name did she feel like she could trust him? She felt like a rubber ball, bouncing up—yes, she believed him, and down—no, he was just a lying scumbag. Maybe the strong attraction she’d felt for him made a neutral response impossible. Because even if it had been a lie, yesterday’s immediate sense of connection still existed inside her.
She heaved a sigh. “What did Elliot take?”
He hesitated, then said, “Evidence.”
“Maybe he was going to the police?”
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t think that was his intention.” He really did sound sorry. Boing, her emotions bounced back into trust again.
He put down his fork and rubbed his face briskly, as if trying to wake himself up. “It’s not just evidence about shady accounting that vanished. A hell of a lot of cash is gone too.”
He pushed away the food half eaten. Maybe he wasn’t so calm after all. “That’s part of the reason the Espositos are so determined. They don’t want the news to get out. Elliot makes them look bad. Anyone who knows anything will be in a lot of trouble.”
His voice turned gruff with anger—at Elliot or her? She flinched away.
“I’m not threatening you, just telling you how it is. Dammit, will you please believe I don’t mean you harm?”
She gave a nod, unwilling to trust her voice.
“You know pretty much everything now, so do me a favor and tell me the truth, after you did your search for my name did you talk to anyone about me?”
She didn’t owe him. She wanted him to tell her more of his secrets—any of his secrets. “Why’d you tell me you’re a museum curator?”
“I am. I’m not lying, Ames. I promise. I help run a small museum on the Upper East Side devoted to New York history.” He started to reach for his back pocket, then shook his head. “Past tense. I jettisoned that job and that part of my life. Ha. I was going to give you a business card, but they’re all gone. I had to leave behind even the damn business cards.” He sounded bitter.
“If you left that old life, then how’d you get involved with my brother? And what are curators doing going clubbing with people like Sandra Marvin?”
He’d been eyeing her uneaten pie but looked up sharply at her words. “Sandra’s an old friend from before I changed my life. How’d you know about her?”
“She was in the photo and I tracked it back to her Facebook page.”
“Christ,” he whispered. “What did you do? Did you contact her?”
She nodded.
“Oh, shit.”
He stood up, pulled out his wallet and threw a couple of twenties on the table. “Come on.”
“What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong is that Sandra Marvin is Bert Esposito’s girlfriend. If she knows where I am, so does he.”
“Bert Esposito.” He’d said that name before.
“A really, really bad guy.” He grabbed her hand. “Let’s go. Now.”
Chapter Seven
Ames was glad she hadn’t eaten much. As it was, the peach pie curdled in her stomach. Mobsters. Mafia. Wise guys. Goombas. Hit men. She felt as if she’d wandered onto the set of a crime thriller. While it was exciting to watch such dramas from the safety of an armchair, she wasn’t prepared to plunge into one.
“I’m going to call the FBI and tell them everything. You say my brother’s mixed up with criminals; I’m going straight to the authorities and get help.” She tried to keep her voice calm, but it quavered on the last two words.
“Even if Elliot might end up in prison due to your ‘helping’ him?”
“Better in prison than dead. If he knows stuff about these criminals, he can plea bargain or something. He can maybe make amends for what he’s done.”
“I don’t know if he’d feel the same way. And the FBI might not be the saviors you want them to be. Besides, Ames, he wouldn’t be safe in prison either.” Nick’s hand came down on her arm and he drew her gently but firmly up from her seat. “We should go now. We can talk more in the car.”
As she let him lead her from the restaurant, Ames questioned her sanity. Now that he knew she knew his true identity, this guy might be driving her somewhere to…to whack her. But instinct told her this wasn’t true. She believed his story about Elliot having burned his fingers, messing with stuff he shouldn’t have gone near. It was such an Elliot thing to do. He’d been getting into scrapes since middle school, for no particular reason she could tell.