The Grifter
Chapter 2

Francesca Rossi had been brash since birth. This was, according to her mamma, as indisputable as it was literal. Her Sicilian-born mother would tell anyone with ears the story of how Frankie had arrived a full two weeks before her due date, with neither the patience nor restraint to wait for the luxury of a hospital. Instead, Frankie had made her world debut in a post office lobby, perfectly healthy and squalling like a tempest as the postmaster himself had wrapped her in a sweater and called for an ambulance. She’d spent the next thirty-four years in various states of heedless and headstrong, but as she stood on the threshold of the Intelligence Unit’s main office, she had to admit it.

Coming back to Remington eight years after she’d left with her life—and shoulder—in shreds, to work with the one man she’d sworn she’d never see again?

This was ballsy, even for her. But if there was one skill Frankie possessed above all others, it was how to muscle through bad shit. She was a f*****g boss at survival.

No matter how hard it was, or how much it hurt.

“Sergeant Sinclair,” Frankie said, forcing herself to focus on the man she’d met about an hour ago. His tolerance for bullsh!t seemed pretty low, which she appreciated, although his tolerance for outsiders seemed only a notch above that. She got it—cops were a proprietary lot, and her desire to see this case through was a prime example. But Frankie didn’t care if she had to go to Timbuk-f*****g-tu to nail Sebastian Beck for what he’d done.

She wanted his head on a dinner platter, but she’d settle for his a*ss in jail for the next fifty years.

Frankie walked into the Intelligence office, her head high even though her heart climbed farther up her throat with every step. Sinclair had asked her for a few minutes with his unit before he brought her in, which was a-okay with her. She’d needed that long to calm the squadron of butterflies in her chest. He hadn’t mentioned her connection with Shawn in the thirty minutes they’d talked this morning, which meant Shawn hadn’t mentioned it to him. Not a shocker, really—Shawn wasn’t exactly a share-your-feelings-by-the-campfire kind of guy. Or, at least, he hadn’t been. She didn’t know him now, any more than he knew her. Hiding shit wasn’t exactly her MO, but if he wanted to pretend to be strangers, fine by her. She was here to do a job, not take a hop-skip down Memory Lane.

Frankie! Frankie! Jesus, baby, hold on, you hear me? I’m here…

“Detective Rossi,” Sinclair said, his sandpaper voice depositing her back in the Intelligence office in a blink. “Perfect timing. I was just getting the team up to speed on the case.”

Although she saw Shawn out of the corner of one eye and felt his presence at her nine—two years of being partners left some things ingrained forever—she kept her gaze trained on Sinclair. “Great. I’m looking forward to getting started.”

Gesturing to the group assembled at their respective desks, Sinclair dove into introductions, even though Frankie had done her homework on all the detectives in the unit the minute her sergeant had signed off on the deal two days ago. “These are Detectives Isabella Walker and Liam Hollister, and our tech and surveillance expert, James Capelli.”

Kicka*ss track record, reputation as the hardest to ruffle, and eidetic memory. Check, check, check. “Nice to meet you,” Frankie said.

“You, too, Detective Rossi,” Capelli said, and at that, she managed a soft laugh. She’d been bucking tradition her entire life. While most cops went by their last names, she’d always preferred the reverse.

“Frankie, please. Detective Rossi makes me feel like I’m either in court or in trouble with my sergeant.”

“Do you get in trouble with your sergeant a lot?” Hollister asked, with enough of a smile to take any bite from the question.

She mirrored his expression before saying, “Only enough to keep things exciting.”

Walker laughed out loud. “You’ll fit in around here just fine. I go by Isabella, mostly, myself.”

“Noted,” Frankie said.

Sinclair kept moving on the intros, and Frankie forced herself into as much calm as she could muster even though her pulse was now a live wire, fast and insistent in her ears.

“Detectives Matteo Garza and Addison Hale,” he said, pausing for the two detectives to lift their chins in greeting. Tough nut to crack and nicest person you’ll ever meet. Check and check.

“And our undercover point man, Detective Shawn Maxwell.”

Smokin’ hot ex-partner who once watched me bleed out on the floor.

Sooooo much check.

Frankie had the span of a breath to take in the new version of the Shawn she’d once known. Larger, leaner muscles pressed hard against his navy blue T-shirt. Elaborately swirled tattoos covering both arms down to his wrists. The shadow of dark hair that was longer in her memory, now shaved tight to his scalp in a skull trim. Stainless steel hoop hugging one earlobe. Jaw so chiseled, Michelangelo would’ve spit with envy.

Dark blue eyes like a one-way mirror, lasering right through her while showing her exactly nothing in return, and damn it. Damn it, she knew exactly what he saw.

Stabbing victim, recovering addict, woman I couldn’t save.

“Right!” Frankie said, her voice over-bright and chirpy, and shit, she was so bad at masking her feelings. “So, it’s great to be here.” Awesome, now she was lying, too. “I’m definitely looking forward to sending Beck to prison for the rest of his miserable life.” Now that was accurate.

