Becoming Rain: A Novel

“I’m so sorry!” I peer up through the dim club lighting to take in his face. It’s angular and masculine. He’s far prettier than the pictures do justice. And, by the deep furrow and the clenched teeth, he’s also oh so pissed.

He’s too busy glaring at the tumbler’s worth of Coke that I just dumped all over his steel-blue shirt to even bother a glance up at me. “Fucking perfect,” I hear him mumble.

“Let me get that dry cleaned for you. Please,” I offer, my voice a seductive purr, hoping the view down the front of this slutty overpriced dress will finally grab his attention. I place my hand flat against his stomach as I step into his personal space. Physical contact usually works.

Instead, he shoulders past me, pushing through the crowded bar and toward the exit.

Shit. I didn’t nurse a drink on this bar stool for the past two hours with the better part of my breasts on display so this asshole could ignore me.

Again.

Tossing a twenty on the counter, which will more than cover my bill, I weave through the other patrons, trying not to be too obvious as I chase after him. He’s at least two hundred pounds of muscle and he’s carrying himself well, but I watched him chug six glasses of vodka. He’s got to be drunk.

By the time I get up the narrow stairs of the underground club to the side street, Luke Boone is in the back of a cab and speeding off, leaving me staring at the taillights as they disappear around a corner, my ever-growing frustration weighing down on my shoulders.

“Strike five for Rain Martines,” I mutter, picking my way along the sidewalk in my painful stilettos to where my white Audi sits. “ ‘It’ll be easy,’ they said . . .” I slam the door shut behind me. “ ‘He’ll be all over you.’ ” I start the engine and lean back against the headrest. And sigh. “This isn’t going to work.”

My phone rings in response.

“Who told you this would be easy?” Warner’s heavy Boston accent fills the car’s speakers as it kicks into Bluetooth mode. “Don’t give up just yet, Clara. What happened tonight?”

I fumble with the gold dragonfly pendant around my neck until I feel the minuscule switch on the back. I flick it, deactivating the listening device. “You heard what happened.”

“Walk me through it. Step by step.”

I pull out of the parking lot and make the five-minute drive home, filling my handler in on the night’s events: how I watched my target stride to the booth—the same booth in the VIP section that he always sits at—as if he were on a mission, pour glass after glass of vodka from the bottle and toss it back, get into what looked like a heated conversation with his uncle, and then suddenly stand up and storm through the crowd.

How I did the first thing I could think of to stop him. “He didn’t even look at me,” I admit and, after a long pause, add, “I’m not his type, Warner.” Despite the posh outfit and the top-to-bottom grooming I’ve undergone to transform into the prototype of what Luke Boone typically brings home, I have yet to earn so much as a sideways glance from him.

“Yeah, you are. He just hasn’t laid eyes on you yet.”

“And probably never will, at this rate.”

“Impossible.”

I shake my head, though he can’t see it. “How many nights can I hang around that club, dressed like an escort, before you guys realize that you’ve got the wrong undercover on this?” It pains me to admit that.

“Fifteen minutes. Your place.” The phone line cuts out, leaving me to brood over my impending failure alone.

Weeks of case preparation, down the drain. I don’t know what I was thinking. When my boss called me in to his corner office and introduced me to the man in the suit filling the spare chair, my life changed. Assistant Director Josh Sinclair wanted me. Or, more appropriately, the FBI wanted me—twenty-six-year-old Officer Clara Bertelli from the Washington, D.C., Major Crime Unit. They had a big case, one that stretched internationally, one they’ve been working for eighteen months.

After two failed attempts to infiltrate the group, they were trying a new strategy and it required a very specific profile. One that they failed to find in their database of FBI agents, so they were reaching beyond their organization, as they sometimes do. They had been searching for a suitable undercover for weeks, and then my file hit their radar and winning bells went off.

My youthful look, my cool demeanor, my impeccable arrest record, my compelling court testimonials, even my diligent case notes . . . Sinclair said I was exactly what they were looking for. Then he asked me if I was interested in being a part of what could be one of the biggest car theft ring busts in U.S. history.

My own set of winning bells went off.

I didn’t give it a moment’s thought before I answered with an exuberant “Hell, yeah.”

