Undercover Connection. Heather Graham
Читать онлайн книгу.
up, we’re all in grave danger,” Jorge pointed out. “Undercover may not work.”
“Jorge, undercover work is the only thing that might bring them down,” Jasmine protested.
She was leaning against the archway between the living-dining area of the apartment and the kitchen. It was late; she was tired. But it had been the first chance for the three of them to talk.
After the chaos, everyone had been interviewed by the police. Stars—the glittering rich and famous and especially the almost-famous—had done endless interviews with the press, as well. Thankfully, there had been plenty of celebrities to garner attention. Jasmine, Jorge and Jacob Wolff had all managed to avoid being seen on television, but still, maintaining their cover had meant they were there for hours.
She’d been desperate to shower, and her blood-soaked gown had gone to the evidence locker.
In the end, they’d been seen leaving together, but that had been all right. Everyone knew that Jorge was Jasmine’s friend—she’d brought him into the show, after all.
And as for Jacob Wolff...
“You shouldn’t have made that show of going off with us in front of Victor Kozak,” she said, glaring at Wolff. She realized her tone was harsh. Too harsh. But this was her apartment—or, at least, her cover persona’s apartment—and she felt like a cat on a hot tin roof while he relaxed comfortably on her rented couch.
She needed to take a deep breath; start over with the agent.
He didn’t look her way, just shrugged. “I told Ivan, the bartender, I wanted to get to know you. They believe I’m an important player out of New York. Right now, they’re observing me. And they believe if they respect me, I’ll respect them, play by their rules. I’m supposed to be a money launderer—I’m not into many of their criminal activities, including prostitution or any form of modern slavery. My cover is that of an art dealer with dozens of foreign ties.
“Before all this went down tonight, I was trying to befriend Ivan, who apparently manages the girls. I’m trying to figure out how the women are entangled in their web. Apparently, they move slowly. Most probably, with drugs. Before all this went down tonight, I’d asked about you, Jasmine, as if taking advantage of the ‘friendship’ they’ll offer me. He said you weren’t available yet, but that all good things come in time, or something to that effect. He’ll think I took advantage of the situation instead—and that I’m offering you all the comfort a man in my position can offer.”
“Really?” Jasmine asked. “But I was with Jorge.”
Wolff finally looked at her, waving a hand in the air. “Yes, and they all know you two are friends, and that it’s normal you would have left with Jorge. But Jorge is gay.”
“That’s what you told them?” Jasmine asked.
“I am gay,” Jorge said, shrugging.
Jasmine turned to him. “You are? You never told me.”
“You never asked. Hey, we’re great partners. I never asked who you were dating. Oh, wait, you never do seem to date.”
Jasmine could have kicked him. “Hey!” she protested. Great. She felt like an idiot. She and Jorge were close, but...it was true. They’d been working together for a while, they were friends. Just friends. And because of that, she hadn’t thought to ask—
It didn’t matter. They’d both tacitly known from the beginning as partners they’d never date each other, and neither had ever thought to ask the other about their love life.
She had to draw some dignity out of this situation.
“At least we did the expected,” she said. “I guarantee we were watched. Oh, and by the way, Ivan Petrov controls the venue. But Natasha really runs the models. She gives the assignments, and she’s the one who hands out the paychecks.”
Wolff looked at her. “You’re going to have to be very careful. From all that I’ve been told, she’s been with this enterprise from the beginning. She may be almost as powerful as Kozak himself. When Natasha got into it, she wasn’t manipulated into sex work. She used sex as an investment. She came into it as a model, slept with whomever they wanted—and worked her way up to Kozak.”
“I am careful,” Jasmine told him. “I’m a good cop—determined, but not suicidal.”
“I’m glad to hear it. So, this is all as good as it can be,” Wolff said, shaking his head. “What matters most here tonight is that we’ve lost Smirnoff, our informant. And we’ve still got to somehow get into this and take them all down. We have to take Kozak down, with all the budding lieutenants, too. My position with this group is pretty solid—the Bureau does an amazing job when it comes to inventing a history. But the fashion show is over. The opening is over. The club will be closed down for a few days.”
“I’ll have an in, don’t worry. The last words from Natasha this evening had to do with us all reporting in tomorrow—for one, to return the clothing. For another, to find out where we go from here.” Jasmine hesitated.
“They haven’t asked you to entertain anyone yet?” Wolff asked.
“New girls get a chance to believe they’re just models. After that, they’re asked to escort at certain times, and, of course, from there...”
“We’ll have this wrapped up before then,” Jorge assured her.
“And if not, you’ll just get the hell out of it,” Wolff said.
“You don’t have to be protective. I’ve been with the Special Investigations Division for three years now, and I’ve dealt with some pretty heinous people,” Jasmine told him.
“I’ve dealt with them, too,” Wolff said quietly. “And I spent this afternoon up in the Everglades, a plot of godforsaken swamp with a bunch of oil drums filled with bodies. And I’ve been FBI for almost a decade. That didn’t make today any better.”
“I’m not saying anything makes it better. I’m just saying I can take care of myself,” Jasmine said.
She really hadn’t meant to be argumentative. But she did know what she was doing, and throughout her career, she’d learned it was usually the people who felt the need to emphasize their competency who were the ones who weren’t so sure of their competency after all. She was confident in her abilities—or, at least she had thought she was.
With this Fed, she was becoming defensive. She hated the feeling.
“Guys, guys! Time-out,” Jorge said.
Wolff stood, apparently all but dismissing her. “I’m heading back to my place. Most days, I’ll be hanging around a real art shop that’s supposedly mine. Dolphin Galleries.”
He handed Jorge a card, then turned to look at Jasmine. “Feel free to watch out for me. In my mind, no one cop can beat everything out there. We all need people watching our backs. I’m more than happy to know I have MDPD in deep with me.”
His words didn’t help in the least; Jasmine still felt like a chastised toddler. What made it worse was the fact he was right. They did need to look out for one another.
She wanted to apologize. They had met awkwardly. She wasn’t brash, she wasn’t an idiot—she was a team player. But despite his words, she had the sense that he was already doubting her.
“I’ll be hanging as close as I can,” he said. “The woman managing the shop, Katrina Partridge, is with us. If you need me and I’m not there, just ask her. I trust her with my life.”
He didn’t look back. If he had done so, Jasmine was certain, it would have been to look at Jorge with pity for having been paired with her.
When Jacob was gone, she strode to the door and slid the bolts. She had three.
“Jerk!” she said. She turned back into the room and flounced down on the sofa.
“Not