“You’ve been building a case against him for a while now, huh?” Hale asked, and Frankie didn’t wait to dive headfirst into the distraction.

“Four months, nineteen days, and”—she flipped her wrist up to look at her watch—“two hours, actually.”

“That is oddly specific,” Capelli said, although he didn’t look mad about it.

“Let’s just say I’m dedicated,” Frankie replied, although, of course, there was so much more to that particular ditty. “Sebastian Beck is responsible for one of the biggest heroin rings in Atlanta, but we’ve also got him unofficially on the hook for about a dozen weapons charges, a handful of aggravated assaults, and at least three murders. And that doesn’t include the thirty-two people who OD’d this year alone on the batches of heroin he laced with fentanyl just for kicks.”

Hollister’s auburn brows winged upward. “That’s diabolical.”

“That’s Beck,” Frankie corrected. “You know how sharks have that ruthless, almost dead look in their eyes, even when they’re ripping something to shreds and bleeding it lifeless?”

“Sure.” Garza nodded, and Isabella and Hale joined in.

Frankie said, “Yeah, well, those sharks learned it from Sebastian Beck.”

“All due respect, but four months is a long time to be chasing a case.”

Funny how even after eight years, she recognized the cadence of Shawn’s voice like her own heartbeat. Which meant she knew exactly what he was saying without saying it. “You’re asking why the APD hasn’t arrested him yet. Specifically, why I haven’t arrested him after this long.”

Sinclair had the smarts to try and temper the situation. “I think what Detective Maxwell is asking—”

“No, it’s fine.” Frankie realized she’d cut the man off only after the words were out, and judging by the oh shit plastered to everyone’s faces (well, everyone’s except for Shawn’s because he was about as readable as a brick wall), she’d overstepped. “I mean, it’s a valid question, given that I’m barging in here, asking for your resources,” she said by way of damage control. “And the answer is that he’s as smart as he is mean. I’ve got a truckload of intel on him. It’d take an entire ream of paper to print out everything I’ve learned in the last four months. But what I know and what I can legally prove are two very different things. Nothing sticks. In fact, nothing even comes close. CIs won’t talk. And none of the low-level dealers my unit has popped will flip on him.”

Surprise streaked across Isabella’s face. “How many have you tried?” she asked.

It was a fair question. Of course, it had a shit answer.

“Six. Each of them with far better offers than they deserved. Five took the full ride anyway.”

One of Shawn’s black brows edged a fraction higher than the other. “What about the sixth?”

Frankie arched a brow right back. “We got close. But Beck found out the guy was thinking about it and beat him to death with a tire iron as soon as he made bail. And that was after he killed the dealer’s wife, too. So, yeah. Let’s just say, nobody double crosses him.”

“So, getting inside is the only way we can nail this guy,” Sinclair said.

“Looks like it,” Frankie agreed, her pulse escalating at the thought. “Although, I should warn you that Atlanta’s Intelligence Unit has tried—hard—and been totally stonewalled. They couldn’t even get a meeting, let alone get in. Beck chooses his contacts and business associates with care that borders on paranoia, and he’s very particular about when and where he shows his face. It’s not often.”

“Seems to work for him, since he hasn’t been caught,” Hollister said, and Frankie nodded.

“Exactly. But now that he’s expanding his business, he’s not going to have a choice but to bring in at least a few new people. He needs local dealers to move his product. It gives us the perfect opportunity to try and fall in with him. If we can get him to bite.”

“Right.” Shawn kept his stare on his sergeant and his expression notched firmly in nothing-to-see-here mode. “I’ll have to play the long game once I’m undercover. It sounds like I’m not going to be able to gain Beck’s trust easily. But that’s—”

“Sorry, hold up,” Frankie said, and yep, her interruption game was strong today. But no way was she hearing properly. “Don’t you mean, we?”

“We, what?” Shawn asked, frowning in confusion.

“We aren’t going to be able to gain his trust easily. I’m going undercover with you.”

Something flickered deep in Shawn’s eyes, there and then gone, like a lighter snick that hadn’t caught flame. “No, you’re not.”

The words were serrated and immovable and Frankie didn’t care. “Yes, I am. I’ve studied this guy for months. I’ve tracked him. Memorized his habits and patterns. I’m pretty much the Beck Whisperer. I know everything there is to know about him.”

Including how many lives he’d destroyed by putting his shitty product on the street. Lives of people who had been struggling. Hurting. Fighting their demons in a dark, scary arena, just as Frankie once had, just as she still did every day because addiction was never cured no matter how long you’d been in recovery, and no way, no f*****g way was she not going to be the one to bring this guy down.

She owed Valerie more than that.

“You’ve been gathering intel on him for four months,” Shawn pointed out. “I’m not going into the field with you if there’s a chance your cover is blown before we start.”

What kind of amateur did he think she was? “If my cover was blown, I’d have led with that. I have been a cop for over a decade, thanks. For the record, I’ve never been face-to-face with Beck, or anyone in his crew other than the low-level dealers who are all now in prison. Funny, he doesn’t visit.”