But maybe I should have considered it a bit more. Maybe I shouldn’t have assumed it’d be as easy as a hooker sweep or busting some idiot john. All I thought about was what this could mean to my career if I succeeded—ideally a job in the Bureau, exactly where I want to be. A bit of my own digging uncovered that Assistant Director Sinclair is the kind of guy that can make that happen.

Maybe I should have considered what it would mean if I failed, where I could land if I don’t pull this off. A very likely possibility, if the past few weeks have been any indication.

I park my Audi in my private garage, appreciating the luxury car’s handling ease. Part of my undercover persona and definitely one of the perks, as is everything else that now surrounds me. Back home, my real life consists of a drafty one-bedroom apartment with cracked tiles and a squeaky fridge, a ’95 Jeep Wrangler with more miles on it than a retired cargo plane, and chain store clothing bought at 50 percent off. Sixty grand a year with student loan debt hardly buys me more. I’m not complaining—I’ve always loved my job and my life.

But then I take a smooth ride in this mirrored elevator that will lead me to the top floor with the slip of a key and step into “my” loft-style designer condo—with the computerized control panel for the lighting and sound system to my left, floor-to-ceiling windows to my right, and everything from Miele kitchen appliances to Brazilian walnut floors and travertine tile in between—and I get to experience how the other side lives. A lifestyle I will never afford to have on a regular cop salary.

I have to admit, it’ll be hard to leave some of this behind.

Kicking off my shoes, I head over to the wall of windows and take a peek out around the shades that are always drawn. A few condos in the twin boutique loft building next to mine are still lit, but most sit in darkness. There’s only one I really care about, though.

The one with my target in it.

Maybe the Feds thought this would be a cute, kismet story for Rust Markov’s nephew and me to giggle over when I finally succeeded in winning his attention—the fact that we have a perfect view into each other’s lavish homes. I certainly do, anyway. Luke doesn’t seem to believe in drawing window covers, regardless of time or state of dress. I haven’t yet figured out whether it’s due to ignorance or arrogance.

Flashes of light from the TV on the wall fill his living room, each burst highlighting his body, now clad in nothing but boxer briefs and a T-shirt. As with every other night for the past few weeks, I watch him drop down to the white shag rug and begin the nightly regime of crunches and push-ups that give him those hardened muscles. Without fail, drunk or not, he will go through this routine, his bulldog stretched out next to his head, tongue lolling. I’ve caught my own tongue lolling once or twice, when I had a brief lapse in memory and forgot what Luke Boone really is. For all else that he may be, he has a body and face for magazine covers.

Too bad he’s a budding criminal.

At least, that’s the assumption. That’s why I’m here.

I wonder if the women he brings home know. Or care. I’m guessing not. They’re not the type to care about much except what he can buy them. From what I’ve seen in the reports, the joke’s on them because this guy doesn’t wine and dine anyone. He’s after only one thing and he gets it. Thankfully, on the few nights I’ve witnessed a “guest” trail him through the door, the women had enough modesty to draw the blinds in his bedroom.

With a heavy sigh of frustration, I head to the pretty watercolor painting that hides my safe. I pull the case files for 12—our code name for Luke Boone—out, dropping them on the coffee table, one hand on my zipper as I head to the bedroom to peel off this uncomfortable dress and change into sweats.

I come back to find a six-foot shadow at my window, stealing the same glance across the way at our target that I had not five minutes ago. “Would you stop using your key? I could have been naked.”

“I was hoping,” Warner throws back over his shoulder.

I offer up a bottle of Chianti. He waves it away, instead helping himself to a can of Harpoon—a Boston I.P.A. beer that he insists on stocking in my fridge—before dropping his big body into my white leather sectional.

I flop into the couch next to him. “I just don’t know . . .”

“What don’t you know, Bertelli?” Warner stretches long legs out over my coffee table, fanning the thick folder of surveillance notes that I just set down over the glass. “That you’re a smart cop? That you were handpicked by the F.B.I. for a reason?”

I smile, giving his knee a friendly pat. “I can always count on you for a motivational pep talk.”

“We all knew this wouldn’t be a cakewalk.”

