I should be wrapping this shit up quick, but for some odd reason, I feel drawn to talk to her.
"Is he really as much of an OCD douche as everyone claims he is?" I examine the flashy diamond ring still perched on her finger. No way in hell I'd ever be able to afford to give a woman something like that, well unless I stole it. Which is always a possibility.
"You have no idea." She leans against my truck, arms crossed. "Yesterday, I left a coffee mug on the counter without a coaster. He lectured me for twenty minutes about water rings and proper etiquette. Then reorganized the entire cabinet system."
"Sounds like a real piece of work."
"The man color-codes his sock drawer. By shade." She rolls her eyes. "And don't get me started on his tie collection. They're arranged by designer, then pattern, then year of purchase."
I fiddle with the drive in my pocket, already planning how to decrypt whatever's on it. "Speaking of his obsessive tendencies, we need eyes and ears in that office of his."
"You want me to plant surveillance equipment?" Her eyebrows shoot up. "That may be above my paygrade. Why can't you guys do it?"
"Think about it. If someone breaks in and installs cameras, what's the first thing your husband's gonna do?"
"Tear the whole place apart looking for them." She sighs, understanding dawning. "But if I do it..."
"He won't suspect a thing. You're the only one who can get in and out without raising suspicion." I pull out a small package from my jacket. "These are designed to look like ordinary office supplies. Even if he finds them, they'll just look like regular items."
"Great. Add 'Carmen Sandiago' to my resume, right between 'trophy wife' and 'professional smile-and-nod expert.'"
I pull the tiny device out of the bag, no bigger than a cufflink. "This camera's the size of your pinky nail. Just needs line of sight to his desk."
Tatum takes it, turning it over in her manicured hands. The parking lot's shadows play across her face as she examines it. "That's it?"
"What were you expecting? Some James Bond shit?"
"Kind of, yeah." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "So where exactly am I supposed to put this thing? The man's office is like a museum. Everything has its place."
I point to the lens. "Stick it anywhere that faces his desk. Bookshelf, picture frame, doesn't matter. Just make sure nothing blocks the view."
"Yeah, about that." She hands the device back, her expression tight. "He doesn't exactly let me in there. Like, ever.There was one time I went in to dust, and he lost his fucking mind."
"You'll have to find a way." I press the camera back into her palm. "Make something up. Spill coffee, create a distraction, I don't care. Just get it done."
"Fine." She slips the device into her purse. "I'll figure something out tomorrow. Maybe I'll knock over one of his precious awards. That'll get him out of there."
"Just don't get caught."
"I've been playing this game for years. If there's one thing I know how to do, it's act innocent." She pushes off from the truck.
"Text the burner phone when it's done. And remember?—"
"Yeah, yeah. Don't get caught. Trust me, getting caught is the least of my concerns. Getting through another dinner with him and his ego? That's what I'm worried about."
I watch her Mercedes disappear into the night. Something twists in my gut - an unfamiliar sensation that has nothing to do with the job at hand.
"Fuck," I mutter, running a hand over my face. Twelve years in this business, and I've never worried about a mark before. But there's something about Tatum that gets under my skin. Maybe it's the way she handles herself, throwing out witty comebacks while wearing those ridiculous heels. Or maybe it's knowing what that piece of shit husband puts her through.
My phone buzzes. Isaac.
"Yeah?"
"Boss wants an update on the senator's wife."
I lean back against my truck. "She delivered the drive. Gave her the camera too."
"You think she can handle it?"