Feliz Naughty Dog - Roxanne St. Claire Page 0,26

threading his way around tables of wallets and belts, all the way to the Customer Service Department.

“Bathroom?” Finnie guessed.

“Could have used the one downstairs,” Agnes said. “But—oh, look.”

A man came up to him, holding a shopping bag, stopping to talk. They were too far away to hear anything, but Agnes studied the man who didn’t look much older than any of her grandsons. He had dark hair, a gray hooded sweatshirt, and leaned in to talk to Aldo.

After a moment, he gave Aldo the shopping bag, chuckled about something, then shook his head as he walked away. Aldo headed toward the Customer Service entry, disappearing around a corner.

“’Twas a handoff,” Finnie said. “Drug deal? Money laundering?”

“Maybe a change of clothes?” Agnes suggested, since Finnie had clearly lost her mind.

“So he can slip out unnoticed by the feds.”

The feds? “You’ve been reading too many suspense novels, Finola.”

Not five minutes later, as they pretended to be fascinated by a selection of underwear, he stepped out, dressed head to toe in street clothes—which fit his tall frame rather nicely—the shopping bag gone.

Agnes exchanged a look with Finnie, and Finnie’s eyes were sparking with horror.

“What?” Agnes demanded. “He can’t walk around dressed as Santa! The kids will attack him. He gets a lunch break, for heaven’s sake.”

“Or he’s undercover.”

“He’s simply…taking a phone call.” She yanked Finnie behind a tall display of tighty-whities, hiding as he put his phone to his ear and walked closer to them. “Hush up, Finola!”

She could hear a low laugh as he approached. “Well, I’m telling you I found her. She’s the one. Young, beautiful. Has a kid, but really, who cares? At this point, I can’t be picky.”

Now Agnes was sure her expression was as horrified as Finnie’s.

“I got her number, too.”

Agnes closed her eyes, punched in the gut by the words. And how nice his voice was. Why did he have to have a nice voice? And hair that was thicker and even shinier than in his picture? Why couldn’t he be schlumpy and bald?

“Well, now I shop,” he said. “Oh yeah, I know they’re here. FBI all over the place. Ever since they saw the corpse, there’s no getting rid of those guys.”

Agnes caught herself from gasping, pressing her hand to her mouth as he passed by, hearing Aldo’s easy laugh. At the FBI! He was certainly…fearless.

“I have plenty of time to shop,” he said. “Look, I have someone special, and I want to impress the hell out of this woman…” He got too far away for them to hear the rest, but Finnie turned to her, her eyes bright with emotion.

“It’s all true!” she exclaimed. “The FBI! The corpse!”

“The woman he wants to impress the hell out of.” Agnes let out a sigh, an age-old regret crawling up her chest, taking her back many, many years to another really bad decision she made because a man was handsome. “I sure can pick ’em, can’t I?”

“We have to help the FBI find him,” Finnie said. “We can’t let him sail out of here and get away with murder! It’s our civic duty!”

“Finnie, we can’t—”

“We must! Look! He’s headed back to the escalator. Let’s follow.” She yanked Agnes’s arm, her little legs hustling down the shiny tile floor. But Agnes just didn’t have it in her to go running off on this adventure.

For a person who’d made passing judgment on others into an Olympic sport, how could she have misjudged him so completely? He’d seemed so genuine and real.

On a sigh, she followed, but stayed ten feet behind Finnie, who marched on her rubber-soled shoes like a woman on a mission.

At the bottom of the escalator, he paused, looked left, then right, and then powered toward the accessories like a man who didn’t have a care in the world or a cop on his tail.

Finnie followed, stopping next to him at a display of silk scarves.

As Finnie sidled up to him, Agnes stayed back, hovering behind a rack of handbags so he wouldn’t see her, but she could hear.

“What do you think?” He turned to Finnie and held up two scarves. “Which would you prefer?”

She sputtered a little, obviously not expecting the question. She adjusted the crooked glasses, then shrugged. “I imagine it depends on the woman.”

He sighed. Actually let out a true, wistful sigh. “Then whichever one is prettier, I guess. She is.”

“Oh, then…” Finnie reached for the one in his right hand. “I prefer this one a wee bit more, then, for a pretty lass.”

“Yeah, but