“The query was before call.”
“Defense says officer saw bike.”
“Maybe.”
The supervisor exhaled.
She was right.
He hated when she was right immediately after taking unnecessary risks.
“Meeting conditions?”
“Public first.”
“Then?”
“He’ll move.”
“He always does.”
“Backup close.”
“Very.”
“Extraction signal?”
“Same.”
He looked at her shoulder.
“You sure?”
She smiled.
“My helmet is more injured.”
He did not laugh.
“Agent.”
“I’m sure.”
That evening she became the woman from the first photograph again.
Long burgundy hair.
Jewelry.
Fitted jersey.
Different jacket this time.
Black leather.
The red superbike was gone.
She arrived in a rideshare at a trendy restaurant near downtown.
The suspected middleman sat outside with a drink.
He was in his thirties.
Expensive watch.
Designer sneakers.
Smile that never reached his eyes.
He looked her over.
“Cops rough you up?”
She sat.
“Why?”
“You look mad.”
“I lost a forty-thousand-dollar bike.”
“Wasn’t yours.”
“Neither was the payment.”
He smiled.
“Fair.”
She ordered sparkling water.
He asked:
“What’d you tell them?”
“That I borrowed it.”
“From who?”
“Someone whose name I didn’t know.”
“That’s stupid.”
“It worked.”
“They search your phone?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“They didn’t arrest me.”
He looked suspicious.
“Why?”
She shrugged.
“No stolen hit.”
He froze slightly.
“Really?”
“There was no stolen hit.”
“Then why stop you?”
“Anonymous call.”
He leaned back.
Interesting.
He had expected the stop.
But perhaps not the details.
She said:
“You knew.”
“No.”
“You knew there’d be cops.”
“You’re paranoid.”
“I’m alive.”
He smiled.
“So far.”
She stared.
Not flinching.
His smile widened.
“That’s why I like you.”
He leaned forward.
“Local cop did us a favor.”
Her pulse remained steady.
There it was.
“Us?”
“You.”
“Me.”
“Everybody.”
“He sees a hot machine moving where it shouldn’t.”
“He puts brakes on it.”
“Then we handle recovery.”
She frowned.
“You have a cop stealing bikes for you?”
He laughed.
“No.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“Cops don’t steal.”
“Cops recover.”
“And paperwork gets complicated.”
He took a drink.
She asked:
“Which cop?”
His smile disappeared.
“Why?”
“Because somebody nearly put my face on pavement.”
“You’re fine.”
“He owes me.”
“No.”
“He doesn’t even know you.”
“Then why did he run my plate before the call?”
The middleman stopped breathing for half a second.
Too much.
She had pushed.
She knew immediately.
He stared.
“How do you know that?”
She shrugged.
“My cousin works dispatch.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Your cousin.”
“Yes.”
“Never mentioned cousin.”
“You never asked.”
He leaned back.
The agent could hear her supervisor in the earpiece:
“Ease off.”
She did.
“Forget it.”
She picked up the drink.
“I just want to get paid.”
The middleman watched her.