Page 63 of The Santa Claus Con

“Gemstone identification and sleight of hand.”

She nods. “So how can I be sure this isn’t a real sapphire?”

“Only the best fakes for you, darling. You’re here to keep an eye on things, record anything you see that might be helpful as evidence in court. It’s practically a night off for you,” I reluctantly remind her.

I get a glare so deadly from Scarlett that I swerve the car.

“If I wanted a night off in Maui, it wouldn’t look like what we’re about to do,” she says.

I watch the clock and my speed. We need to be at the harbor in less than twenty minutes. We should’ve been here yesterday. But because of the last-minute agent switch-out, bad weather, even more flight delays today, and an outfit change, we’re cutting it way too close.

“What would a night off in Maui look like for you?” I ask, trying not to think about how late we are.

“Since you asked…” She shifts in her seat to face me more. “A sunset snorkel followed by dinner on the beach with candles all over and a tropical drink. Something with pineapple. Cliché? Maybe. Romantic? As hell.” She runs a finger over her painted red nails. “What? Didn’t think I’m a romantic?”

I feel a half-grin form. “Didn’t think of you as a pineapple person.”

Scarlett laughs. If we weren’t about to board a sunset cocktail cruise with dozens of suspects connected to our years-long investigation, and if the FBI wasn’t at the ready to arrest the bad guys on board after I do one final exchange, it would maybe feel like Scarlett and I were on a vacation of our own. After years of undercover work and having to try so hard to stay away from Scarlett to protect her, I might finally feel free again. I might find peace with everything I’ve had to pretend to believe. With who I’ve had to become.

For Scarlett and me, though, it wouldn’t be the finale. It’d be a beginning. But tonight isn’t a real date. It’s a planned operation. And if it weren’t for her damn dress, that might be easier to remember.

“So everyone thinks we’re going to a birthday party?” she asks.

“A Christmas-themed birthday party for the boss. She goes by Bijoux. She loves celebrating both. Since it’s the big five-oh, Hawk was able to convince her to have a destination party. Hard to say no to that.”

Scarlett looks doubtful. “When you’re a crime boss, I’m sure it’s not hard to say no to anything.”

“True.”

“So Hawk will be here, then,” she says. “If he makes another bell comment, I can’t be held responsible for him ending up in the ocean.”

“The last thing we need is for you to make a scene. And for us to lose an informant,” I say. “You know how difficult it was to get these people in one place? It took months to convince the whole group and to coordinate schedules.”

“I’ll play the hell out of this girlfriend role, then.”

“The crew and servers are all undercover agents. And there will be other plus-ones there.”

“Arresting everyone in front of their friends and family? This’ll be fun,” she says, heavy on the sarcasm. The arrests are one of the most exciting parts of the job. It’s what we’ve worked for, finally nailing the bad guys. But having to do it in front of loved ones isn’t something anyone finds truly entertaining, even when it is the most efficient scheme.

“If it makes you feel any better, they’re all going to be fingerprinted,” I say.

Six months ago, invitations were sent out to everybody involved in the organization we’ve been tracking for the better part of a decade. Bijoux’s birthday was coming up, so what a great time to get together to celebrate. Courtesy of the FBI, of course.

Within this group, I’ve “stolen” jewelry (provided by the FBI) and am now a fence, taking the stolen jewels others bring me and reselling them (entering the stolen jewels into evidence and giving my “bosses” cash from the FBI). The backstopping to create my credible cover story was thorough. The FBI created an LLC for my fencing business, leased real estate for my storefront, and set me up with enough identification and paperwork in case I needed to prove myself.

Tonight, I’m boarding the sunset cruise with a gift full of FBI money for having “sold” Icicle, a six-figure, white-gold and diamond necklace with intricate “icicles” dripping down. With 224 brilliant-cut diamonds totaling 14 carats, it’s one hell of an expensive necklace. And one of its kind.

The plan is straightforward: give Bijoux the money I “made” from selling Icicle, catch the exchange on my embedded mic and on Scarlett’s necklace camera. Maybe even eat some birthday cake if there’s time. Bijoux’s security would never have allowed her on board without searching the boat for hidden surveillance cameras, so we couldn’t go that route. Bijoux will think she’s going to be free and clear to take the money to a new city to launder. Once the boat’s docked, though, FBI agents will appear with a trunkful of handcuffs.

“So the Icicle necklace is just sitting in the FBI evidence vault?” Scarlett asks.

“For now. It’ll be returned to its rightful owner as soon as it makes sense,” I say. “But we have to make this case first.”

Scarlett taps the clock in the dashboard. “Then we need to be there, like, now.”

“Helpful.”

She pulls up the map on her phone. “There’s a bypass. It literally goes past the congested areas.”