“I’m not putting you on speaker.”
“In one-quarter mile, take the exit onto the Atlantic City Expressway.” The navigation assistant droned on as I rushed to mute my phone.
Sylvia gasped. “Was that your car? Are you in Atlantic City? You are, aren’t you? When can we meet? How about dinner? I can be there in an hour.”
“I have plans.”
“Great. You can bring your hot cop with you. The Brighton Cafe on Atlantic. I’ll meet you there.”
“No,” I said as Nick called out, “We’ll be there.”
I glared across the car at him as Sylvia disconnected. “We’ll be there?”
He nodded as he rolled through a yellow traffic light, not the least bit remorseful. “I’m not letting this mess with Zhirov ruin an opportunity for you. We’re going to dinner with your agent.”
“When did this become awething?”
He frowned. “It’s not like that, Finn—”
“No, then what’s it like? Just because we slept together one time… okay, three times, inone night,” I reminded him in answer to his dubious look (though I’m not sure that detail was helping drive home my point), “that doesn’t give you the right to make decisions for me.”
“You have something better to do?”
“Yes! I was supposed to have dinner withyou!”
“You can have dinner with me anytime. This is more important.”
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”
I gripped the door as he hooked a sharp right and threw the Cadillac in park, his eyes dark with resolve as he twisted in his seat to face me. “You don’t want me to come with you? Fine. But you’re not turning your back on a shot at a TV deal just because you’re afraid of what might happen if you get it. You deserve opportunities, Finlay. And you deserve to be with someone who cares about what those opportunities mean to you, who puts what you need first—inandout of bed. And you know what else you deserve? Someone who’ll be honest with you, even if you don’t want to hear it. Sometimes that means being with someone who’s going to make you face what you’re afraid of, because he’s planning on standing right behind you, covering your back.” He scrubbed a hand down his face, turning away from me as he lowered his voice. “If you don’t want me there with you, then Charlie can take you. But you’re not leaving the hotel alone.” He shut off the ignition. I looked out my window, my palms going sweaty when I realized where we’d stopped. Ricky appeared through the tinted glass of the valet window of the Royal Flush.
“Stay here,” Nick said, getting out of the car. “We’ll finish this conversation when I get back.”
I ducked in my seat as Ricky jogged to Nick’s side of the car and held out his hand for the keys. Nick handed him a business card instead. Ricky’s face sobered as he read it.
“Ricky? You’re Ricky, right? I’m Detective Nicholas Anthony with the Fairfax County Police Department in Virginia. I’m investigating the disappearance of a man named Ignacious Grindley. He’s from around here. You know him?” I listened through the closed window, piecing together what I could hear of their muffled conversation.
Ricky nodded. “Yeah, I know him. Ike’s my cousin. You figure out what happened to him?”
Nick shook his head. “We’re working a few leads. I was hoping to talk to your uncle, Marco Toscano, but I’m having a hard time reaching him. Ike’s wife mentioned you work for him?”
“Used to,” Ricky said.
“What kind of work did you do for your uncle?”
“Scheduling mostly. Errands sometimes.”
“Ever do any jobs like Ike’s?” Nick asked. Ricky shifted his weight, darting uncomfortable looks around him as if he was hoping another car might pull up and relieve him of having to answer that. “Hey, Ricky,” Nick said, stealing back his attention. “I’m not looking to get anyone in trouble. I’m just trying to figure out what happened to your cousin. That’s all.”
Ricky hesitated. Shook his head. “Marco never trusted me with anything like that. He called me a shithead and said I couldn’t do anything right.”
“Is that why you don’t work for him anymore?”
Ricky nodded, shame coloring his cheeks.
I watched Nick’s gaze dip to the scuffed name badge on Ricky’s uniform, cataloging every detail, from the wrinkles on Ricky’s jacket to the frayed shoelaces peeking out from under the hems of his pants. Satisfied, he asked, “You know where I might find your uncle? I need to ask him a few questions about Ike’s case.”
I held my breath but Ricky only shrugged. “Marco moves around a lot. Could be anywhere.”
