Shaking his head, he dialed a number he knew by heart and waited while the international call was connected. Then Emily, BKI’s office manager, picked up on the first ring. “Black Knights Inc.” Her South Side accent sounded tough, but he pictured her sitting at her desk wearing some ratty Chicago White Sox sweatshirt, yoga pants, her hair up in a messy topknot, and knew she looked about as mean as a cherry tart. “We want to put a little piece of heaven between your legs.”
He snorted. Becky had come up with that slogan, thinking it was the height of wit. “Emily? Angel here. Change of plans.”
Glancing over at Sonya, he found her watching him from beneath hooded lids. He remembered that look. That was her I-want-you-I-need-you-give-it-to-me-big-boy look. Like she’d predicted, he forgot his own name.
Chapter 17
Sonya listened to Angel explaining the situation to some woman named Emily. At first, she felt a kick of pride when Angel described the part she’d been playing for the last six months, that she was, in fact, still Interpol, a mole sent in to sniff out the true scope of Grafton’s empire. Unfortunately, that kick of pride was soon replaced by a spark of jealously because this Emily chick got to talk to him, got to have his scratched-up voice swirling around in her ear.
How crazy was that?
How crazy was it that the warmth in his voice and the affection on his face as he shared an inside joke with Emily made Sonya want to claw the faceless lady’s eyes out? Hiss. Meow. Ffft-ffft.
Beyond crazy, she decided.
Still, it was there. That spark of jealousy. Because…and this was the truly cracked part…she felt a little like he was hers. He was so familiar in so many ways. Even his laugh. That big roar that filled him up until it blasted out of him. He laughed with his whole body. With his whole heart.
Just like Mark.
How she’d missed hearing laughter like that.
Her mind drifted back ten years to the day she’d helped Mark steal a guest register from a run-down hotel on the outskirts of Paris. He’d hit a roadblock in his search for the synagogue bomber, but he’d gotten a tip the man might be staying at the ramshackle sleep-cheap. Of course, the guy who ran the joint had decided to be about as useful as a condom machine at the Vatican…
“If your asshole were on fire, I wouldn’t waste a piss to put it out. So why do you think I’ll help you find who you’re looking for?”
The man behind the tiny hotel counter was skinny, wearing a mustard-stained dress shirt that was threadbare at the elbows, and had a look like he might have spent some time behind bars. It was obvious he didn’t like people sticking their noses into his business or that of his customers.
If the way he lit up a smoke and turned back toward the black-and-white television in the corner was anything to go by, he considered their conversation over. Done. Finito.
“Uh…” Sonya traced one of the many scratches on the old wooden countertop. Then she turned to Mark. He’d brought her along to act as his translator since the hotelier didn’t speak a lick of English, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to repeat what she’d heard. In any language. “He says…um…well, he says…”
Mark waved her off. “I think I got the gist.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a card identifying him as a United Nations police officer.
Sonya’s eyes bulged at the identification because first of all, it looked official. And second of all, it wasn’t official. Beneath her breath she said, “Where did you get that?”
Ignoring her, Mark beat on the counter to get the proprietor’s attention. When the man deigned to look his way with enough disdain to make a king proud, Mark slapped down the ID and stabbed it with one finger. Once again he held up the picture of the bomber. “I’m looking for this man. I have reason to believe he’s staying here or has stayed here. Now, unless you want me to drag your smelly ass downtown to UN headquarters, I suggest you answer my questions here and now.”
Sonya cleared her throat before translating his little speech into French, leaving out the more colorful phrasing. Mustard Shirt didn’t strike her as someone who dealt well with name-calling or overt threats. When she was finished, the skinny hotelier glanced from Mark to her, then back to Mark. He made a hand gesture that didn’t need any translating.
“Okay,” Mark grumbled. “I tried the carrot. Time for the stick.”
“What are you—”
That’s all she managed before Mark hopped over the counter like an Olympic hurdler and in one ninja-quick move secured Mustard Shirt in a headlock that left the guy’s arms and legs flailing helplessly.
“Grab the guest register!” Mark hissed at her.
“Huh?” She was too stunned to move. Mark hadn’t said anything about assaulting anyone when he asked her to—
“The guest register!” With a jerk of his chin, he motioned beneath the countertop. “Sonya, hurry! I don’t want to choke him out. He’ll wake up with a terrible headache if I do.”
“Choke him out? Are you crazy? You can’t go around—”
“Sonya!”
“All right!” Her heart was in her throat, strangling her. Her legs felt like rubber, but somehow she managed to pull herself onto the counter, bellying her way across until she could hang her head down the opposite side.
