Page 38 of Once Upon a Lie

I nod. “On it.”

He stands, straightens his cuffs, and gives a dry half smile that never reaches his eyes. “You’re a cop, Maddox. You know what it looks like when someone’s in the dark. Don’t mistake innocence for ignorance.”

I nod. “Understood.”

“Keep me posted,” he says, and walks out, leaving the smell of burned coffee and quiet pressure in his wake.

When the door shuts, I let out a slow breath.

Two weeks undercover, and all I’ve got is a nickname, two baristas, a note signed Love, Alfred, and an inappropriate observation of how fucking pretty Valentina Cordone is.

Not exactly the kind of progress report that inspires confidence.

Time to get to fucking work, Maddox, or else you’re going to go down in history as the Feds’ worst local law partner ever.

Stakeouts always sound better on paper.

In practice, they’re 99 percent boredom, 9 percent caffeine abuse, and 1 percent moments where you find a glimpse of what you’re looking for.

They’re long and tedious and not at all like you see in the movies.

I’m parked near The Hole Story in a nondescript sedan I got from a rental company that smells faintly of cheese fries and stale farts from the last guy who used it. I’ve got the windows cracked, ball cap pulled low, and sunglasses on even though it’s cloudy. This is the classic “blend in” look, and if I could float above my body to get a look at myself somehow, I’d laugh.

But desperate times call for desperate measures, and if I don’t put myself on Valentina’s real radar soon, Stoneface Mike is gonna blast my ass right off the map.

Across the street, Teeny moves through the morning rush with the kind of rhythm you can’t fake. She’s fast, focused, and efficient—a beautiful woman juggling a dozen moving parts and making it look effortless. She’s the fucking opposite of someone you’d picture involved in international arms dealing in every way shape and form, but with the shit I’ve seen over the years as a detective—and a cold warning from Mike—I know better than to judge a book by its cover.

She might be sweet as sugar and beautiful as sin on the surface, but for all I know, she’s got fucking AK-47s in the walk-in fridge of her shop, ready to be transported by some mules.

Even though it’s all tedious and boring as fuck, I jot down the details of the morning in my notepad anyway, just in case there’s something there.

07:00: Unlocks front door. Puts on neon pink open sign.

07:03: Appears to be dancing to music while she sets out bagels.

07:05: Greets first customer. Smiles. Friendly.

07:25: Does absolutely nothing illegal.

Thrilling stuff.

A delivery truck pulls up, and flour sacks are unloaded and carried into her shop.

She thanks the driver, signs whatever receipt he shows her on an iPad before adjusting the strap of her flowery apron and heading back inside her store.

More and more customers show up for bagels as the clock ticks on, and Valentina works her ass off, wiping counters and calling out drink orders while her employees chatter around her. Sunnie and Cher bounce around like human espresso shots making drinks and shit, and I fall into the trap of bouncing my knee in an involuntary attempt to join in with them.

She’s infectious. Simple. Joyful. Beautiful. Just a woman running a bagel shop. Just a daughter living her own life.

But there’s no just when it comes to Tommy Cordone. I flip the notepad closed and sink deeper in my seat.

Love, Alfred. The words from the card loop through my head.

Could be nothing. Could be everything.

Either way, I’m feeling very invested in finding out everything I can about the mystery man in her life.

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