A Lot like Love (FBI/US Attorney #2)(60)
WE NEED TO TALK. NOT YOUR OFFICE—LINCOLN TAVERN ON ROSCOE AT 10 P.M. DON’T SPEAK TO ANYONE ABOUT THIS.
First, it was strange that Mercks had sent him a text message—they’d never communicated by that method before. Second, why couldn’t they meet at his office? They always met in his office. The place was a fortress.
Xander found a table near the back of the bar and took a seat, hoping to go as unnoticed as possible. God forbid he was recognized and anyone found out he’d set foot in this place. The mortification would kill him—if whatever skeevy brew they had on tap didn’t kill him first.
“No wine list?” he asked sarcastically when a middleaged waitress with bleached hair approached his table. A far cry from the sleek, pretty young things who waited tables and tended bar at his clubs and restaurants. “I’ll take a gin and tonic. Clean glass, please.”
He ignored the waitress’s look as she headed back to the bar. He shrugged out of his coat, set it carefully over the back of the chair next to him, and glanced at his watch. He frowned when he saw that Mercks was late. He’d hoped to make this a quick meeting, whatever it was about. He wanted to make it back to Bordeaux before the eleven o’clock crowd rushed in. Thursdays were always good nights for them, and he loved being at Bordeaux, watching, mingling, and proudly soaking it all in.
He lived the good life—hell, the great life. And the icing on the cake would be Jordan Rhodes. With her money, his knowledge of nightclubs and restaurants, and their mutual passion for wine, they could be an unstoppable team. She was perfect for him—she just needed to see it. Hopefully Mercks had some positive news on that front.
A few minutes later, Mercks finally showed up. “Sorry. Traffic on the Drive was worse than I’d expected.” He set a black leather shoulder bag on the chair next to him. “My usual,” he said to the waitress when she approached.
“You come here regularly?” Xander looked around, appalled. “Why?”
“Because nobody asks any questions here.”
“Of course they don’t. They’ve got about three working brain cells between them.” Xander pointed to a man slumped over the bar. “I don’t think that guy’s even alive.”
“Don’t worry about them. Focus, instead, on the question you should be asking,” Mercks said.
Xander scowled. He never liked games. “What question is that?”
Mercks said the words with emphasis. “Who is Nick Stanton?”
Xander sat forward, interested. “You found something? I knew it. No one’s that clean. He’s a con artist, right?”
“I suppose you could say that’s true, in a sense.” Mercks pulled a file out of his briefcase and set it on the table. “See for yourself.”
Xander opened up the folder and saw a photograph on top. As unexpected as the image was, it took him a moment to process what he was seeing: Nick Stanton wearing a bulletproof vest over a long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans, standing in front of a blue and white squad car as he spoke to two uniformed policemen. It appeared to be some kind of crime scene. The squad car had the letters NYPD blazoned prominently across the side.
He looked up at Mercks, confused. “I don’t get it. Stanton was a New York cop?”
“Nick Stanton doesn’t exist—that’s a fake identity,” Mercks said. “Nick McCall, on the other hand, used to be a member of the vice department of the NYPD. He spent five years there before leaving and going back to school. At a small academy in Quantico, Virginia.”
Xander’s body went cold.
“He’s FBI?” he hissed.
“Yes.”
Xander jabbed the picture with his finger. “This man, who was at my restaurant, drinking my wine, is a f**king Fed?”
“Yes. It was hard to find anything recent on him—I suspect he’s been working undercover for a while. But we do know that he graduated from the Academy six years ago before moving here.”
“So why was he at my party?” Xander asked.
Mercks leveled him with a look. “I think you can answer that better than I can.”
There was a moment during which neither man said anything, and Xander wondered how much Mercks knew about his dealings with Roberto Martino. He’d thought he’d taken enough precautions to keep Martino a silent, hidden partner in his businesses, but perhaps that information wasn’t as much on the down-low as he’d believed.
The fact that the FBI had sent an undercover man to crash his charity fund-raiser appeared to be confirmation of this.
“Whatever you’re involved in, Eckhart, the Feds know,” Mercks said quietly.
In a haze, Xander stood up from his chair. “I’ve got to go.” He pulled out his wallet and threw down a bill without looking at it. “Don’t speak to anyone about this.” He started to walk away from the table, then stopped and looked back, realizing something. “Jordan. Was she in on this?”
Mercks shook his head. “No clue. The guy I had following McCall caught the aftermath of some catfight she had with another woman. Jordan must have used the name Nick Stanton, because the other woman seemed confused by this. We overheard her say his real name when she left him a message. Sounds like the two of them don’t see eye to eye on who’s dating the real Nick. So it’s possible that Jordan has no idea what’s going on and that McCall has been playing her all along.”