Caught

by Tessa Vidal

  And it wasn't my real phone. It was the stupid-ass burner Matt gave me. Evidently, he'd never heard of the concept of beauty sleep.

  Draco: You're being watched by a joint task force. NOPD & FBI.

  Draco was Matt Dauphin's cutesy alias. Burner or no burner, he didn't want his real name in a phone I touched. Bastard.

  Me: Understood.

  Draco: If LEO picks up the target first, they're arresting Malory second.

  As if I needed the threat spelled out for me.

  Me: Understood.

  Draco: Find her. ASAP. Text back at this number the second the meet is in place.

  Me: Got it.

  There were no further messages, but I was fully awake. “What am I going to do, baby?” I buried my face in Yukon's warm floof. “I have to draw her in without getting picked up by the cops, and then we have to stop him from hurting us anymore.”

  He snuggled against me in perfect trust. He was trained, and I knew he was prepared to defend me if I gave him the signal, but Special Agent in Charge Dauphin was guaranteed to be armed. Everything I knew about firing guns came from working in the movies, so Ronnie's Glock was useless to me.

  But it wouldn't be useless to her.

  And she could get it off me without being seen. She'd demonstrated those skills on our very first day. What was her street name? Something silly. I'd heard it again from Sims and my private investigators a time or two.

  Kittycat. No. Kitty Kait.

  Kitty Kait had magic in her hands.

  “You know what's funny?” I said to Yukon.

  He snuffled at me.

  “I can't trust anybody, but I trust her. I trust her to figure it out. I trust her more every day.” I snuffled too, although I refused to fucking cry. “It's me I don't trust. What if I fuck this up? I'm just a pretty face, just an actor. Do I have what it takes to get away with something like this?”

  Dauphin was playing on my emotions to get to Ronnie because he thought I was scared.

  It wasn't such a bad thought. Because I was scared.

  I was terrified.

  OTHERS MIGHT CONSIDER him a pretty ex-model, but Taylor considered himself a deep, brooding soul. And where better to brood than a city where the bars never close? He was in the third one I checked, a scatter of beer mugs and shot glasses on the scarred wooden table in front of him. His two bodyguards watched warily from the pool table.

  “Miss, that dog can't come...” The bartender's voice trailed off as he recognized Clarissa Stanton. My lack of bodyguards had thrown him off.

  “We're meeting a friend.” I batted green eyes, ordered a club soda, and sat down across from said friend. “You doing all right, Tay?”

  “I am completely traumatized,” he assured me. “The cops didn't quite say it, but they got the message across that we could be arrested. Apparently, you and me, we were on the scene so fast they could make a case we were involved.” He didn't seem to know I'd been detained, which might be just as well.

  “I got that impression too. That's cop head games, you know? Like in Tuesday's Thursday, remember that scene? They want to see what they can shake loose.”

  “Well, consider me shook, dude.” He picked up a beer mug only to discover it was already empty. “I heard that FBI agent say about Instagram, and now I come to find out she isn't even on Instagram. There was no good reason for her to be out there. I brushed elbows with a killer.”

  I didn't need to debate Ronnie's guilt or innocence with my co-star. “Honey, the reason I really came in here is because there's a reporter hanging around outside. That bartender must have phoned in a tip.”

  His shoulders slumped. “I'm in no condition for an interview.”

  “She's very sympathetic. She completely understands what a sensitive soul you are. You know, not everybody understands that about you.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You think you're smarter than me, don't you?”

  “I think you've been through a lot today, and you deserve the support and sympathy of your fans. She'll give you the opportunity to speak directly to your people.”

  “I do need a fucking cigarette.” He squared his shoulders again.

  Yukon and I followed him at the right distance to put Yukon in the background. Maybe Ronnie would see the video and figure it out.

  I'm here for you, girl. Find me. But approach with caution.

  THREE O'CLOCK THE NEXT afternoon. The film was finally a wrap. Yukon and I were dozing in the azalea garden behind the B&B, me on a lounge chair, my loyal dog at my side. His head lifted, and I sat up hard. There was a loud argument taking place at the garden gate.

  A security man from the film crew. A uniformed police officer. Another man, dressed down in jeans and a cheap shirt who was brandishing a badge he'd formerly concealed. So, a second police officer, this one undercover as a B&B landscaper.

  They'd surrounded a slinky girl of around twenty-four who was dressed in a filmy fake harem outfit. The uniform was shouting the numbers on her driver's license into his police radio.

  Really?

  Did they think Veronica Rales would pop up on my doorstep in the perfect disguise as a nearly naked singing telegram?

  “It's all right,” I said.

  “We'll let you know if and when it's all right,” said the erstwhile landscaper.

  A couple of other cast members emerged into the garden. Taylor, who was no doubt sleeping off his hangover, wasn't among them.

  “Who sent you?” I asked.

  The girl, unsure if she should answer, lifted an eyebrow.

  “We need to know,” said my security. “It's for Ms. Stanton's safety, I'm sure you can appreciate that.”

  “Oh.” The girl kept looking at me.

  Forcing a smile, I nodded. “You can say. They can listen.”

  “It's from a Miss Kitty Kait.”

  “Is that the name on the credit card?” asked the faux landscaper.

  “It's a drag name,” she said. “I don't know if I should share the name on the credit card.”

  “You can give me the name here or at the station.”

  Kitty Kait was not a drag name. Ronnie had paid somebody to meet this girl and use their own credit card to order the singing telegram. Smart, but I wouldn't expect anything less.

  She hadn't fled on a plane connecting in Miami. She was somewhere close. And she wanted to get back to me.

