“Oh yeah,” she snaps at me. “What possibilities? The tooth fairy whispered them to you at night?”
I snigger.
“Not the tooth fairy, no,” I say.
Her eyes narrow, and if looks could kill, I’d certainly drop dead.
While I do like to get on her very last nerve, I also understand when I have stretched things too much.
“When you took over my case…s…I followed you. Watched you. Studied you. Learned your routines,” I say. “You buy your books at McNally, eat your bagels with cream cheese instead of butter, you hate tomatoes, and love avocado. Coffee is always black; you are allergic to cow's milk but not to cheese. Your favorite book is Ways of Seeing by John Berger,” I say causally and add. “Oh, and you train glutes wrong, open the legs more, and they will finally grow.”
The way she looks at me goes from murder to complete disbelief to rage to realization.
“You have been following me the entire time?”
“In extension, yes,” I say without thinking.
“What do you mean by extension?”
Shit, I should’ve shut my mouth.
I’m revealing too much.
“Can you think of nothing?”
She thinks for a second.
“Rossi,” she finally says, and I nod.
“Don’t even try,” I tell her. “You won’t find him; others have tried and failed.”
“ButIam the FBI!”
“I am aware, and I can safely say that it doesn’t change a thing,” I say and add, “Now that we have been able to clear that up, I brought you something,” as I hand her the envelope.
She growls.
Things aren’t resolved for her at all. I can see it in her eyes; she is going to try and find Rossi, if it is the last thing she’ll do. She is like a Doberman that doesn’t let go of its prey; at least she pretends to. Because deep down in her heart, she is a Golden Retriever that dresses up as a Doberman so she doesn’t get hurt.
“What’s that?” she says as she opens the envelope and pulls out the photos and plans from inside.
“How Susie did it,” I say.
“How did you get that?” she asks incredulously.
“I helped her smuggle the pieces from her husband’s, well, ex-husbands’ collection.”
“Of course you did,” she says in a much too high voice as she skims through the picture.
“So you did a job with her, and now you’re selling her out,” she says when she is done.
“I am,” I say.
“Do you ever look in the mirror and feel bad for what you do to others?”
“No, why would I?” I say carelessly. “Our deal was that I would help her get the stuff out of the country; we didn’t agree on anything about what happens after the job. You wanted information; I have it.”
She sighs and puts the photos down.
