notebook. There must be a notebook somewhere that contains the data he had collected, which might help us understand why he was killed. From the little bit of information he gave me, I believe he uncovered something that could get someone in a lot of trouble, and they were desperate to get their hands on that evidence. After Dennis died, my house and car were broken into and ransacked, and I believe they were searching for that information. After what happened to him, and with a child to protect, I moved to my uncle’s ranch in south Texas. I feel safer now, but I need to find that information because I believe it’s the key to understanding why Dennis was killed. Will you help me?”
Cruz tapped his finger on the table. “I need to speak to Miles privately,” he said.
Karen appeared flustered. As the niece of a powerful and prominent senator, she was probably used to people doing as she asked and had expected an answer.
“All right.” She stood and looked at him with pleading eyes. “You know who I am, but I haven’t told my uncle that I was meeting with you. I will pay your fee, whatever that is.”
Cruz waited while Miles walked her out.
When he returned and sat down, Miles said, “Well? What’s your answer?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Do you think anyone else knows about the mistress?”
“Maybe, maybe not. She’s still alive, which means she knows nothing, or they haven’t found her yet. A few things I did learn, she never visited Dennis in jail, and she has a unique setup where she works in Miami. She works at a bookstore named The Bookish Attic, and the owner pays her under the table and rented her a room in her house. They live about ten minutes from the shop. Everything you need is in the file. We need you to get close to her and find out what she knows, and if she has that notebook. If she has it, we need you to get it.”
“A notebook? Are you shitting me?”
Miles shrugged. “I’m not judging anyone’s method of record-keeping.”
Cruz grunted and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Cruz, this is a simple job and easy money.”
“Nothing is ever simple.”
“This one should be. All you have to do is get the data. Whatever information Dennis gathered or stole, the mistress probably knows about it. Why else would she leave town so quickly?”
Cruz’s gaze was drawn to the screen again—the woman’s eyes, her smile. He scrolled through some more photos, admiring the way Shanice’s ample curves filled out her outfits, showing off a full bosom, generous hips, and thick thighs. He didn’t condone cheating, but he understood why Dennis had strayed. This was a sexy woman with a great ass.
“What about the national security angle? You believe that?” he asked.
Miles shrugged. “Hard to say.”
Cruz tapped his thumb on the surface of the table. Finally, he asked, “When do I start?”
Miles let out a sigh of relief. “Tomorrow. Your ID, a wardrobe, et cetera—everything you need for your cover—are waiting at the apartment we’re getting ready for you. Your name is Vicente Diaz, and you’re an accountant.”
“An accountant?” Cruz dragged his eyes from the screen and one of the surveillance photos showing Shanice at the grocery store examining a container of eggs.
“The investigator found an old profile for Shanice on one of those dating sites. She likes poetry and history. I think something low-key would be appropriate in this case.”
Interesting. Cruz enjoyed history and poetry, as well. He believed history was the key to understanding societal norms and firmly agreed with philosopher George Santayana’s famous quote: Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. Though he didn’t read a lot of poetry anymore, he appreciated the art form. His grandmother used to read poems to him as a kid. Her favorite poets included Cuban greats José Martí and Nicolás Guillén.
“What do I do if there are any…problems?”
“Do whatever you need to do,” Miles said gravely.
No one enjoyed killing, but sometimes it had to be done. Cruz had become immune to the emotional toll that would affect someone less seasoned in his line of work. In his profession, emotions were more than a nuisance. They could derail a mission and get him killed.
“And the woman, Shanice?” he asked, his stomach tightening unexpectedly.
“Whatever you need to do,” Miles repeated, his expression not wavering.
Cruz nodded. “Have Ms. Sandoval deposit that first payment in my account, and I’ll be