole or uneven wear in the road. I don’t feel sorry for him. Not at all.
I watch the varying holiday light displays blur as we speed past them. It’s always amazing to me just how much effort people will put into decorating their homes for Christmas. It’s not something my parents ever did. A string of lights along the eaves of the front, but that was about it.
These houses have inflatable snowmen and reindeer looming large on rooftops, Santa statues with picturesque backlighting, and strings of lights on every surface—some blinking, some white, some colored. Holiday light and decor viewing has become an annual event for families. Homeowners’ associations give awards for the best presentation. Entire streets shut down and join to partake in this universal greater good.
And then, of course, you have assholes like David who embody the exact opposite of coming together for the greater good. He makes me sick.
I turn away from the window to face him. “You remember the cover story, right?”
He nods in response.
“Use your words, David,” I instruct.
“Yes,” he forces out.
“Tell me.”
He opens his mouth to speak, splitting his lip open anew from the effort. “Three guys dressed in masks jumped me in the back room of the house before you guys could get to me. You rescued me and got me to the safe house.”
“Close enough,” Mack calls from the front seat. “Do not veer from the story. Don’t improvise, don’t embellish, and most of all don’t answer any questions. Got it?”
“Got it,” David confirms.
We are nearing his house, where we’ll be dropping him for the night. He’ll have twenty-four-hour surveillance for the next week—through the day of the wedding. I still plan to attend as his best man, after which Mack and I will tail him on his honeymoon. A romantic two-week trip to Maldives with my FBI partner is not exactly something I’m looking forward to. We still have to work out the logistics, so maybe it will end up being better than I think it will.
That’s a lie. I don’t believe that at all. Having Quinn go with me would be much nicer. Seeing Quinn in a bikini would make everything better. I think back to earlier tonight, when I had her in my arms and we almost kissed. How hard I was, how good she felt; her soft body pressed against me—
David slams into my side, I’m sure on purpose, as Mack makes the final turn onto the street in the affluent area where David lives. The house is Laurel’s; David moved in with her shortly after they were engaged. It’s much nicer than anywhere he’s ever lived before. Seeing it reminds me of a conversation I had earlier this week with Mack, who is convinced that David is using Laurel for her money and was not shy about telling me. He considers it a long con. Though, to me a con has a payoff and an end date. Which means, unless David has a plan that includes divorce and no prenup, this doesn’t really qualify. Because I’m certain Laurel’s family are the type of people to demand a prenuptial agreement, regardless.
We pull up in front of the house, Mack turns off the engine and pivots to face us.
“Don’t fuck this up, Tremblay.”
David nods in response.
“This is serious, David,” I tell him. “There is nothing I can do to help you if you don’t cooperate. Do you understand?”
He nods again and says, “I understand,” then moves to open the car door.
I place a hand on his forearm to stop him. “I’m sure I don’t have to remind you this stays between the three of us. Under no circumstances can you tell Laurel what is going on.”
“Yep,” David clips.
I nod, releasing him to exit the car and head into the house.
“Merry fucking Christmas,” he says as he slams the truck door and limps slightly up the walkway. I wait until he’s inside the house before I exit the backseat and join Mack in the front.
“Will he cooperate?” Mack looks at me as he starts the engine.
“I think so. We’ve got time on our side; he’s not going anywhere before his wedding. No way he messes that up, not with everything he’s got on the line.”
“I agree,” Mack says.
We sit at the curb long after David goes inside, engine idling, waiting for the plain clothes officer who will be watching the house tonight to arrive. Once we’re accelerating on the freeway on-ramp I finally ask Mack what’s been on my mind the entire night.
“Want to tell me what Quinn and Daria were doing there tonight?”
“Nope.” His face stays impassive, but I see his jaw tighten.
“Do it anyway.”
“Excuse me?” Mack’s eyes widen as he turns to face me. “Care to take a step back and rephrase?”
“No, actually, I don’t.” I’m pissed off, feeling the ultimate betrayal from David, and part of me doesn’t give a fuck right now that I’ve offended Mack with my request. “We’re supposed to be partners, Mack, yet you’ve been off doing your own thing all week. Then you show up at the party tonight acting as security, which is a fucking joke. And Quinn is there as a guest with Daria as your goddamn getaway driver.”
