Page 19 of Perfect Vengeance

Gina couldn’t stop her eyes from widening. They had been followed. Good to know her instincts were still dead-on accurate.

“That’s right,” Gates said, nodding. “I followed you after you left. I lost you somewhere in midtown, but this time, since I wasn’t lying in the street unconscious, I did get the tag off your rental car and tracked it back to you. But you weren’t the one driving the car last week. Give me a name.”

She chewed her lower lip. Not gonna happen. There was only one thing to do here. The right thing.

“Go ahead.” She took a deep inhale and held her arms out in front of her. “Cuff me.”

Gates didn’t move. He stood there, watching her. Correction, make that examining her. His eyes were like twin lasers, splaying her soul wide open, and God how it made the hair on the back of her neck prickle.

She’d never thought of herself as a coward, but she was beginning to understand that when Gates had no decipherable expression on his face—which, frankly, was most of the time—he was at his most dangerous. She could almost hear the gears in his head spinning and churning.

After a full minute, she lowered her arms. Clearly, he had no intention of cuffing her. Yet, anyway. He wanted information and probably figured he’d get more out of her in the comfort of her own home, rather than handcuffed in the back of a police car, or paddy wagon, or whatever feds transported prisoners in these days.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. The silence was getting to her, and he knew it. This was worse than getting hammered with questions. The man must be an ace interrogator. She wanted to tell the truth, felt obligated to spill her guts. He was the law, after all. But no way would she tell him about Margo, Kinsey, and Annabelle.

“The names of your friends,” he bit out. “Now.”

Slowly, she shook her head.

“Loyalty is for movies.” Only the slight narrowing of his eyes told her he was getting impatient. “Prison is for liars.”

Silence stretched between them. The only sound was the ticking of her grandfather clock in the foyer, one of the few things she couldn’t possibly have pawned. The clock was a family heirloom and meant too much to her.

Agent Gates knew how to work the moment. All he did was stare and, dammit, she looked away first. When she glanced back, alarm bells clanged in her head. He’d abandoned his interrogation of her and was kneeling next to the black duffel.

She gasped, then covered her mouth with her hand. No, no, no! Her heart somersaulted over and over. If the FBI seized the cash—and they would—the money would probably end up in some generic government bank account used to buy new furniture for all the FBI offices. Or buried in a warehouse full of crates, like in the Lost Ark of the Covenant.

Gates yanked the zipper and several bundles of cash spilled onto the floor. He glanced up. “You look as if you’re about to cry.” She was. “This cash is from tonight.” He nodded at the bag. “What did you do with the rest of the money you’ve stolen?”

“There is no other money.” Though she willed them not to, her lips trembled. She really wished they’d offered Lying 101 in college. “This was the only time.”

“Yeah, right,” he snapped. “You and your friends have been ripping of the Falzones for at least two years.”

Her jaw dropped. “How did you⁠—”

“Know about your operation?” He gave her a duh look. “I’ve been investigating the Falzones for fifteen years. It’s my job to know everything about them.”

Fifteen years? She stood by her original assessment that Gates had to be in his mid- to late-thirties, so he must have become an agent in what, his early twenties? Fresh out of college, she’d bet.

“Until now, I didn’t know who it was.” He turned in a slow circle, taking in the rest of her apartment. “Costly crib.”

“I can afford it.” She held her head high. “I work on Wall Street.” She’d worked her butt off to get there, putting herself through college and business school while working for a chocolatier at night and on weekends.

“What about jewelry, furs?” His tone had become demeaning. He obviously assumed someone with her Upper East Side address would be drowning in diamonds. “What else does a cat burglar crave?”

“I only own jewelry with sentimental value, and fur coats disgust me.”

“I’ll have the Humane Society send you a Christmas card.”

She bit her tongue, and this time, it was her own blood she tasted.

Sarcasm like that from anyone would normally have been more than sufficient cause for her to verbally ream them out with a caustic quip no man could recover from. Coming from a know-it-all FBI agent made clamping down on her colorful vocabulary that much harder.

Luckily, her father’s words of wisdom sprouted forth from the depths of her memory. Choose your battles wisely. Or you might get clipped.

Well, he’d never said the second part to her, at least not in so many words. She’d been smart enough to get the gist of what he meant.

“I’m telling the truth.” She tried keeping her voice steady, which was difficult when her hands were shaking like tree limbs in a hurricane. “Check my bedroom. My jewelry box is practically empty.” She’d pawned all the good stuff and given the cash to the Center. “I assure you, there are no furs in any of my closets.”