“No, I know. I just . . .” I yawn, the adrenaline that kept me wired through the night finally seeping from my body, leaving me weary. “We’ve been pinning all our plans on the expectation that 12’s going to fall to his knees at the sight of me. Dog me around and tell me whatever I want to know. That’s clearly not the case.” I won’t lie; privately, it’s a hit to my ego. I’ve never had a hard time attracting a target’s attention. With my long, wavy chestnut hair, olive skin, and light blue eyes, we all assumed I was Luke Boone’s type. On paper, I am. But either something else is at play or I just don’t quite fit into the lineup of gold-digging beauties.

Warner sucks back a mouthful of beer, his face pensive. “You said he was fighting with 24 tonight?” The Feds are so clever with their code names.

“Looked that way.”

Warner shrugs. “Drunk . . . arguing with the uncle . . . last thing he’s in the mood for is putting any work into a woman.”

“I guess . . . But what about last time?” He hadn’t noticed me last week either, and I had made sure my steps were as slow and purposeful as a peacock’s as I strutted past his table on my way to the restroom, my provocative dress clinging to my ass.

“He took the bartender home.” Warner stares at me like that answer says it all. Finally, my blank look compels him to elaborate. “Guaranteed lay with no effort and no hassle. He obviously wanted something easy that night.”

I roll my eyes. “He definitely had that.” And I got an eyeful, making it home just in time to see her do a Full Monty sashay to the bedroom blinds to draw them. Months’ worth of surveillance—pictures, written reports, videos—mark Priscilla Grishin as Boone’s “go-to girl.” Nothing more, nothing less. They’re certainly not exclusive. “I’m just not sure this is going to work. I mean . . . these women . . .” I let my words drift off. These women, they’re not common prostitutes working to pay their rent, like the ones I normally deal with. Like the ones I’ve learned to emulate. These ones stalk through life with their stunning faces and perfect figures—either naturally granted or acquired with the help of a plastic surgeon—with the single goal of climbing the boyfriend ladder until they reach the top and become the wife of a rich husband who will cater to their every high-maintenance need.

They’re vapid.

Insecure.

Unkind.

I can’t stand their type. And I can’t stand the kind of guys who are attracted to them.

“These women ain’t got nothin’ on you, kid.” His eyes dip down to survey my body, which, while well cut from a strict gym regime, can’t possibly look appealing right now.

I smack his stomach, a smile creeping out from behind my frustrations. At thirty, FBI Special Agent Warner Briggs is what a lot of women look for in their ideal man. Tall, athletic build, dark hair, square jaw. As charming as a southern boy, though he grew up in South Boston. Extremely successful. The first day he was introduced to me as my handler and lead cover on this case, I’ll admit I took a second glance. He certainly did the same of me.

But I won’t let my career or my goals get derailed by flings with coworkers and I have no interest in dating another cop. That just has disaster written all over it. Female officers already have it hard enough, without adding on opportunities to be accused of sleeping our way to the top. Besides, Warner has quickly become a friend and sounding board. Something I need far more desperately than a good lay.

“Come on, Warner. Honestly, between you and me . . . what did they think was going to happen if I actually managed to grab 12’s attention? Look at his file!” I gesture at it. Three months of gathering intel on Luke Boone. Five one-night stands. Three overnight visits with his bartender. “The guy’s not looking for a wife. He’s not looking for romance, or even great conversation. He’s bringing them home for the one thing I won’t give him! They would have been better off with an informant for this. At least they’re not bound by the same rules.”

Warner barks out a laugh. “Come on, Clara! Sinclair’s not gonna use an informant for a role like this. They’re too unreliable. Winning this case will move him up in rank, and Sinclair’s all about rank.” He stretches an arm over the back of the couch in a playful way. “Don’t worry, you’ve got this. All you have to do is string twelve along. Let him think that he’s got a shot at you. That you’re special.”

“I am special,” I mutter, earning his snort. “But this isn’t a guy you can string along. He’s not into virginal girls and he’s not looking to make money off me.” In hindsight, how the Feds thought putting an undercover on this target with the hopes of luring him with mere words and seductive gestures is beyond me. Desperation—that’s the only explanation I can come up with. They have plenty of evidence at the low level but nothing connecting it all, nothing concrete enough to pull the entire organization down. Not to mention two failed efforts by undercover agents to gain a foothold into the top level, attempting to earn their trust and friendship.

Apparently, neither Rust Markov nor Luke Boone is interested in making new male friends. Female “friends,” however . . .