“First of all”—Mack’s voice rises with each word—“me as security? Not a fucking joke. Second, you’ve had your head up your ass where David is concerned so I did what I needed to prove he’s guilty.”
“You could have fucking talked to me about it, you didn’t have to take it this far.”
“I did try to talk to you. You knew I thought he was guilty. Yet, I guaran-goddamn-tee you, you went into the party earlier tonight as the best man to your friend. Not as a federal agent gathering intel on a subject.” Mack is pissed.
And, he has a point.
Not that I’m willing to concede yet.
“Why was Quinn there?” I ask.
“I planted her.”
“Why?”
“As a distraction to cause chaos. So I could get Tremblay off on his own. Something you almost fucked up—I might add.”
“Which wouldn’t have been an issue had you just told me what was going on,” I argue.
Mack shrugs in response.
“Why not use an actual agent? Why put Quinn in danger like that? And what the hell was Daria doing as your driver of all people?”
“Quinn had no idea where she was going when I asked her. Only that it was a formal event and what she was supposed to do,” he says.
“Which was what?”
“Technically? To create a distraction.”
“Why did she have a gun?” I refuse to stop asking questions until he starts giving me straight answers.
“It had blanks in it, not a big deal.”
He’s holding something back. “What if she’d been hurt or killed? What if one of your security buddies had shot her? Did you even think it through beforehand?” I ask.
“Of course I did. I already knew security’s priority was getting the family to safety. Plus, you clearly had Quinn under control from the onset.”
“But you didn’t know I was going to see her.”
“Sure I did.”
I don’t believe him. But I also don’t say anything else. I need to collect my thoughts first before I decide whether my partner, who is supposed to have my back in all situations, is purposefully deceiving me. And if so, why.
What would Mack gain from not including me in his plan? Regardless of my relationship with David, Mack and I are on the same side of the law. Partners. Had he come to me with concrete evidence, I would have gone along with any plan he had.
Which means any evidence he had wasn’t solid enough to approach me with.
“What grounds did you have to perpetuate this plan tonight?”
“What do you mean what grounds? I knew he was guilty.” Mack narrows his eyes, his gaze hard.
“How?”
“It doesn’t matter how. We have a confession.”
“A confession not legally obtained,” I point out.
“How so?”
“You weren’t acting in an FBI capacity when you got it.”
“Yes, I was,” Mack argues.
“You just said you were there working security,” I counter.
“I was. But once I had him in the car and he started to confess, I told him I was FBI.”
“Why would he just start to confess to you, Mack? Come on, do you really expect me to believe this?”
“Yes, Reed, I do. I’m your partner. I wouldn’t lie to you. I expect you to believe me.”
He doesn’t look at me while he talks. I turn to gaze out the window. Not being able to stomach looking at Mack any longer either. At this rate, I’ll be sick of my entire friend list before Christmas is even over. Something isn’t adding up, I’m just not sure what.
We travel in silence for a good ten minutes before Mack finally breaks down. “Fine. You want to know? I’ll tell you. A friend of a friend got some information proving David is guilty.”
“How’d they get it?”
“Hacked into his email.”
“Jesus Christ, Mack. You can’t use that.”
“I don’t need to. Tremblay confessed.”
“Which you apparently coerced.”
“Not on tape.”
“You can’t do shit like that, Mack. You know better.”
“We got the guy, Reed. Once we have his phone records, the backup files from the dating sites, and his emails in hand, we’ll have the proof we need. In the meantime, let it go.”
“I hate it when you do this,” I tell him.
“What? Secure a confession?”
“When you go about it ass-backward.”
“Well, I hate that you always want to follow the rules and proceed in an orderly manner,” he returns.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to rein in my anger and see this from a different perspective. One that will allow me to be more accepting of Mack’s wild card ways.
“Will it stick?” I ask.
“What? The confession or the evidence?”
“Both.”
“Yeah. It’ll stick.”
“Okay.”
We stay silent the rest of the trip. Neither of us mentioning the fact tomorrow is Christmas or how we plan to continue working on the case during the days leading up to the wedding. It’s not until I’m back in my own car and on my way home that I realize he still didn’t tell me why Daria was there as his driver. Or exactly what sort of distraction Quinn was supposed to be making.
This is turning into a clusterfuck of epic proportions.