The Grifter
Chapter 22

Something smelled like sh!t, and it was really pissing Beck off that he didn’t know what it was. Yeah, money was the great motivator, and blah blah motherfvcking blah, but there was something off about the way Shawn and Frankie had been pushing for a huge take in this prescription drug deal. Maybe they wanted his contact so that they could take him out and have all the money and power for themselves. It’d be ballsy and insanely ill-advised—Beck had dismembered people for a sh!tload less. But that didn’t mean these two weren’t getting ideas. And now Alfie, of all damned people, was pushing for Shawn and Frankie to do a big drop, too? Maybe the three of them were conspiring to grab the business from him together. Beck had thought he had Alfie well under his thumb, but that didn’t mean the little piss-ant wouldn’t surprise him by growing a pair. Of course, it would be the last mistake that sack of sh!t ever made, but hey. No one had ever accused the guy of being smart.

“Think. Think,” Beck hissed at himself as he stalked across the floor in Alfie’s piece of crap kitchen. He’d taken it upon himself to slip in and search the place thoroughly while Alfie slept, coming up with nothing but a stash of pot in the cookie jar (how original) and a whole bunch of really bad porn socked away on an ancient laptop. Alfie must have his phone on him in his bedroom. Any evidence of him knowing what Shawn and Frankie were up to would be on there. Fvckers.

Taking a deep breath (because it was either that or shoot somebody, and sadly, that would make a mess he didn’t really want to clean up), Beck forced the roar in his head to quiet and focused on what he knew. Everything about Shawn and Frankie had checked out online, and he’d given every last hit a thorough look from Alfie’s laptop—no sense in incriminating himself, thanks. Shawn had an arrest record in Detroit for getting tangled up in a bar brawl, but had been kicked after pleading guilty and ended up with a fine and two days of time served. Frankie had an Instagram account that was private, but the name and city matched, as did the profile description claiming that she was “just here for party”. Beck had called the doctor’s office where she used to work and asked for her, just to see if it would get him anything he could use. Of course, the bitch who answered the phone had only said, “There’s no one here by that name”, then shut him down before he could even get in a second question.

He didn’t like dead ends, and he definitely didn’t like anyone trying to steal his foothold in a business that he’d damn well earned. Frankie and Shawn were up to something. It was time to get some answers, and in order to do that, he’d need to start with the weakest link.

Beck stalked into Alfie’s room, smacking the light switch with the flat of his hand and kicking the bedframe with a hard thump. “Get up,” he said, loudly enough to send Alfie bolting upright.

A dark thrill moved through Beck at how disoriented Alfie looked, pale and weak. It died a quick death as Alfie replaced it with a scowl. “What the f**k, Beck? I feel like sh!t, you know? What’d you wake me for?”

“You’re a testy bastard when you’re sober,” Beck said, regaining the upper hand just like that at Alfie’s surprise. “Oh, you think I didn’t notice? The sweats. The jitters. I bet you’re just dying for a fix right now, aren’t you?”

“N-no.” Alfie shook his head. “I mean, yeah, but I’m not going to get high.”

Beck laughed directly in his face. “You didn’t even make it to Christmas Eve last year. When are you going to realize you’re never going to make good on that stupid-as*s resolution, or whatever it is that you try every year?”

“This time is different,” Alfie said, but Beck had had enough of this sh!t. He needed Alfie to talk, and he wasn’t going to do that freely unless he was wasted.

“Do us both a favor and just get high, would you? Your mood is for sh!t, and we need to talk business.”

“No.”

Beck would’ve been less surprised if Alfie had sprouted an extra head. “What did you say?”

Alfie’s bleary eyes had gone wide, but the little fvcker’s voice was steady. “I said no. I’m not getting high.” He stood a little taller, but that was fine. It would just be more fun to knock his as*s down, now.

Beck considered the options, then chose his tactic. “Right. Because you’re a fine, upstanding member of society now, or some sh!t? Come on, Alfie. Getting sober is for people who have a shot at becoming something.”

“I’m still gonna do it,” Alfie said, and Jesus, his heels were dug in hard.

“What brought on this sudden attack of morals?” Beck asked, his eyes narrowed.

“I don’t know.” Alfie wiped the sheen of sweat from his brow, looking at the floor. “Maybe something Frankie said.”

“Frankie,” Beck bit out. He knew it.

“Yeah. She said sometimes she thinks about it, too, and that made me think maybe it’s not so weird to get sober. Maybe I could do it. If we make enough money on this deal—”

And there it was. “So, Frankie’s pushing you to do this deal. What else is she pushing you for? Information? My contact?”

“What?” Alfie slow blinked. “No. It’s not like that at all.”