Warner shrugs. “You say whatever you need to say to hook him.”

I sigh, knowing that Warner’s not going to give me the satisfaction of agreeing. He’s 100 percent committed to the job. “Well, I can’t sit in that bar week after week. People are going to start noticing.”

“I’ll get the guys to rotate. Make it look like they’re hiring you for the night.”

I shake my head. “Too risky. None of the girls 12 takes home are escorts. That may turn him off.”

“Okay then . . .” He leans forward to scoop up the case files, tossing them onto my lap. “What’s gonna work? You’re the one with your neck on the line. You’re looking to go Fed. This is a big deal for you. So you tell me . . .” He stabs the stack of paper with his index finger. “What’s our next move, boss?”

That’s one of the things I like most about Warner. He could be an arrogant, condescending dick. The big-show FBI agent versus a mere metro cop pawn. But he’s been nothing but a team player from day one. In fact, he reminds me a lot of the guys I work with back home. A tight group who take every opportunity to joke around and let loose, knowing how much we all need the release from what we see in our day-to-day.

Sipping on my wine, I start flipping through the pages of candid shots. Luke Boone is a decidedly handsome target by anyone’s standards, with wavy caramel-brown hair that he styles in a sexy mop and clothing that’s tailored to a well-honed body, courtesy of daily jogs with his dog and workouts in his building’s gym.

Son of Oksana Boone, single mother to him and his younger sister, Ana Boone. Biological father’s whereabouts unknown.

Nephew of Rust Markov, who has raised him like a son, footing his tuition for a bachelor’s degree in business, followed by two years in a mechanics program. The nephew of a man pegged as the leader behind one of the West Coast’s biggest car theft rings by a confidential informant avoiding heroin-dealing charges. The nephew who seems glued to his uncle’s side, who is now stepping into a managerial role at one of Rust’s legitimate businesses—a car repair garage—and who lives in a million-dollar condo that his uncle gifted to him, either out of the goodness of his heart or to protect his assets.

The nephew who the Feds believe is being groomed to step into a leadership role in the car theft operation.

“Be thankful. He could have been your target.” Warner taps a shot of Rust Markov leaving his office one afternoon. A man I can’t wait to see stripped of his Versace suits and sleeping in a bunk bed behind bars for a very long time.

“Wouldn’t be the worst I’ve had.” At forty-five years old, Rust’s fit and by no means bad looking. Likes younger women, from what I know. “May have been easier.”

“No, it wouldn’t. 24’s smart. You need the dumb nephew. Kid’s too new. Get him comfortable, get him drunk . . . He’ll slip and, when he does, we’ve got him.”

“I just don’t know what the best way in is with this guy. I don’t think it’s the bar scene.”

Heaving himself off my couch, Warner strolls over to the kitchen to drop his empty on the counter. “We have a few more weeks before the warrant’s up. Sleep on it. We’ll regroup in the morning.”

“ ’kay. Night,” I call out as the condo door shuts. As tired as I am, I know that the stress of looming failure—of being sent back to D.C. to bust pimps and drug addicts—is going to keep me up. I’m half-tempted to drink wine until I pass out, but I’ll only feel worse tomorrow. Not that I have anywhere that I need to be.

So I start flipping through the case files, beginning to end, like I’ve done over a hundred times. Luke Boone’s schedule is pretty basic: he’s either at the garage, at a club with his uncle, working out, or “entertaining” one female or another. There have been no reports of him disappearing into warehouses or storefronts at erratic hours of the night. The team’s never lost track of him in the few hours per day that they’re on him. Unlike his Uncle Rust, who continuously slides through their surveillance detail like a bar of wet soap.

Frankly, there’s no solid evidence that Luke Boone has any involvement with this ring. Only speculation. Enough to get a sixty-day warrant from the judge. I need to spend time with him to get a better read. Surveillance tapes and reports give me only background. They help me to speculate about what he might respond best to.

So far, all of our speculations have been wrong.

Closing the file, I pack everything back up into the hidden safe and pull out my personal phone, checking it for any messages. My parents are aware that I’ll be away for an indefinite amount of time on a case. That’s all they know, though, and that’s all I can tell them. As far as my mother is concerned, I’m only ever sitting at a desk, working behind-the-scenes detail. If she knew what I was actually doing—the kind of danger I put myself in on a daily basis—she’d beg me to quit with tears in her eyes and Sicilian prayers rolling off her tongue.

