Beneath the Surface by Cat Johnson Page A

will get me what I want in the back room plus some. Thanks.”
    Keeping his eyes on the stage, Rick asked, “Do you have what I want?”
    If this sleaze was willing to turn over information that could get him killed on the streets for the price of a few lap dances and an illegal blow job, or more likely a quick fuck in the private back room with one of these girls, who was Rick to argue?
    “Yup. Sure do. You ready for this? You ain’t gonna believe it.”
    Rick was in no mood for this guy’s big build up or guessing games. “Try me.”
    “Grand Central.”
    That revelation halted the drink in Rick’s hand halfway to his mouth. He lowered the glass, set it down gently, and fought to not look at his informant. He hated not being able to look into someone’s eyes. It was the best gauge he had to tell if they were lying. Rick tried to keep the shock out of his voice when he asked, “Grand Central, as in the train station?”
    “Yup.”
    “You sure?” He risked one quick glance now and saw the guy grin and nod.
    “Mmm hmm. One hundred percent.”
    Jesus Christ. Fucking Grand Central Terminal in the middle of God damn Manhattan. Rick rose from his seat. “Thanks.”
    He had barely cleared the exit before he pulled his cell phone out and had the numbers punched in. His contact answered on the first ring. Rick dispensed with the pleasantries and cut right to the chase.
    “Grand. Central. Station.” He said the three words slowly and clearly, letting each one and the ramifications resonate across the cellular airwaves.
    “Ah, shit.”
    Exactly. Right under their damn fucking noses.
     
     
    Beth Cooke slowed her pace and, smiling, gazed up at the constellations.
    Every time she saw them, they took her breath away. Even now, years later. It didn’t matter how long ago she had been employed to conserve the crowning glory of this illustrious historical New York City monument, its beauty would never cease to affect her. The Sky Ceiling above the Main Concourse at Grand Central Terminal was the highlight of all the tourist attractions in the city in her opinion, and she couldn’t help but consider it hers. Her sweat, her patience, her time—years of it—had brought it back to life.
    Someone whacked into Beth’s shoulder hard, pulling her out of her reverie while knocking her bag off of her shoulder. Frowning, she turned to her left and saw one of the many blue suited, cookie cutter businessmen who frequented the train station Monday through Friday.
    “Tourist,” he mumbled as he whizzed past. Phone pressed to his ear and frown firmly in place, he shot her another less than friendly look and kept walking down the ramp to the subway, weaving in and out to avoid another collision as he passed everyone in his path.
    Beth laughed at his comment. She was far from a tourist. She’d been born and raised in the city, the daughter of one of New York’s finest, but the rude man was correct about one thing—aside from Beth herself, only tourists bothered to take note of the beauty right beneath their noses. Or in this case, above their heads.
    She caught sight of a small girl dressed for a big day in the city in what was obviously her best party frock, gazing gape mouthed as her mother squatted beside her and pointed up at the magnificent painted constellations. The scene reconfirmed Beth’s knowledge that all of the hours of painstaking cleaning and conservation of the terminal’s zodiac ceiling had been well worth it.
    Planting her large leather satchel firmly back onto her shoulder, Beth turned to head for the terminal’s administrative offices for another day of the work she loved…until she felt a strange sensation. Turning, she caught sight of a man near the information booth, a train schedule open in his hand, but his eyes on her. Caught staring, he smiled and dropped his gaze back to the schedule.
    She smiled herself, and felt her cheeks heat as she yanked her attention away. The interns she worked with were