“Right. Because you’re far too smart to be manipulated.”

Alfie’s shoulders drew up and back, his jaw going tight. “Yeah, well at least I’m not f*****g paranoid.”

Anger coursed through Beck, sliding around in his belly as if he’d swallowed it alive. It was only paranoia if you were wrong, and he wasn’t wrong about this. “There’s something off about the way those two are pushing.”

“No, there isn’t,” Alfie snapped. “Jesus, Beck. They’re pushing because they want to do a deal and you’re dragging your damned feet. You said it yourself—they check out. They’ve got everything you asked for. Contacts, experience. But it’s still not good enough. What more do you want, man? Seriously. Can’t we just do this and get paid?”

Beck’s hands became fists at his sides, and just like that, he knew exactly how he was going to get the truth he was after.

“Okay, Alfie. You win. You’ll get your payday. I’ll go through with the deal I promised.”

Alfie looked startled, as if he’d never expected Beck to give in. “You will?”

“Sure.” Beck shrugged to seal it. “In fact, let’s grab something to eat and we’ll talk all about it. Who knows?” He allowed himself a smile. “Maybe you’ll get the happy ending you’re looking for, after all.”

“Another day, another armed robbery.”

Frankie looked up from the monitor on the desk in front of her just in time to catch Hale high-fiving Isabella, and Garza hanging up his bomber jacket by the door to the Intelligence office.

“Jealous,” she said pointedly, although it was pretty tough not to crack a smile. She’d been in Remington for nearly a month now, working side by side with the detectives at the Thirty-Third. She’d long since fallen into a groove with them, even going so far as to help out here and there whenever her own caseload allowed.

Which, of course, today it hadn’t.

“Hey. It’s not my fault that you had to stay here and write up the report for last night’s buy with Beck,” Hale said sweetly.

Hollister laughed. “Come on, Hale. Don’t you know that armed robberies are for amateurs? Sociopathic drug kingpins…now that’s where all the glory is.”

“Excuse me,” Shawn said, ever serious. “That’s murderous sociopathic drug kingpins to you.”

To anyone in a different profession, their banter would probably seem a bit morbid. God knew the first time Frankie had heard seasoned patrol cops talking about how ugly a DOA’s shirt was, she’d been more than slightly appalled. But it wasn’t as much joking as it was an odd sort of coping mechanism, and keeping things light was far healthier than letting them get too heavy to carry.

Because Beck was a murderous sociopathic drug kingpin. And if he found out that Shawn and Frankie were cops, he wouldn’t hesitate to torture them and make sure their bodies were never, ever found.

So, yeah. Morbid humor for the win.

Hale sat in the chair across from Shawn and beside the extra work station Capelli had set up for Frankie a few weeks ago, when it had become clear that she’d need a more permanent space. “Speaking of Beck, any idea what was up with him last night? Do you think he’s good for this deal?”

“I hope so,” Frankie said. “But I don’t know. He seemed a little weird about it.”

“Well, he’s been doing his homework,” Capelli said, nodding at the array of screens on the wall in front of him. “Or, at least, someone has. There have been several hits from the same IP address to the fake sites we set up for both of your covers. The address traces back to a laptop, and the GPS inside of it puts it at Forty-nine Sixteen Maplewood Avenue in North Point.”

“Alfie’s address,” Shawn said without looking at the case board, and Capelli nodded.

“Affirmative.”

Frankie’s thoughts began to kick faster. “Beck’s been using Alfie to communicate with us this whole time. It follows that he’d make it look like this is Alfie, too.”

“It’s perfect reasonable doubt,” Garza agreed, and damn it, he was right.

“Our covers are airtight, though,” Shawn pointed out. “So anything he found only bolsters the idea that Shawn Pritchard and Frankie Burton are legit. He’s probably just covering his as*s. It’s not like we didn’t think he would.”

“He could finally be coming to his senses.” Hale’s blond ponytail slid over one shoulder as she tilted her head in thought. “I mean, Alfie’s not wrong. This would be a hell of a payday for him.”

“Beck’s nothing if not ambitious,” Frankie agreed slowly. She’d been waffling on this all day, torn between wanting it to be true and being scared to trust that it might finally be true. “And he sure does seem to want that list. Maybe he thinks if we do a big deal, we’ll lower our guard and be more likely to share it.”

“Or that he can get close enough to one of you to take it,” Hollister said.

Hale let out an oddly delicate snort. “And here I thought I was the ray of sunshine in this unit.”

“What?” Hollister asked with a half-laugh that broke the tension in the room in a way that Frankie would bet was well-practiced. “It’s not like Garza wasn’t thinking it.”