If they could see me now . . . This loft is a far cry from the small, semi-detached house they’ve owned for the past thirty-one years, complete with the original stiff-backed floral couches and the large vegetable garden they tend to in the backyard. It’s nothing special, and yet it’s their dream come true after immigrating to America from a small town outside Palermo, Sicily, with nothing but one suitcase of clothes and my grandmother’s white linen tablecloth. It took almost ten years and at least four honest jobs between the two of them at all times—my mother in bakeries, my father as a janitor—to scrounge up enough money for the down payment.

My brother Dino, older than me by eleven years, remembers those years being tough. Socks with darned toes and jeans with patches in the knees, used toys for Christmas, summer vacations at local parks. Cold winters, to save on electric bills.

By the time I came along—an accident when my parents were in their mid-thirties—they were living in luxury by comparison.

Still, it’s nothing like what I’m living right now.

No calls from the family tonight, which doesn’t bother me. I talk to them enough. A few texts from my girlfriend Aubrey, telling me about the upcoming girls’ weekend that I won’t be going to because I’m 2,300 miles away. It bothers me a little bit but I’m used to it. I miss a lot of birthdays and holidays and getaways because of my job.

What I still haven’t gotten used to is not seeing a message from David, my latest ex-boyfriend. Nine months of messages all day—every day—until I came home with a black eye and busted lip from a takedown and he decided that he can’t handle being with a cop.

I really liked this one, too. I thought he might be different. Stronger.

I thought I’d prove my police college instructor and that author with her PhD label wrong. That keeping a relationship in this field isn’t as hard as they made it out to be. I still have that stupid paperback that they handed us in class, about loving a cop. It’s at home, collecting dust. At first I thought it was a joke, until I started flipping through the pages and digesting everything I should expect in the years to come. How the long shifts and overtime coupled with the daily hazards earn this field high divorce rates. How the things I see every day make it hard for me to carry on a normal dinner conversation. How I’ll have a difficult time meeting men to begin with because of all the trust issues I’ll develop, dealing with liars all day long. With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I pushed it off as a stereotype that wouldn’t fit me. I hoped that being aware of the challenges would prepare me enough to avoid them.

The dozen or so failed relationships since then have proven that little pocket book not so stupid after all.

My mentor—a staff sergeant in her early forties, who’s been divorced twice now—only validated it by warning me to expect a whole lot of heartbreak before I find the right relationship. If I ever do. Dating a female cop may be a fantasy involving handcuffs and wild sex, but marrying one isn’t a reality most guys can stomach. The day she told me that, three days after David ended things, I went home and cried into a bottle of red wine.

With one last gun check—a habit more than anything else—I lock everything back up into the safe and head for bed. My mind is still spinning, in search of the way into Luke Boone’s life. I have only a few shots at this before accidental run-ins become too much of a coincidence.

Another glimpse past my bedroom blinds finds him now stretched out on his back, a flurry of cars racing across his television screen. His arm is wrapped around his dog’s body, and he’s stroking its belly with slow, affectionate movements.

When I look at him, all I see is just another twenty-four-year-old guy. A guy I might meet at a party or at the club. A guy my friends and I would definitely notice, would probably drool over. Who I’d gladly give my number to. A guy I’d go home with if I had one too many drinks and needed a release.

A guy I wouldn’t believe could be involved in something that left two children without a father.

But that’s the thing with so many of the worst kinds of criminals. They don’t wear signs, they don’t don a uniform. They’re hiding in plain sight. It’s my job to reveal Luke for what he truly is, which will reveal the man we’re really after—his uncle.

But how?

Women. Dogs. Cars. Three things that seem to grab Luke’s attention.

I’m an attractive, smart, confident woman—you have to be both smart and confident in a job like mine or you could end up dead—so I have that going for me. You also have to be a little crazy, but I hide that well. Maybe the issue isn’t me; maybe it’s the surroundings.

I need to find a better place to meet. A place he can’t possibly miss me.

Yes.

I hit “one” on my phone’s speed dial. Warner picks up almost immediately.

“Hey, I think I have an idea.” I smile. “But it involves messing around with that beautiful car of mine.”