The Undercover Affair. Cathryn ParryЧитать онлайн книгу.
this mean I’ll be continuing with phase two of the task force?”
“One step at a time, Lyn.”
“I was invited up to Concord for the meeting tomorrow,” she said cheerfully.
Pete laughed. “Because I recommended you. You’re doing great work so far.”
He hadn’t said what her future was to be, one way or the other. That was up to Commander Harris, she supposed.
She wasn’t going to give them any reason not to let her continue.
“I’ll head inside to lunch, and then get to it,” she said. “What was the second objective? You said I have two.”
“The second objective is the same as always. Keep your cover, Lyn.”
“Why are you telling me this again?”
“Because I want to stress to you that keeping your cover is your first, last and major objective, always. Never forget it.”
“Right,” she said cheerfully again. “I’m an interior decorator currently contracted by DesignSea. This week, I’m working on a proposal for Congressman MacLaine and his wife.”
“You’re so subtle,” Pete said dryly.
She laughed because his sarcasm was unfounded. She was subtle. She felt like a duck in water doing this kind of work, and that was a great feeling.
Except where he was concerned. She darted a glance toward John, the bartender, as she hung up with Pete. Staring at her, yet again. She was giving herself a third agenda item for this lunch break, and that was to find out his full name and his particulars so Pete could run his background check.
Exiting from the car, she grabbed her purse, which carried her concealed Glock, then headed inside the Seaside Bar and Grill. The air smelled fresh and briny, and the wind blew through the opening of her jacket, making her shiver. She opened the door to the eatery, smelling something delicious, like freshly baked bread.
She checked her watch: 11:46. The kitchen was open but still a bit early for Andy Hannaman’s crew, the group who were working on the Goldrick home. They didn’t habitually leave the oceanfront cul-de-sac until noon, then it was a six-minute drive to their lunch spot.
Taking a seat in the back corner, Lyndsay strategically chose her favorite position where she had a view of the parking lot and road, plus a view to the entrance as well as the kitchen entry, with the long wooden bar beside it.
She waited. John would be inside soon, as well as Andy. Both her objectives could be achieved together. She could chat with the crews and organically, without suspicion, gain an invitation to look at the Goldrick renovation, as well as unobtrusively ask for John-the-bartender’s particulars.
In the meantime, Millie, the waitress who stood only as high as Lyndsay’s shoulders, came and took her sandwich order.
“I’d like the BLT, please.” Another strategic decision, designed to initiate a conversation with Andy. Millie nodded at her, then scuttled off. The little waitress didn’t speak much—she just did her job.
For the moment, Lyndsay was alone with her thoughts. Nothing to do but sit at the scarred table and gaze over the parking lot and street to the dunes beyond, with a sliver of dark blue ocean in the distance. The beach at Wallis Point reminded her of summer vacation from her youth. Also of romantic vacations from her marriage, but she didn’t like to think those thoughts.
Millie brought her a glass of iced tea, which she set beside Lyndsay’s department-issued mobile phone on the table. “Thank you, Millie.”
She received a brief nod and a smile in reply. Followed by the retreat of quick paces from soft-soled sneakers.
Concentrate. Watch for Andy Hannaman’s crew.
She checked her perimeter. Cocked an ear for the sound of a vehicle pulling into the gravel lot.
Instead, the door opened, and John the bartender walked inside, followed by the young man from the beer truck. The young man wore a uniform shirt with a logo, and his body language indicated that he was reluctant to follow John. The two men headed behind the bar, and she observed as John explained in a low but authoritative murmur what he needed the young man to fix. Evidently, there was a problem with the beer line.
Distracted from her purpose, she gave them her full attention. John’s head was bent. He had a short haircut, like a lot of the police officers she worked with. But it wasn’t just his looks that drew her notice. There was something to the way he moved. The subtle cock of his hip, the deliberate, staccato punch of his fingers tapping against his forearm as he concentrated. His mannerisms showed he was impatient. Alert. Coiled.
He turned, and for a split second, she caught him studying her, too. Smiling as if she was nothing more than a red-blooded woman checking out an interesting, red-blooded man, she gazed directly at him.
Her line of sight was broken by Millie, bringing out her bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich. It smelled delicious, and Lyndsay’s stomach rumbled, craving food, so she nonchalantly turned her attention to that and dug in.
She wasn’t really drawn to John, she told herself. She’d been wary of romantic relationships with men ever since Jason had passed and she’d been widowed. Since then, she’d tried to live on, tried to press forward and be cheerful and find something meaningful to do.
Her solace had been to keep busy, with work, work-related training classes, sessions at the gun range. Anything not to be alone with her thoughts...
Then this opportunity had arisen—to work undercover, a chance at maybe later being promoted to a detective. Her dad had been so thrilled to hear about it. She’d thought maybe...maybe her life could be more fulfilled if this professional assignment worked out and she became a full-time detective. She would get to work on bigger cases, help more people than by being a police officer in a squad car. It would also be a job where she could actually wear street clothing and feel more like her long-ago, pre-widowhood self.
She glanced down to where her duty belt usually dug into her hips. Not today. Today she wore a dress she’d chosen because she liked it, with brown tights underneath and ankle boots, plus a short leather jacket that fit her undercover status.
She glanced at John.
Only to catch him staring at her again. Then, after that split second when they met gazes, he abruptly looked away. And he continued his conversation with the beer distributor guy.
John bent over, and for a moment she was treated to the sight of his clearly muscled torso that had been hidden by his oversize black T-shirt. He had...a nice body. She inhaled and crossed her legs beneath the wooden table. But it wasn’t the appropriate time or place to be thinking of such things, not by a long shot.
She forced herself to look away from the bar and toward the door. Through two sets of plate glass windows she saw the small parking lot where her sporty, black, undercover car was by itself. In early April, the place was still briskly cool, too early for the summer season, and thus, not crowded with traffic and beachgoers on vacation.
The sound of tires on gravel crackled, and Lyndsay refocused. Right on time, Andy Hannaman and his crew had arrived in their large white work van with Hannaman General Contractor stenciled in red paint inside a white oval-shaped logo.
In the front seat was Andy’s son, AJ, and in the back seat, AJ’s friend Chet Evans. A black pickup truck followed the van into the lot. Moon Buzzell, who was building a new tile shower under Andy’s direction at the mansion next door to where Lyndsay was undercover, had shown up.
As Andy exited his van, he saw her through the window and waved. Cheerfully—because she had genuinely come to like him—she waved back. Andy was older than her, closer to her father’s age than to her own, and she felt comfortable with him. It had helped even more that he’d taken her under his wing on their four-mansion cul-de-sac in the wealthy section of private beach. None of the residents were back yet; it seemed all of them had hired work out to local contractors