Beth Ciotta: Evie Ever After

“Makes sense. Can you talk to him about it ASAP? I really want to get on this.”

“I’ll have an answer today.”

“Good. Great.”

There was a pregnant pause while we both regrouped. I didn’t know what was on her mind, but I’d yet to share what I’d wanted to reveal in the first place. “Back to Arch and Beckett’s profession.”

Nic shifted and caught my gaze. “Ah, yes. Big-time hush-hush.”

“Brace yourself.”

“Spit it out.”

“Chameleon isn’t a freelance investigative agency,” I blurted. “It’s a covert branch of a government agency. You know, like the FBI.”

“You’re working for the freaking FBI?”

“No, the AIA.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Artful Intelligence Agency.”

“Still never heard of it.”

“Me, neither. But they exist. Don’t ask me what they do, but Chameleon falls under their umbrella.”

If I were Nic I’d be pacing the floor just now, venting and spewing rapid-fire questions. She just sat there, assessing. “You’re telling me Slick is a G-man?”

Slick was her moniker for Beckett. One he didn’t care for because she usually said it with sarcasm. I had no sympathy because he called me Twinkie. “Yes,” I said. “Beckett’s a federal agent.”

“What about Arch?”

“Nope. Beckett’s the only official member of the AIA. He answers to the director, a hardnose named Vincent Crowe, and everyone on the team answers to Beckett. Well, except Arch. They’re partners. Sort of.”

“Complicated relationship. I got that. Complicated further by you.”

I smirked. “Thanks for reminding me.”

“This is an awful lot to take in, Evie.”

“I know.”

“It’s bigger than I first thought. More dangerous. And it plays right into Jayne’s fears about a friend getting burned.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I’m sorry I haven’t been here for you and Jayne.”

She quirked a lopsided smile. “Yes, well, you’re here now and we’re going to help our friend.”

I reached over and squeezed her hand. She squeezed back and my throat got thick as I thought about another friend in potential need.

“Any other bombs you wanna drop?” Nic asked.

“No.”

“Anything you want to talk about?”

I swallowed and met her gaze. “I’m worried about Beckett.”

Philadelphia International Airport

“I’M ON THE GROUND.”

“How’d it go, mate?”

“Mission accomplished.” Milo Beckett navigated the crowded terminal, fighting exhaustion and self-disgust. He’d manipulated and intimidated con artists before, but he’d never lost his composure. Then again, Turner wasn’t a professional grifter. He was a former pro athlete with an arrogant streak and, as it turned out, an explosive temper. A dirtbag who cheated at sports, cheated the IRS and cheated at cards. Still, making him disappear for the sake of a politician’s career left a bad taste in Milo’s mouth. He’d spent several hours trying to put the ugly episode out of his head. Finally, he’d resorted to rationalizing. I sold my soul to the devil for the greater good.

Evie Parish, a virtuous soul who kept him connected to innocence and the pursuit of dreams, would view that rationalization as copping out or selling out. She’d certainly disapprove of the tactics he’d employed to accomplish the senator’s goal. He hated that he cared. He wished he could stop thinking about that pleasurable but ill-timed kiss. He’d sent her away in order to focus on what he had to do. He’d sent away the entire team to shield them should his plan curdle. The separation had been an unexpected relief. The dynamics of the tight-knit group had been strained ever since Evie had tripped into their lives.

Now that they were in between cases everyone could go their separate ways. Maybe time apart would help ease the friction. Or maybe this was the end of Chameleon. He’d been contemplating leaving the AIA anyway. Screw his pension. His vision for the team had been compromised over the past year and he didn’t see things improving under the leadership of the new director. Although maybe Crowe would get off Milo’s ass now that he’d completed his unofficial directive.

Temples throbbing, he hustled toward baggage claim, anxious to get on with his life. The sooner he reported to HQ, the sooner he could decide his future.

“Still there, Jazzman?”

“Yeah.” He’d called Arch out of courtesy. Next he’d call Samuel Vine, aka Pops, a trusted friend and the bartender and caretaker of the Chameleon Club. Word would trickle down to the other team members that he was safe and on home turf. “How’s everyone doing?”

“Evie’s fine.”

“I meant the entire team.”

“Sure you did.”

Milo didn’t argue. Truth was he did worry more about Evie because, unlike the rest, she wasn’t trained in self-defense. Unlike the rest, she didn’t have skin as tough as a rhino’s. Not to mention he was infatuated with the good-hearted fireball.

“The Kid booked you a rental car,” Arch said, skating past further talk of the woman who’d put a kink in their already complex friendship.

“He texted me the info.” Woody, aka The Kid, was Chameleon’s computer geek. A wiz at all things technical. His role in the Mad Dog Turner sting had been vital as they’d relied on high-tech surveillance equipment to cheat a cheat.

“I assume Senator Clark was pleased when you handed him that briefcase packed with his wife’s lost fortune, yeah?”

“‘Impressive’ was all he said. About the money anyway.” Milo had driven to Senator Clark’s estate directly after he’d handled Mad Dog. “Mostly he wanted assurance that I’d protected him from future scandal. I’m sorry to say I was able to give it to him.” He reached in his jacket pocket for a packet of Tylenol.

“Want to talk aboot it?”

“What do you think?” He popped the pills dry, wincing when his hand bumped his split lip—compliments of Turner. Just then Milo noted two suits wearing dark shades. “Shit.”

“What?”

“Trouble coming my way.”

“Bad sort?”

“My sort. Gotta go.”

“Call me if you need me, mate.”

“Right.”

Thirty minutes later, Milo stood in Vincent Crowe’s office, clueless as to why he’d needed a personal escort to HQ. Agents McKeene and Burns had dodged the question. Didn’t matter. This couldn’t be good.

“Take a seat. Director Crowe will be in shortly,” McKeene said on his way out.

“Thank you.” He waited until the door shut then added, “Agent Ass-Kisser.”

McKeene and Burns were new men, company men. Brownnosers who made Milo’s balls twitch. He didn’t sit as directed. He hitched back his suit jacket and stared out the window, watching pedestrians navigate Independence Square on a sunny spring day.

For the most part, the new director of the AIA operated out of Philadelphia instead of Washington, D.C. A source of curiosity to Milo, although he’d never asked why. Crowe had been his boss for a month. Their relationship had been adversarial from the get-go. Because of a botched land investment sting in the Caribbean, and because Milo had been unwilling to explain why the team had operated outside of AIA jurisdiction, Crowe had put Chameleon on suspension. They were still on suspension. The mission they’d just completed had been unofficial. A favor.

Two weeks ago, Crowe had summoned Milo to this same office to inform him of Senator Clark’s plight. His wife, an obscenely wealthy gambling addict, had lost a bundle to Frank “Mad Dog” Turner, pro athlete turned restaurateur, in a series of private high-stakes poker games. She swore she was cheated. Senator Clark enlisted Vincent Crowe to clean up his wife’s mess. Crowe assigned Chameleon to infiltrate the game and win back the senator’s money and then, to ensure there wasn’t a scandal that could jeopardize the senator’s political aspirations, to make the cheat disappear.