Back in my room at the hotel, I set the feeds to their quiet work and check the bug I planted in Maeve’s office beneath her desk. The red-blue-red lights of the pier’s Ferris wheel lull me to sleep sometime after two.
The ping wakes me like a knuckle to the base of the skull.
Grabbing my phone off the nightstand, I blink blearily at the screen.
Brody’s on the move.
Within minutes, I’m dressed and in my rental. The freeway snakes southward in a fog. By the time the Port of Los Angeles rises into view, the marine layer has peeled wide open to reveal cranes, stacks, rail crates, and warehouses. The air reeks of diesel and rotting fish.
I park behind a semi and surveil Brody in my rearview mirror. He does a slow loop past a row of shipping containers, checking over his shoulder every so often.
He walks with his chin high, his alert eyes noting anything that doesn’t belong. Men like him always remain on the lookout for men like me.
Maeve’s younger brother’s not stupid.
When he disappears between stacks, I trail him. Off to the right, engines grunt. I slow my pace only to be scolded by a gull that glares at me from a container rim to my left.
Brody stops by a blue box with half-faded markings on the side and disappears inside the door.
The stenciled number—a cousin to one of ours that I saw three years ago on a dock in Newark—wakes up my brain. Different coast, same symbols.
I text a picture to Rory.
Look for paint, I type.Not newer than five years. Blue, half-faded logo, looks like an anchor but isn’t symmetrical.
He sends back a thumbs-up, then a ship emoji. Because even criminals succumb to emojis eventually.
My watch reads seventeen past eight when Brody reappears on the docks. He quickens his pace and almost jogs back to his SUV. By eight-twenty, he’s gone again, but this time, I don’t trail after him.
Two forklifts pass. After their reverse beeps, I count out thirty seconds. Then head to a concrete block, where I sit and wait. If I follow him out too quickly, he could spot me, and then I might as well kiss my cover goodbye.
The cool early morning breeze and mist off the water tickle my cheeks. The ocean brine washes over me with the incoming tide.
I try to keep my mind off Maeve. Really, I do.
But as I sit scrolling on my phone, I can’t suppress the memory of her sweet mouth, her tongue against mine, her wide, lust-darkened eyes…
Well, fuck.
Nothing better to do, I guess.
I open the app tied to the bug in Maeve’s office. Paper rustles, chairs creak, and a voice that isn’t hers fills my ear.
“…and you haven’t had any fun in ages, Maeve. And don’t even try to tell me last month’s budget report counted.”
Maeve offers a soft, distracted response. “It didn’t.” Fabric shifts. “Define fun.”
I can almosthear her smile.
The other woman huffs. “An activity that doesn’t end with your father’s number lighting your phone. Like a six-two investor in a snug tailored suit and forearms you could hang a weekend on.”
I shouldn’t care that Maeve’s friend—employee?—finds me attractive. But Idocare if Maeve does.
Despite the late October chill, my neck warms.
The woman laughs a little. “I’m just saying, if the universe drops a package like that in your lap, you accept the delivery.”
Maeve snorts. “He’s a potential investor.” Another pause. “And dangerous.”
