“No way. Speaking of which, did you find anything out?”

“I’m meeting with a guy tonight. He’s with the local FBI.”

The FBI? Wow.

“You just have to stay out of trouble until then, capisce?”

“Got it. If there’s anything I can do, it’s stay out of trouble.”

I hurried to get the sandwiches, paid for them with my tip money, then headed out the front door and straight toward trouble.

Mr. Vandenberg’s door was locked, and the sign had been turned to CLOSED a few minutes earlier than he normally quit for the day. I cupped my hand and peered in the glass door. The store was empty, and all the lights were out. Alarm and a sickening sense of dread rose inside me. What if they were finished with him? What if they didn’t need him or his family anymore? Would they kill them?

I had no choice. I was going to have to bring Ian into this. To tell him what was going on. He might not believe the whys or hows, but he would have to report it to his superior officers. I’d just drive home ad nauseam the fact that they could not go rushing in without knowing the whereabouts of Mr. V’s family first. If they were being held captive and someone tipped off their captors…

I shuddered with the thought and turned my immediate attention to the dry-cleaning business next door – and grew more confused than ever. If the men in Mr. V’s shop were tunneling that direction, maybe it had nothing to do with the business. Maybe there was hidden treasure under the shop. It was an antiques place, after all. It could have pirate loot underneath it. Because why on planet Earth would anyone dig a tunnel into a dry-cleaning business? What could they possibly hope to gain? A dinner jacket? A prom dress, maybe? Window treatments?

I decided to go deep. I’d pose as a customer and check it out. Get a feel for the place.

By the time I walked the fifteen feet to the store entrance, I was already shivering. The jacket I had, the only one I owned, was an old army jacket, and while it was plenty warm most days, today was not most days. The wind crept through the pores of the fabric and sliced into me like razor blades, cutting the marrow of my bones. The wet air hung thickly, and the threat of a freezing rain loomed close by.

I’d have to hurry if I planned on making it home before I froze to death, but more importantly, in time to borrow Mable’s car. She was my neighbor, and she hadn’t had an actual license in over a decade, but she’d kept her husband’s car to drive to church twice a week. Unfortunately, she went to bed early, and once that woman was asleep, there was no waking her up.

After checking the dry cleaner’s hours, I pushed open the door. No bell chimed to announce my visit, so I cased the joint while I had the chance. It looked completely legit. Then again, so did that Louis Vuitton I bought off a man named Scooter in the Walmart parking lot. Not to mention the Rolex.

Plastic-covered clothes hung on an automated rack behind the front desk. Not a lot, but enough to look believable. A cash register with tickets piled beside it sat on the desk along with a cup for pens. A framed business license hung on the wall to my right, and a huge man sat in a padded red chair on my left.

I jumped when I noticed him, wondering why he wasn’t the first thing I noticed when I walked in. He had biceps the size of my waist.

He folded a paper he was reading and stood. His muscles were so big, he was unable to drop his arms at his sides, and I wondered how on earth he wiped after going number two. It was wrong of me, but still…

He walked around the desk and pinned me with a set of cool gray eyes. We stood in uncomfortable silence for, like, ever. The dark hair that had been sheared short all over his head topped off a rather menacing look, mostly because he was glaring at me from underneath it.

Just as I was about to speak, he asked in a thick Russian accent, “Vy you are here?”

Odd way to greet a potential customer. If his attitude didn’t change lickety-split, I was so giving this place a negative review on Yelp.

“I – I need something dry cleaned.”

A woman came up then, older than the man and a lot shorter though no less stout. “Vy you are here?” she asked me in the same thick accent.

What the hell? I glanced around again just to make sure I’d come into an actual business. Yep. They had a sign and everything. I turned back to her. “I need something dry-cleaned.”

“Vat?” she asked, shooing the man aside. But I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I needed something to dry-clean and fast, but the only thing I could take off without making Schwarzenegger think I was desperate for a man was my coat. My warm, plush coat that a nice homeless lady gave me when I offered her a lap dance.

It wasn’t as bad as it sounded. I was looking for a second job and needed an opinion.

A cold wind rushed up my backside as two men walked in. They stood behind me, speaking softly to one another. I chanced a glance over my shoulder. They wore expensive charcoal suits, and one carried a leather briefcase and a ticket stub. He nodded to his comrade, then spoke to the woman, his tone brusque, and I fought to keep my eyes from rounding.

He spoke in Russian. Russian! And I understood every word, which was basically “Vy she is here?”

I stood stunned. Eight. I knew eight languages. I was a freaking genius. I couldn’t wait to tell Cookie. Seriously, who speaks eight languages? I suddenly wondered if I knew more. Maybe I knew Icelandic or Arabic or Swahili.

I turned to the man and asked, “Do you speak Swahili?”

He glared. I took that as a no and faced the woman again.

“Let me have,” she said, snapping her fingers at me.

With a heavy sigh, I peeled off the coat and handed it to her. She took it and looked it over, then asked, “You need mending?”

I most definitely needed mending. My coat, not so much.

The men behind me were inching closer, showing their impatience by trying to intimidate me. Sadly, they didn’t have to try very hard. I was ready to sprint out of there.

Instead, I stepped closer to the counter, hinting that my personal boundary was being invaded.

When they kept back, I said, “No mending. Just a cleaning.”

“You are stained?” She was still studying the coat, but I was beginning to wonder if she wasn’t really talking about me.

“No stains.” Not visible ones, anyway.

“Today,” she said, tearing off a ticket and shoving it into my hand.

“Today?” I was impressed. It was already late.

“Two day,” she said louder, holding up two fingers.

“Oh, right. Okay, thanks.” I turned to leave but was blocked in by the Wall Street boys. “Excuse me.”

The one in front moved ever so slightly to the side, giving me just enough room to squeeze past. He spoke Russian to his friend again, and I almost told him exactly how impudent zees Americans could be. The nerve.

The cold!

A freezing gust slapped me in the face when I walked out. Not just chilly. Not just frigid. An eighty-below gust of sleet-infused wind scraped across my exposed skin. I had a thick sweater at home that would have to hold me over until I could get my coat back. If I made it that far.

I crossed my arms over my chest, tucking the bag of sandwiches under one arm, then hurried down the sidewalk. I only lived two blocks away, but in this weather, it would be a long two blocks. And it had all been for naught. I now had neither a coat nor answers. I asked myself for the thousandth time why anyone would tunnel into a dry-cleaning business.