“Let me see.”
“You’re interested in my word game?” She posed the question around a phony-sounding laugh. “Since when have you—”
He lunged and snatched the phone from her hand.
“Tom?” she cried in shock.
Then, “Tom!” spoken in a strident tone that matched her gesture when she stuck out her hand, palm up, demanding that he give her cell phone back.
Then, when he didn’t, when he held it out of her reach and read the text message on the small screen, she said his name again, this time with a soft, plaintive, remorseful groan attached.
“I’ve called to put you on alert. Be ready to move at a moment’s notice.”
Diego gave a sarcastic huff. “What? And miss all this fun?”
He’d been at the Garden District mansion before sunrise and had followed Bonnell Wallace when he drove out of its front gate. Now, for hours, he’d been watching the banker’s car where it had remained since 7:35 that morning when Wallace had parked it in its designated slot in the employees’ parking lot of the bank building.
Watching as the sun faded a high-gloss paint job was boring as shit.
In addition to being bored, Diego disliked being idle for this long. He stayed on the move, like a shark, cruising invisibly below the surface, striking hard and fast before continuing on. Fluid. That was the word. He liked being fluid, not stationary.
Mainly, he resented that The Bookkeeper had held out the carrot of Lee Coburn, then had assigned him to do a mindless job that any moron could do. He thought of a dozen other activities that he could be enjoying more, not the least of which was spending time with Isobel at home.
Home. That’s the term with which he thought of his underground bunker now.
The Bookkeeper was keeping him from that most pleasant of pastimes.
“I sense some discontent in your tone, Diego.”
He stayed sulkily silent.
“I have a reason for assigning you to watch Wallace.”
Well, so far that reason had escaped Diego. He didn’t really care what the reason was. But The Bookkeeper was on the phone now, and the prospect of a more exciting and higher-paying job perked him up. “Today’s the day I get Coburn?”
“Coburn is an undercover FBI agent.”
Diego’s heart bumped, not with anxiety, dread, or fear, but with excitement. Taking out a fed, that was trippy, man.
“You know what that means, Diego.”
“It means he’s toast.”
“It means,” The Bookkeeper said testily, “you’ll have to move with extreme caution, but swiftly. When I give the go-ahead, you won’t have much time.”
“So give me time. Tell me now, when and where?”
“Details are pending. You’ll know what I want you to know, when I’m ready for you to know it.”
Which Diego translated to mean that The Bookkeeper didn’t know the details yet either. He grinned, thinking about how aggravating that must be. But he wasn’t stupid, and he wanted the contract, so he spoke with affected humility. “I’ll be here whenever you’re ready for me.”
The Bookkeeper usually got in the last word, and this time was no exception. “The New Orleans authorities still haven’t discovered that whore’s body.”
“I’ve told you. They won’t.”
“Which begs a question, Diego.”
“What question?”