after dragging her into that land-investment mess. So I treated her to a holiday. So what?”
“So is it finished?”
“Aye.”
“Good. Because mixing business with pleasure—”
“Messy. I know.”
“Look what happened with Gina,” Milo said. An ex-cop, Gina Valente was a valuable member of the team, and they’d almost lost her because of Arch’s fickle dick. Thwarting company policy, they’d had a short fling. Shorter than what Gina would’ve liked.
“She still pissed?”
“I think her exact words were I’m over that amoral prick.”
“All’s well that ends wonky. Nice to know.”
Milo rolled to his side and felt his nightstand for the ever-present bottle of pain relievers. “When are you coming back?”
“Depends. We clear with the Agency?”
“Yes and no.”
“Meaning?”
“Chameleon’s on sabbatical until the new director re-evaluates our purpose.”
“You’ve got a new boss?”
“We’ve got a new boss. Vincent Crowe. Company man.”
“Hard-ass?”
“You got it.” He popped two aspirin and swallowed them dry.
“You dinnae sound happy, mate.”
Try miserable. Even before Crowe had been appointed, the Agency had started mangling Milo’s vision for Chameleon by inundating the team with cases pertaining to high-profile scams. Scams that target the select upper crust, as opposed to those that ruin lives of the blue-collar majority. Given his dealings with the new director thus far, he feared his vision was one step closer to history. “Maybe Evie could sing me a song. Cheer me up. Where is she, anyway?”
“Just put her on a plane. She’s on her way home. Be warned, she’s over the moon aboot her job with Chameleon. Has illusions aboot saving the world. Reminds me of you, yeah?”
“I don’t want to save the world, Arch. Just a naive few.”
“People like Evie.”
Milo didn’t comment.
“I’ve seen the way you look at her, mate. Remember what you told me aboot mixing business with pleasure.”
“That a warning?”
“Just an observation.”
The exchange reignited Milo’s previous suspicions that Arch had fallen in love. Dangerous territory for a man who valued emotional detachment. Never attach yourself to anyone you can’t walk away from in a split second. “You sound jealous. Just an observation.”
“Bugger off.”
“Fuck you.”
“Beckett?”
“Yeah?”
“Try a glass of warm milk. And dinnae worry aboot Crowe.”
“Thanks.” Milo disconnected and fell back against his pillows. His relationship with Arch was complicated. Onetime rivals, they now danced the same dance. Partners in anticrime. Arch occasionally slipped into old routines, solo. His last performance had earned Milo an ass chewing from Crowe. It had also pulled Evie Parish, a sexy variety performer, into their lives. As if he needed another complication coming between him and his professional goals.
He massaged his temples, dreaded another bout of insomnia. He swung out of bed and headed for the kitchen, contemplating this new and constant restlessness. He needed to take charge.
First order of business: tackling insomnia. Which meant two things: addressing his discontent with the Agency and getting a grip on his infatuation with Twinkie. In a warped, adversarial way, he considered Arch Duvall a friend. But it was his obsession to learn everything the crafty genius knew about grifting that motivated Milo to keep him close. If he pursued this attraction to Evie, he risked driving a wedge between him and the Scot. Just because Arch claimed the affair was over didn’t mean he was over Evie.
Face it, Beckett. Hiring Twinkie was a mistake. “That’s what you get for thinking with your dick.” He opened the fridge, nabbed the milk. “Just an observation.”
CHAPTER FOUR
JET LAG. THE AWFUL zombielike sensation rivaled motion sickness, and I suffered from both.
Queasy and fog-brained, I dragged my suitcase into my apartment, a one-bedroom rental with minimal furnishings and three weeks of dust. I added depressed to the list. It didn’t just feel empty, it was empty. I wish I could say someone robbed me while I was away. But, no, this was my doing. I’d moved in after the divorce, but I’d never really lived here. I’d purchased essentials—a couch, a television, a bed—and hadn’t bothered decorating. I was too busy wallowing in my postdivorce funk and pitiful work schedule to give two figs about curtains, wall hangings and knickknacks.
Bleary-eyed, I scanned the living room—strike that—sterile room, wondering how I’d been immune to the starkness for so long. Maybe I was just hypersensitive since I’d spent the past week in Arch’s grandfather’s apartment. The Bloomsbury flat was twice this size, but you could barely move what with all the clutter. In addition to the late resident’s own artistic creations, the flat had exploded with eclectic collections of paintings, sculptures and ceramic figurines. Not to mention art-history books, mystery novels, videotapes and impressive antique furnishings. Helping Arch sort through and decide what to sell off or give away had been difficult because, to me, everything was worth keeping. Bernard Duvall had surrounded himself with a lifetime of charming treasures.
I’d created a shrine to midlife crisis.
Mental note: tomorrow buy something cheery and useless. Even toss pillows would be an improvement.
Pillows made me think of bed, which made me think of sleep. But first I needed to make a few calls. I kicked off my cushy suede clogs and plopped down on my sofa—a boring contemporary piece that I’d picked up on sale. At the time I hadn’t cared that it was monochromatic gray. Mental note: opt for colorful, whimsical toss pillows.
I reached into my I Love Lucy travel tote for my cell phone. My fingers connected with my journal—the keeper of my innermost thoughts.
Although I had little trouble expressing myself to Arch, in general I internalize. It stemmed from a suppressed childhood. My mom, a conservative high-school math teacher, didn’t understand my liberal artistic temperament. My brother was as uptight as Mom. My dad, though a right-brained workaholic, seemed to get me more than they did. Knowing I bottled my emotions, he gave me a diary when I was a kid, telling me when my heart and mind got jammed to pour my feelings onto the page. I’ve since filled a hundred diaries. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. But you see my point. Diaries
