Maelstrom

Chapter 58: Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow

Wednesday early afternoon

"This all feels a bit cloak-and-dagger," I observed. I supposed it would feel even more so if I were actually wearing the taffeta opera cloak instead of carrying it folded up in a brown paper grocery bag. We had decided that one of Ivan's oversized hoodies would be far less conspicuous, just in case our ruse didn't draw off all police surveillance.

"Hmm, any chance that's a turn-on for you? Because that would bode really well for at least our immediate future." Ivan shrugged on his wool overcoat and pushed the button to call the elevator.

I slid up and grabbed the dangling ends of his cashmere scarf. "I'll take you however I can get you," I whispered. Marshall was giving us plenty of space, but I wanted to make sure my sweet nothings were for Ivan's ears alone.

He grinned wickedly as I tugged on the scarf, pulling his lips to meet mine. Even after making love all morning – having sex, I corrected myself automatically – I hadn't gotten enough of him, and our parting now was triggering nauseating tremors in my gut. I tried to ignore the gastrointestinal gymnastics and focused on pulling his tongue deeper into my mouth.

The elevator doors swooshed open, and the three of us stepped inside. Ivan uncurled his fingers and captured mine while his bodyguard sent the elevator dropping slowly to the ground floor.

"What will you be wearing tonight, besides your tattoos?"

Aah, the tattoos, I thought moodily. I wasn't looking forward to the painstaking process of reapplying my Asylum sleeves, but they – and my need to concoct a new costume for the evening – had provided me with the excuse I needed to go back to my apartment for a few hours before my shift began.

What I really needed was some time alone with a ballpoint pen and a legal pad – I had sent DiMarco a special report on Thursday, containing a few pertinent but carefully chosen details about Ivan's meeting with Hector and Tomás Castillo on Wednesday night, but I'd obviously not been able to send my usual end-of-week report on Sunday.

Or on Monday or Tuesday. Though there would be nothing on that piece of innocuous ruled paper other than Ivan's arrival and departure times for Thursday and Friday evenings, I got queasy thinking of the lieutenant sitting in his office or pacing the briefing room, waiting for that report with growing concern and frustration, while fielding the odd phone call from Mormor.

"You'll just have to show up tonight to find out," I teased. "But I will tell you that there's a pair of very small desert camo shorts involved."

He laughed. "I can't wait." He pulled my hand to his lips to kiss the back of it, then entered the loft building's front lobby alone. I watched him over Marshall's shoulder, wishing he would turn around, but knowing that he couldn't.

He exchanged a few quick words with the doorman behind the reception desk – not Joey – before exiting the front doors to the curb where Mateo waited next to the town car. I saw him stand conspicuously on the sidewalk for a moment, ostensibly checking something on his phone, before sharing a brief exchange with Mateo. That should do it, I thought; there was no way the OCCB's surveillance would miss his departure.

Marshall and I waited in the open elevator for a minute or two after the town car pulled away, just to be on the safe side. I didn't know which of vehicles in the traffic behind Ivan was his NYPD tail for the day, but I was sure they were long out of sight by the time my Russian mobster's bodyguard led me to the doorman's station.

"Sammy, this is Ms Bryant, a friend of Mr Alkaev's," Marshall introduced me. Sammy – a dead ringer for a mustachioed Mickey Rooney in The Black Stallion – scrambled around to the front of the desk and pumped my hand with surprising vigor. "Would you get her a cab, please?"