No emotion passed over Shawn’s gorgeous face at her rebuttal. “Okay, then. How much undercover experience do you have?” he asked, in a tone that suggested he knew the answer and wasn’t going to hesitate to use it against her.

Still, Frankie didn’t falter. “Not a ton. My division usually defers long-term UC jobs to either Atlanta Intelligence or the DEA. But I’m not entirely green, and I’m good police. Which I’m guessing you already know, because I’m sure you’ve done your homework.”

Shawn’s expression didn’t move, but both Capelli’s and Sinclair’s rippled enough to tell her she was right. “More importantly, you need me. You’re never going to get close to Beck without what I know.”

“I know how to study case notes,” Shawn said through his teeth, and Frankie fought a laugh that was far from joyful.

“I’d hope so. But I’m not talking about what’s in the case file. I’m talking about reading Beck in a given situation. This guy isn’t just vigilant, he’s a vault, and one wrong move, even a small one, is going to kill this entire op, not to mention, you. I’m not willing to risk this case going to shit over the fact that you don’t want to play nice. You don’t have to like me,” Frankie said, her throat betraying her voice with a waver. “But I’ve done my homework, too, Detective Maxwell. I know you’re smart enough to know I’m right, here. If you want to earn Beck’s trust enough to bring him down, you need me in the field with you.”

Shawn paused, but only for the span of a heartbeat. “Going undercover on a case like this isn’t just some walk in the park. You and I would have to spend hours together just to lay the ground rules and learn how the other operates. It would take too long.”

Was he kidding her right now? They’d been partners for two freaking years. But since airing that little gem probably wouldn’t get her what she wanted, Frankie went with what would. “I’m not shy about hard work. My record speaks to that, but in case you need to hear it out loud, you’re welcome to ask around. My boss, Captain Grace Cho, would be happy to back it up.”

For just a beat, Shawn looked like he’d argue. But then, any emotion that might’ve passed through his stare disappeared as if he’d thrown a switch, replaced by chilly indifference as he shrugged. “I just want to do my job. I normally go undercover alone, so, for the record, I think changing the way we do that is a bad idea. But it’s not really up to either of us.”

A hiccup of surprise kicked Frankie—hard—in the ribs. But she was fast on her feet, and, like Shawn, she could strategize on the fly, even if she did hate change.

She turned toward Sinclair. “I’m prepared to do whatever’s necessary to go into the field safely, Sergeant. I don’t have any desire to jeopardize my life or anyone else’s.” Been there, done that. Bought the f*****g T-shirt. “But, with all due respect, sir, if you don’t put me undercover, we’re not going to break this case. Beck will test us every step of the way before he lets us get within a nautical mile of his dirty work. No cops have ever come close. I’m the only one who knows him well enough to be the first.”

For five seconds that felt like a century, Sinclair was absolutely quiet, splitting his stare between her and Shawn. Finally, he said, “Detective Rossi is right. We have to do this right if we want to nail Beck, and we’ll need a few days to get a strategy and aliases in place, anyway.” He looked at Shawn, who was still impersonating an iceberg. “You are going to have to get to know each other in order to work well together. I’m not about to have either one of you in danger over any miscommunication. You’re also going to have to play nicely together”—this, he aimed directly at Frankie, and yeah, she probably deserved it—“because I won’t hesitate to pull whichever one of you doesn’t. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Frankie said, her voice layering over Shawn’s as he said the same.

Sinclair nodded. “Good. Hale, you and Garza reach out to our Vice Unit and see if they have anything on Landowski’s latest adventures. It’ll give us a good place to start. Isabella and Hollister, you two start talking up your CIs. Capelli, get started on covers for Maxwell and Rossi. I want everything airtight. And you two.” He turned to give Frankie a look that brooked no argument before shifting the same look to Shawn. “Get started. Beck’s going to be hard to crack, and I’m going to need your best. The faster you learn to trust each other, the faster we get to catch this guy.”

Frankie realized—too late, naturally—the consequences of shooting her mouth off like a two-dollar pistol. Yes, she was getting what she wanted; namely, a lead role in bringing Beck down, once and for all. But Sinclair was right.

There wasn’t any room for error with a killer like Beck. She was going to have to trust Shawn and get him to trust her, and that meant a whole bucketload of show-and-tell she hadn’t necessarily been prepared for.

Frankie thought of Val’s body, limp and lifeless on the cold bathroom tile as the younger woman’s ribs had cracked under the pressure of the CPR Frankie had done for twelve excruciating minutes, waiting for an ambulance to come. One bad decision, one really shitty day, one missed meeting with her sponsor, Bailey, and that could’ve been Frankie. She’d do anything to get Sebastian Beck off the street and behind bars.

Including work side by side with silent, se*xy Shawn Maxwell.

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” Frankie said, leveling a smile at her new partner. “Let’s get to know each other.”