Chapter 7: The wrench in the gears

They shared a cab. Outside the museum, she tried to wave one down. “I know a nice little place,” she said. “If you don’t mind me picking?”

“Not at all,” David said. “I’m not really from around here.”

“Where are you from?” The cab pulled over and they moved inside.

David got in, even though every fiber in his being told him to run.

“Where to?” The driver’s accent was thick. The Bronx, probably. David wasn’t able to pay all that much attention.

Jessica gave him an address. David didn’t hear it. The driver pulled away.

“So where are you from?” She asked once they were moving.

“What?” His thoughts were elsewhere. And they were insisting that he go elsewhere as well. This was a mistake.

She laughed. “Something on your mind, Mr. Crane?”

He forced a smile. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just a question that takes a while to answer.”

“Why?”

“I’m from a lot of places.”

She nodded as if she understood.

He had a lot on his mind. There were things to consider. She was on duty.

Police are on duty. She wasn’t a cop. He could tell that by looking at her. She also wasn’t carrying a gun; the suit was too tight to allow that. And the way she sat in the cab showed she didn’t have one tucked between her legs. Not a cop. That at least was good. Who else was on duty?

“So is this your first time in New York?”

He looked at her. “What?” He was being too inattentive.

“Sorry,” she said. “That’s tantamount to asking if you come around here often.” She blushed. Very endearing.

“No, it’s all right.” He tried not to think about how attractive she was. “It’s a fair question. I’m sorry I’m zoning so much.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “This is just the cab ride. The real conversation comes at the bar.”

A bar. Bars have alcohol. He could really, really use a drink. But he couldn’t. Because she couldn’t. Because she was on duty. What did that mean?

“I’ve been to the city before,” he said. He had to figure out what she did for a living. It was not the time to think about the curve of her lips.

“You know, only people from around here call this the city.” She played with the ring on her finger. She was nervous. The ring was definitely Harvard Law. “Most people call whatever city they grew up near The City.”

Her mannerisms made him think lawyer. But she wasn’t a lawyer. “I call every city The City.”

“Why?” She smiled again. She had great teeth.

He shrugged. “Because the locals do.”

She took off her glasses and started cleaning the lenses. “Why do you care what the locals do?”

The way she held them made him think of a layer, too. “I want people to be comfortable around me. So, you know. When in Rome.”

She laughed a little. “I guess that’s a fair point.”

Lawyers can drink on duty.

“Why do you want people to be comfortable around you?”

There was one kind of person who would have graduated from law school but couldn’t drink on duty. “It makes things easier.” A very dangerous kind of person.

“What do you mean?”

“For my job.” He knew what she did. And he knew what he had to do.

“What do you do?”

Thankfully, they pulled up at the restaurant just at that moment.

He had to get to know her better, if only to make sure that the painting wasn’t some kind of sting operation.

She was cute. She seemed interesting. But, more importantly, she was very, very dangerous.

She was FBI.

“Sixteen fifty,” the driver said. David heard the accent more clearly. He wasn’t from the Bronx. He was from the West Village. How could he not have noticed that earlier?

“Keep the change,” David said, handing off a twenty.

“Thanks for covering the cab,” Jessica said.

David shrugged. “I asked you out,” he said.

They walked into the bar. David was already thinking about just calling off the job. If she was a fed, and she was somehow involved, the danger rose to unacceptable levels.

They went to a table in a quiet part of the bar. There was a misty kind of haze inside. Not from smoke, just a general feeling of a sleepy, comfortable atmosphere. Soft lights.

“Nice place,” he said.

She smiled. “Yeah,” she said. “I like it. It’s somewhere I can escape to, you know?”

The police are easy to hide from, easy to escape. All you had to do was, basically, leave town. Maybe hop over state lines. That didn’t work with the FBI. The feds follow you all around the country. If she was there looking for him, if it was a sting, he’d have to get out, and fast.

“I know all about that kind of thing,” he gave her a grin, even though she had no idea what he was talking about.

On the other hand, it was forty million dollars. Fifty two million, now.

“What were we talking about in the cab?” She asked.

But if they were looking, he might not see any of it.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I was still kind of shocked.”

“By what?”

He smiled, tried to blush a little. “I’m not usually so forward,” he said. “I don’t usually ask people out like that.”

If they were looking. He had to find out. Which meant he had to keep talking to her.

“Confidentially,” she said, “I don’t usually say yes.”

He laughed. “But you do get asked out a lot?”

She cocked her head. “Actually, no.”

The waitress walked over. “Can I get you two anything?” She asked. She was from out of town. David wasn’t as good with accents away from New York, but she sounded like a Midwesterner. Maybe from Iowa.

“I’ll have an iced tea,” Jessica said.

“Long Island?”

She shook her head. “No,” she said. “Normal.”

“One for me too,” David said.

The waitress nodded and walked away.

“You’re not having a drink?” Jessica asked. He wanted one so badly. But he couldn’t afford to. Not right then. He couldn’t start. He needed everything to deal with the current situation.

Besides, once I start, the hard part is stopping.

“Sure I am,” he said. “I’m having iced tea. Same as you.”

“You know, you could have a real drink. I won’t mind.”

The temptation was there. And he’d been given permission.

She’s not the one who gives you permission.

“No,” he said. “If you’re not having alcohol, I won’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s impolite.”

She laughed. “No, really, it’s okay.”

He decided to change the subject. “What branch of the FBI do you work in?”

Her eyes were wide. “What?”

He shrugged. “You’re not a field agent.”

“How the hell did you know I was in the FBI? You psychic or something?” She shook her head, amazed. “How did you know?”

She put her elbows on the table, laced her fingers together, and rested her chin on them. She stared at him for a few seconds. He could tell she was sizing him up, and wondered just how much she was getting about him. “What do you do, Mr. Michael Crane? For a living?”