Collin pulled the oven mitts off. “You guys are making me nervous by hovering there. Why don’t you come in—I’ll go check on Cam and let her know you’re here.”
He felt Jack’s eyes on him as he made his way up the wide, open staircase that led to the upper floors. On the second floor, he entered the first room on the right, the master suite. The shower was still running, so he knocked and opened the door a crack.
“You’ve got visitors, babe,” Collin said, trying not to let his voice carry. “FBI wants to talk to you.” He shut the door and went back downstairs, where he found the two agents waiting in the kitchen. “It shouldn’t be much longer. Can I get either of you something to drink?”
“I’m fine, thank you, Mr. . . .” Jack cocked his head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Collin.”
He saw that this registered with Jack. A look of recognition crossed Wilkins’s face.
“That’s it! You’re Collin McCann,” Wilkins said.
Collin grinned. Ah . . . fans. He never got tired of meeting them. “Guilty as charged.”
Wilkins rocked back on his heels excitedly. “I thought you looked familiar when you opened the door, but it took me a moment. Something’s different from the picture they’ve got in the paper.”
“It’s the goatee. An unfortunate choice in my late twenties. I’ve been trying to get them to change the photo, but apparently it tests well with the eighteen to thirty-four demographic.”
Jack’s eyes darted between them. “I’m missing something here.”
“He’s Collin McCann,” Wilkins emphasized. “You know, the sportswriter.”
Jack shook his head. No clue. Collin tried to decide how offended he was by this.
Wilkins explained. “He does a weekly column for the Sun-Times where he writes directly to the teams—you know, ‘Dear Manager,’ ‘Dear Coach So-And-So’—and he makes recommendations on trades, what players to start, how to improve the team, those kinds of things.” He turned back to Collin. “That was one hell of a letter you addressed to Piniella last week.”
Collin chuckled. He’d pissed off a lot of Cubs fans with that one. “Needed to be said. When people stop dropping thousands of dollars in season tickets for a team that hasn’t won a World Series since 1908, maybe the owners and management will finally be motivated to put together a ball club that’s worthy of its fans.”
Wilkins glanced over, embarrassed for his partner. “Seriously, Jack, I think you might be the only guy in this city who hasn’t read his stuff. Collin McCann is like the Carrie Bradshaw of Chicago men.”
“You mean Terry Bradshaw,” Jack corrected.
“No, Carrie,” Wilkins repeated. “You know, Sarah Jessica Parker. Sex and the City.”
A silence fell over the room as Collin and Jack stared at Wilkins, seriously fearing for the fate of men.
Wilkins shifted nervously. “My ex-girlfriend made me watch the show while we were dating.”
“Sure, you keep sticking with that story.” Jack turned to Collin. “Sorry I didn’t recognize the name. I’ve been out of touch for a while.”
“Oh? The Sun-Times doesn’t deliver to Nebraska?” Collin quipped without thinking.
Oops.
He saw the flicker in Jack’s eyes and could read the agent’s thoughts as clearly as if there was a cartoon bubble above his head. So . . . he knows where I’ve been the last three years. She’s talked about me to this joker, then. Who is he, and how much does he know? Except on the issue of sports, a subject on which he clearly is all-knowing.
“Actually, I meant that I’d been working undercover the last time I lived in this city and didn’t have much time to read the paper.” Jack eased back against the counter and took in the kitchen, a room much higher on Cameron’s totem pole that recently had been remodeled. His gaze fell to the hardwood at his feet. “The floors turned out great. You have a very nice place here.”
“I’ll be sure to pass your compliments along to Cameron,” Collin said.
“Oh, I assumed you lived here as well.”
“Nope, just visiting.”
A smoky, feminine voice interrupted them. “And apparently letting unexpected visitors into my house.”
The three men turned and found Cameron standing in the doorway. She wore jeans and a gray T-shirt that hugged tight to her chest, and she had her long hair pulled up into some sort of ponytail/bun-type thing. She looked adorable in a fresh-faced, kicking-back-on-the-weekend kind of way.
Collin stood farther from the doorway, where he had a view of Jack. And although it was subtle, he was pretty sure he saw the agent run his eyes over Cameron before resuming his guarded expression.
Interesting.
Cameron folded her arms across her chest. “Agent Pallas . . . this is a surprise. I wasn’t aware we had an appointment this morning.” She peered around him and her expression turned warmer. “Hello, Agent Wilkins. Nice to see you again. Sorry if I kept you waiting.”
“No problem—we were just catching up with your boy Collin here,” Wilkins said.
Cameron turned her attention next to Collin. “Can I speak with you for a moment?”
“Of course, dear.” Collin followed Cameron into the living room. When they were safely out of earshot, she poked him in the chest.
“What is he doing in my house?” she whispered.
“There was a badge. And some mildly intimidating gazes. I felt it was best to cooperate.”
She poked him again. “I don’t want him in my house.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you’d get this flustered over Jack Pallas.”
Cameron scoffed at this. “I’m not flustered. I just prefer to handle him on my terms. As in, at my office, at a time when I’m more prepared for a business meeting.”
