INFORMANT by Ava Archer Payne Read Free Book Online Page A

Sounds like cop talk to me. Exactly how does a phone get compromised? Will it dance around a pole and peel off its protective plastic case? Will my phone sleep with Ricco’s phone? The whole thing’s ridiculous, so I let it go. “What happens next?”
    “Has Ricco said anything at all that might be of interest?”
    I shake my head. “Actually, he’s been pretty preoccupied the past couple of days. Not really there, you know?”
    He nods. “Maybe something’s worrying him. See if you can find out what it is.”
    He looks around the room. It’s three-fifteen, an odd time of day. The lunch crowd has evaporated, but it’s way too early for dinner. Aside from Sarah, we’re the only customers. Beckett and I are tucked away in a booth at the back of the room. The waitress dropped off a pot of tea and a plate of crispy pot stickers, but as neither of us is interested in the food, she’s left us alone.
    Beckett removes a large manila envelope from his backpack and leans forward. He doesn’t wear cologne, I realize with a jolt. That incredible masculine scent is just his skin.
    He sets a grainy, black-and-white photo on the table. The sort of photo that might have been cropped from a surveillance film: a man in a gaudy tropical shirt leaving a restaurant. Beckett gives me the guy’s name, and goes on to describe his height, weight, identifying marks, and how he’s connected to Miguel Diaz. “Let me know immediately if you see him, or if Ricco talks about him,” he says.
    The process repeats six times. Obviously I won’t be keeping the photos (hard to explain that to Ricco, should he happen to find them in my backpack), so I try my best to commit everything to memory.
    Beckett sets out the seventh and last photo. One look at the guy’s crooked smile, at his dark, soulless eyes, and a shiver runs through me. He looks like Ricco, if Ricco was a sociopathic sadist. “Miguel Diaz,” I say.
    He gives a grim nod. “Yeah.” He studies the photo for a minute too long. Suddenly I understand something that I didn’t before. Beckett isn’t just doing his job. Taking down Miguel Diaz is deeply, deeply personal. He is committed to this in a way I cannot begin to fathom.
    Good to know, because that tells me something else. Beckett is not going to let anything get in his way. Especially not me. He is not my friend, not my confidante, not my crush. I am nothing but a pawn to him. A means to an end. I cement that fact in my brain and slide out of the booth. I’ve had enough for today.
    “Thanks, Jane. I think that’ll do it.”
    Beckett stands as well. Our bodies are just inches away. I can feel the heat radiating off his skin. “That reminds me,” he says. “CI’s use aliases to protect their identity. Something gender neutral. It can be anything really, I just need an identifying tag to put on a report. Do you have a preference?”
    I tilt my chin and look directly into his brilliant blue eyes. “Blue,” I say. The word comes out before I can stop it.
    A beat, and then he gives a nod. I reach for my backpack at the same moment he reaches to pass it to me. Our hands brush and a jolt of sexual awareness—like a zap of electricity—rushes up my arm. At an accidental touch. I can’t breathe. What would happen if we touched each other with actual intent?
    Beckett feels it, too. This rush, this heat, this burn between us. I watch it register on his face. Then I see him brush it off, compartmentalize. Rationalize. I am an informant. Nothing more, nothing less.
    I have to leave. Get away from him. I pivot and head toward the door.
    His voice stops me. “Kylie.”
    I pause, turn around.
    “Be careful,” he says.
    No shit.

 
     
     
     
    Day Eight
    Night
     
     
    Wood-fired buffalo chicken pizza with Ricco. He accepted my invitation to grab a bite to eat. I am all aflutter. In full-on Confidential Informant mode. If I knew what it meant to be a CI, that is. I don’t, not really, so for the time being I’m faking it.