“He’s not wrong,” Garza said, shrugging. “I hate to be a buzzkill, but Beck might still be trying to work an angle.”

Now it was Frankie’s turn to snort, although on her, it was a lot less ladylike. “Oh, Beck’s always trying to work an angle. I’m just trying to figure out whether or not he’s good for this deal.”

“Chances are, it doesn’t matter,” Shawn said, and okay, wait.

“What?” Frankie asked.

Shawn sat back in his desk chair, his stare flickering over the case board before he returned it to her, steady and calm. “Either he’s good for it, so we do the deal and bust him, or he tries to hurt one of us, we don’t do the deal, and we still bust him. But at this point, he’s running out of options. He wanted to be moving a hell of a lot more product than he is, and he came to Remington to start a business. Yeah, I think he’s cagey as hell, and no, I don’t trust him as far as I can throw a cement mixer, but he’s a pretty shrewd guy. He’s losing money, and more importantly, power. It’s possible he’s just ready to do a deal and get himself on the map.”

“Occam’s razor,” Capelli said. At Frankie’s lifted brows, he added, “It’s an injunction to not make any more assumptions than are absolutely necessary in order to arrive at a solution. Or, less formally…”

“The simplest answer is usually the best answer,” Shawn said.

Well, sh!t. Frankie had been trying to bring Beck down for damn near half a year. That much focus made her sharp, sure, but it could also keep her from seeing the forest for the trees. Everything Shawn had just said made perfect sense. Maybe she was overthinking it.

“That does make sense,” Frankie admitted, and both Hollister and Isabella nodded in agreement from their respective desk chairs.

From there, the conversation drifted to the armed robbery that Hale, Hollister, and Garza had worked, then devolved into the sort of banter that made it clear that quitting time was quickly nearing.

“It’s Hot Vinyasa night at the yoga studio,” Hale said, waggling her brows at Frankie.

Confused, Frankie said, “There’s no hot room at the studio.”

Hale’s brow waggle became a wink. “Oh, I know. I only call it that because Marcus is teaching, and he’s got a mighty fine asana. Are you in?”

“Tempting, but not tonight.” Frankie shook her head. “I’m going to hit an NA meeting before I grab dinner.”

She didn’t add that she’d be grabbing dinner with Shawn and Isla, just as she did every night, then having very quiet, very intense s3x with Shawn after Isla fell asleep.

Her face heated at the thought. Sticking with the keep-it-casual parameters they’d set ever since they’d tumbled into bed together after that first meet-up with Beck, she and Shawn had fallen into an easy routine. They talked, they laughed, they gave each other th!gh-quaking 0rgasms. Frankie hadn’t stayed over since that first night when Isla had been at Annette’s—not that Shawn had asked her not to, but he never fought her when she said she should be going. Isla was already adjusting to so much that Frankie didn’t want to add to the stress of that, for either Isla or Shawn. Plus, as unbelievably hot as this thing with Shawn was, it was also temporary.

Did she mention hot? Because yeah. See: th!gh-quaking 0rgasms, above.

But work was work, and while they were still here, she was going to have to jam a lid on her over-imaginative libido and the memory of all the ways Shawn could make her tremble without making a sound.

And there were a lot of them.

“Suit yourself,” Hale said, setting her sights on Shawn. But before she could get so much as a word out, he shook his head.

“Hard no. I have to get Isla from Annette’s.”

“And even if you didn’t?” Hale asked.

One corner of Shawn’s mouth lifted. “Still no.”

“Fiiiiine,” Hale sighed, but she was all smiles. “But don’t come complaining to me when your chakras are all out of alignment, buddy.”

She and Capelli left first, followed by all of the other detectives, one by one, until Frankie and Shawn were the only two left in the office.

“See you after your meeting?” Shawn asked. It was a benign question, lined right up with “isn’t this weather is great?” and “how do you take your coffee?” But between the intensity of Shawn’s deep blue stare and the way it made Frankie feel, breathless and happy and just f*****g perfect, he might as well be whispering dirty, personal things directly in her ear.

“Of course,” she said. Pressing her smile between her lips, she reached for the leather jacket she’d slung across the back of her chair.

Sinclair interrupted her, mid-sleeve. “Call everyone back in,” he said, the seriousness of his expression making Frankie’s pulse churn up a fresh batch of adrenaline.

“What’s wrong?” Shawn asked, even as he reached for the phone on his desk to dial dispatch and presumably request an all-call to the unit.

“Patrol just found a body down by the pier. Driver’s license found in the back pocket ID’s him as Alfie Landowski.”

Dread claimed Frankie’s chest in a quick, relentless swoop.

That dread turned to something else altogether as Sinclair added, “Preliminary guess for cause of death is a massive overdose.”