Collin’s gaze fell to her bare feet. He recalled her vow to be more suitably dressed the next time she encountered Jack Pallas. “You’re losing clothing every time you see him. At this rate, you’ll be naked in front of him before you know it.”
Then the strangest thing happened.
Cameron blushed.
“I’m perfectly capable of keeping my clothes on around him, thank you,” she said, her cheeks tinged rosy pink.
Collin was intrigued. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen Cameron blush because of a guy.
The plot thickened.
“He’s even better looking in person,” Collin said, seizing the opportunity to probe deeper. “No wonder you nicknamed him Agent Hottie.”
Cameron threw him the evil-eye. “He’s in the next room. We are so not going to have this conversation right now.”
Collin looked her over. “You seem pretty tense. Are you getting any sex these days?”
“My God, Collin . . . time and place.”
He grinned. “Fine. We’ll continue this conversation later. I should get going anyway—leave you and the boys to discuss whatever it is you need to talk about.”
Cameron frowned. “But you made breakfast—you should at least stay to eat. It smells fantastic.”
Collin leaned in and kissed her forehead affectionately. “There’ll be more for you this way. You need a home-cooked meal a hell of a lot more than I do.”
She chucked him under the chin. “You were poking around in my freezer again, weren’t you?”
“It’s pathetic, babe. Truly pathetic.”
AS CAMERON HEADED back into the kitchen with Collin, the first thing she noticed was that Jack looked uncomfortable. Probably not particularly thrilled to be spending his Sunday morning with her.
“I apologize if we’re interrupting,” he said.
“Actually, it’s fine—I was just leaving,” Collin said. “Got some work to catch up on.”
Wilkins’s face lit up. “Next week’s column? Can you give me a hint? I’m a huge fan,” he explained to Cameron.
Because Wilkins was such a nice person, she resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Guys geeked out over Collin all t
he time and, frankly, his healthy ego was a testament to that. “He’s a very talented writer,” she agreed diplomatically.
Collin snorted. “Like you would know. When’s the last time you read one of my columns?”
She pooh-poohed this with a wave. “I read your column all the time.”
“Oh? What was last week’s about?” he asked.
“Sports stuff.”
Collin turned to Wilkins and Jack. “This is why I stick to men.”
Cameron watched as Jack and Wilkins processed the meaning of Collin’s remark. Wilkins blinked. “Holy shit, I didn’t realize you were . . .” he trailed off uncomfortably.
“A Sox fan? I get that a lot,” Collin said teasingly. He gave Cameron a quick peck on her cheek. “Thanks for the hospitality, Cam. If you can handle a second drowning of the sorrows, I’ll call you later and let you know how it went with Richard. Hopefully when he moved his things out of the apartment, he at least took his CDs. I mean, we might be gay, but . . . Enya? Really?” With a nod in farewell, he addressed each of the two men. “Wilkins—it was a pleasure; it’s always nice to meet a fan. I hope the other agents don’t make fun of you too much when your partner here tells them about the Carrie Bradshaw comment. And as for you Agent Pallas—man-to-man, if you ever insult my girl on national television again, I’ll . . .” he stopped.
Everyone in the room waited, hanging. Jack raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”
Collin turned to Cameron with a look of astonishment. “I’ve got nothing. I had this whole exit speech going and I was gonna end with some big macho threat but when I got there, it was like—bleh—nothing. That’s a pisser.” He appeared disgusted with himself, then shrugged it off. “Oh well. Catch you guys later.”
He strode out without a second glance.
Seven
AFTER COLLIN SHUT the front door behind him, Cameron shrugged at the two FBI agents.
“He gets a little protective sometimes.” She said this not as an apology, more an explanation. Although in truth, it would take a lot more time than any of them had that morning to fully explain the wonder that was Collin.
“How long have you two been friends?” Wilkins asked.
“Since college. We lived together our senior year, along with our friend Amy.” Cameron eyed the frittata and realized she was starving. She glanced over at Jack, who stood against the counter looking as though he didn’t plan to leave anytime soon. She sighed. Apparently she’d be having a side of scowling FBI agent with her eggs that morning.
“I assume this has something to do with the Hodges investigation?” She walked over to the overhead cabinet to the left of the sink and pulled out three plates. She handed one to Wilkins and gestured to the frittata. “Help yourself. If it’s half as good as Collin’s omelets, you won’t want to pass this up.”
She offered a plate to Jack, catching his look of surprise. Sure, she had her share of flaws, but being rude to guests in her home wasn’t one of them. Correction: being obnoxiously rude to guests in her home wasn’t one of them. When said guest had declared on national television that she had no balls, she still considered vague aspersions and semitransparent snubs to be within bounds.
“No, thanks,” he said awkwardly. “I . . . ate earlier.”
Cameron grabbed forks and napkins for her and Wilkins, feeling Jack’s eyes on her. She ignored this and paused for a moment at the utensil drawer, debating over what one might use to slice a frittata. A pizza slicer? A pie cutter?
“How about a spatula?”
Cameron saw Jack watching her with amusement.
“It’s that flat metal thing with the handle by your left hand,” he said.
