His phone rang just as he was tucking it back into his coat. He saw that it was his brother, Matt, and answered. “I had a feeling you’d call.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re a douchebag?”

Nick grinned at the inside joke. Back when he and his brothers were younger, they’d once gotten carried away and “accidentally” tossed three footballs through Tommy Angolini’s second-floor apartment windows after he’d claimed during recess that Scottish douchebags couldn’t throw for shit. Tommy had been wrong on two counts: first, in not knowing that they were only half-Scottish douchebags, and second, in doubting the athletic prowess of the McCall brothers.

Not surprisingly, that bit of good-natured fun had put an end to any trash talk from Tommy Angolini, but also had royally pissed off their father. A sergeant on the NYPD at the time, he had rounded up Nick and his brothers, brought them down to the Sixty-third Precinct, and locked them up in an empty jail cell.

For six hours.

Needless to say, after that the McCall brothers had all developed a healthy appreciation for the benefits of being lawabiding ten-, nine-, and seven-year-olds. The only person more traumatized by the lockup had been their mother, who’d spent the six hours crying, refusing to speak to their father, and making lasagna and cannoli—three helpings of which she’d practically force-fed each of her sons immediately upon their homecoming from the Big House.

“The last person who called me that watched while three footballs crashed through his living room windows,” Nick said.

“Seeing how you can’t seem to find your way to New York to save your life, I’m not too worried,” Matt shot back. “You’d better be saving the world from a biological weapons attack or foiling a plot to assassinate the president.”

“Nope. That’s next week’s agenda.”

“Seriously, Nick—you couldn’t even make it to Ma’s party? We’ve been planning this for months.”

Feeling like a major ass**le, Nick distracted himself by looking out the rear window of the cab and keeping an eye out to see if he was being followed. “I know. But something came up that made leaving impossible. I’ll figure out some way to make it up to Ma. How bad is she taking it?”

“She says she’s not FedEx-ing you any more arrabiatta sauce,” Matt said.

Nick whistled. His mother had to be really pissed if she was threatening to cut off food. “That is bad.”

“Unless you suddenly announce you’ve got a girlfriend or you’re getting married or something, I think you’re going to be on her shit list for a while.” Matt chuckled. Being the middle child and peacemaker of the family, he didn’t hold grudges for long. “She’s getting crazy with this grandchildren stuff, you know. If I so much as mention that I’m having drinks with a woman, she’s on the phone with Father Tom, asking what days the church has free for a wedding.”

“Unfortunately, there’s no imminent announcement on my end, so I’ll be in the doghouse for a while.” Nick oddly caught himself wondering what his mother would think of Jordan. Tough to say whether the billion-dollar inheritance or the convicted felon of a brother would freak her out more. Not that it mattered. “I’m planning to come out there as soon as I finish this project with work. If Ma won’t let me in the door, think I can crash with you?”

“Sure. And don’t worry about Ma,” Matt said. “I’ll tell her there’s a new cute assistant DA that I ran into at the station. That should distract her for a while from your sorry-ass excuse for a son.”

“Thanks. And out of curiosity, did you actually run into a new cute assistant DA?”

His brother sounded sly. “Better than cute. You know I’m a sucker for a woman in high heels and a power suit. Hey—Anthony wants to talk to you next. Here he is.”

Nick heard muffled sounds as Matt handed the phone over, then his youngest brother came onto the line.

“Hey—anyone ever tell you that you’re a douchebag?”

And so it went.

Sixteen

AFTER THE EXCITEMENT of the weekend, it felt strange for Jordan to return to her normal routine on Monday. All day at the store she was on edge, waiting for something to happen, some problematic development in the case: Xander had discovered the recording devices in his office; Mercks had clued in to Nick’s real identity; the FBI, for whatever reason, had decided to call the whole thing off.

It didn’t happen.

By Tuesday night, it was fair to say that she was essentially back to her normal routine, with one notable addition: Nick called to check in every night at nine thirty when she got home from DeVine Cellars. Through him, she learned that Xander and Trilani had met that morning, which meant first and foremost that Xander wasn’t suspicious—yet—and second, that the FBI was on their way to getting the evidence they needed to make the arrests.

“If this keeps up, you won’t be stuck with me for long,” Nick said teasingly. Then, for the third evening in a row, he asked if she had noticed anything unusual during the day.

“You keep asking that,” Jordan said. “Trust me, you’ll be the first person I call if anything seems out of the ordinary. I have no lofty ambitions of being a hero in all this.”

“Just keeping an eye on you, Rhodes.”

The next day, Jordan fought the downtown traffic and headed back to MCC. So much for last week having been my final visit, she thought as she rode up the elevator.