“I know what a spatula is,” she assured him. And she actually knew how to use one, too—for flipping grilled cheese sandwiches. One of the few things she could make without burning. Fifty percent of the time. Maybe forty.
She served herself a hearty slice of the frittata and took a position against the counter on the opposite side from Jack. It felt odd standing close to him in the confines of her kitchen. Too intimate.
“Do you have a lead in the investigation?” Cameron asked between bites.
“Not yet,” Jack said. “We’re waiting on the lab reports, and we’re going to interview Senator Hodges’s staff over the next few days. The purpose of this visit is to discuss some security issues related to you.”
Cameron stopped eating and set her plate down on the counter, not liking the sound of that. “What kind of security issues?”
“We’d like to place you under protective surveillance.”
She felt her stomach tighten into a hard knot. “You think that’s necessary?”
“Consider it a precautionary measure.”
“Why? Do you have a reason to believe that I’m in danger?”
“I would put anyone who witnessed this high-profile of a murder under surveillance,” Jack said vaguely.
“That’s not an answer.” Cameron turned to his partner. “Come on, Wilkins—you’re the good cop. Level with me.”
Wilkins smiled. “Surprisingly, I don’t think Jack’s trying to be the bad cop this time. He’s the one who suggested that you be protected.”
“If that’s the case, then I must really be toast.”
Shockingly, Cameron could’ve sworn she saw Jack’s lips twitch at the corners.
“You’re not toast,” he said. “If it makes you feel better, there are politics in play here. Davis isn’t going to let anything happen to a federal prosecutor who’s assisting an FBI investigation.”
“You’re still skirting around the issue. Why is it even theoretically possible that I’d be in danger? The killer never saw me.”
“We have a couple of theories about what went on in that hotel room,” Jack said. “My instinct is that someone was trying to frame Senator Hodges for murder. If that’s the case, when that someone realizes that the FBI hasn’t arrested Hodges, he’s going to start wondering why. And although your involvement in this case is being kept confidential, we’d be foolish to ignore the risk of a leak. I’d like to be prepared for that possibility.”
“But I barely got a look at the guy,” Cameron said. “He could walk right up to me on the street and I wouldn’t recognize him.”
“That’s exactly why you’re under protective custody.”
Cameron fell silent. Sure, she’d always known the situation was serious—a woman had been smothered to death, after all—but in the hours that had passed since Friday night, she’d been hoping, perhaps naively, that her involvement in the mystery surrounding Mandy Robards’s death and the blackmailing of Senator Hodges was primarily over.
She reached up and pinched between her eyes, feeling a headache coming on. “I could’ve stayed at any other hotel that night, but no—it had to be the Peninsula.”
“We’ll keep you safe, Cameron.”
She peered up at the unexpected words of reassurance. Jack seemed about to say something else, then his expression turn impassive once again. “You’re our key witness, after all,” he added.
“So will it be just you two watching me, or will there be other federal agents involved?” Cameron asked.
“Actually, since the Bureau has primary investigative responsibility, CPD will handle the protective custody,” Wilkins said.
So it wouldn’t be Jack guarding her. “Oh. Good.” The idea of being in continual contact with him unnerved her. Not because she couldn’t handle him, but because she didn’t need him glaring at her all day long. Those dark, watchful eyes were enough to put anyone on edge.
“How will this protective surveillance work?” As a prosecutor she’d had cases where she’d placed a witness in protective custody—usually, as Jack had said, merely as a precautionary gesture—but she’d never been on this end of things.
“There’ll be a car posted in front of your house whenever you’re here, and the officers will follow you to and from work. When you get to your office, you’ll be protected there by buildin
g security,” Jack said.
Cameron nodded. The U.S. attorney’s offices were located in the Dirksen Federal Building, along with the U.S. District Court for the Northern District of Illinois and the Seventh Circuit Court of Appeals. Everyone entering the building had to pass through metal detectors, and anyone wanting to access her floor needed proper identification. “What about when I go places other than work or home?”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know, all the places people usually go. To the grocery store. To the gym. Or to meet my friends for lunch.” She deliberately didn’t mention that she also had a date on Wednesday evening, thinking that particular information was nobody’s business but her own. Well, Collin and Amy knew, but they didn’t count. They knew everything.
“I guess you’ll just have to get used to having a police car outside the grocery store, the gym, and wherever it is you go for lunch with your friends,” Jack lectured. “And this goes without saying: you need to be careful. The police surveillance is a precautionary measure, but they can’t be everywhere. You should stick to familiar surroundings, and be vigilant and alert at all times.”
“I got it. No walking through dark alleys while talking on my cell phone, no running at night with my iPod, no checking out suspicious noises in the basement.”
“I seriously hope you’re not doing any of those things anyway.”
“Of course not.”
Jack pinned her with his gaze.
She shifted against the counter. “Okay, maybe, sometimes, I’ve been known to listen to a Black Eyed Peas song or two while running at night. They get me moving after a long day at work.”
Jack seemed wholly unimpressed with this excuse. “Well, you and the Peas better get used to running indoors on a treadmill.”
Conscious of Wilkins’s presence, and the fact that he was watching her and Jack with what appeared to be amusement, Cameron bit back her retort.