  Sighing noisily, the harem girl pulled out a credit card reader. The three men gathered around, and the uniform called in the number to verify it wasn't stolen.

  “You can deliver your message now,” said the landscaper.

  “You've taken all the fun out of it.” Too disgusted to go through the routine, she simply read the message off a card.

  Merry Rap Party to You

  Merry Rap Party to You

  Merry Rap Party, Miss Clary

  And Your Little Roadrunner Too

  “What's that about a roadrunner?” Landscaper Cop snatched the card out of her hands, then glared at me.

  I tapped Yukon on the top of a head. “A nickname.”

  “Looks like the usual fan crap to me,” said my security guy. “The internet crowd loved those roadrunner Instagrams.”

  “Thank you for coming out.” I pressed a twenty into the girl's hands. “I'm sorry for all the hassle.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Stanton.” She wasn't shy to check out the denomination of the bill. “I could still sing it for you...”

  “You were right the first time. These boys drained the fun out of it.”

  “Rap” was either a misspelling of “wrap” or a deliberate pun. Didn't matter. I'd received the message.

  “Wait. Let me see that.” The landscaper grabbed the twenty and held it up to the light. Suspicious bastard was checking for a message from me back to Ronnie.

  “That's mine,” the girl said. “This is some bullshit.”

  He took his time about returning the money. In fact, he didn't hand that bill back. Instead, he switched it fo
r a twenty from his own wallet.

  Just to be sure.

  That's when I knew for certain.

  They really, truly believed Ronnie did this murder.

  Nobody was coming to save us. They were all out to get us.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Ronnie

  An army of cops would be homing in on that wrap party. FBI. NOPD. Even LAPD, since it was one of their officers down. The entire catering staff would be replaced by undercover officers. Keller's own security would be replaced too. Catching a cop killer wasn't a job for private security. Even the most expensive Hollywood kind.

  One mistake, and I'd be under arrest for the murder of Bailey Flowers. I didn't like my odds in court once I was lined up against the full wrath of the FBI, NOPD, and LAPD.

  Anyway, that ship had sailed. The minute I went over that wrought-iron fence, I'd made the decision I couldn't trust a system stacked against me by my own SAC.

  For better or for worse, I was stuck with that decision now.

  Misdirection was part of the game. Let them think they'd figured something out. To make sure they'd keep looking the wrong way, I asked Miss Twain Peaks to order a delivery of balloons and another singing telegram. These little goodies were scheduled for delivery to the wrap party. But halfway decent police work would find out about them hours before the actual event.

  “The cops might have some questions about who paid you to order these items. I wouldn't expect you to lie.” In fact, I'd prefer if she didn't. The more eyes on that wrap party, the fewer eyes elsewhere.

  “I have no intention of lying for you, honey.” The sparkle in her turquoise eye shadow flashed a perfect match to the sparkle in her turquoise circle contacts.

  Kitty Kait would be long gone by the time NOPD popped up with their questions.

  Or at least she'd better be long gone.

  I had exactly one chance to meet up with Clary, and it needed to be a place we could both find. Somewhere reasonably close to the city― maybe an hour and a half away at the most. In an unfamiliar area where neither of us had spent much time.

  And we needed to get there long before the wrap party, while the LEOs were still setting up for the big capture. They'd have no idea they were going in all the wrong directions until long after Clary and I were back together.

  By now, it was late afternoon in the historic French Quarter. I had my choice of drunks at the dark bar of the moment. Many were tourists staying at nearby hotels. Not helpful. But one of the women spinning on her bar stool had a strong local accent.

  “Gimme my keys, Daisy. I'm fine.” The accent seemed stronger because of the slurring.

  “Shelly, you know you can't be driving home.” The bartender's arms were folded across her generous chest.

  Kitty Kait was currently in disguise as a sparkly tourist mom down to the big pink rhinestone earrings and a rainbow tee-shirt. The outfit aged me several years, or at least I hoped it did. So did the Virgin Mary and the little bits of recovery-speak I dropped to explain away my avoidance of alcohol. The gray mascara wand I'd swiped into my hair probably didn't hurt either.

  And the one things moms do is butt in. “Where does she live?” I directed my question to the bartender. “I'd be happy to drive her somewhere. It's pretty clear my date isn't going to show up.”

  She looked at me. “That's real sweet, ma'am, but...”

  “It's too far to fucking walk,” said the drunk. “Gimme the keys or give somebody the keys, but let's move this train down the fucking track.”

  “It's all right.” I smiled an oh-so-sincere nice-lady smile. “I'd want somebody to do the same for my daughter.”

  The bartender sighed but handed me the keys. She wanted that drunk out of her bar.

  The dented Toyota Tundra's meter had expired, and there were already a couple of tickets tucked into the wiper blades. My prospective passenger staggered when she first slipped off her bar stool, but now she found the energy to grab both tickets and toss them unread into the street. Marvelous. We didn't need to get arrested for littering.

  “Thanks, but you don't really have to drive me anywhere. Daisy has anxiety, and she kinda worries too much.” She put her open hand out. “I can take it from here.”

  “I'm sorry, but I really couldn't live with myself if I didn't see you safely home. I gave my word.”

  She rolled her eyes but got in on the passenger side. My mom voice was holding up. Less than fifteen minutes later, she was asleep on the couch in the front room of her small cottage, and I was driving away in a loaner. Sort of a loaner. The kind of loan where she probably had only a hazy memory of letting me pocket the keys for a few hours.

  I could take this car and drive halfway to Mexico before she woke and began to wonder where it was. Park it in downtown Brownsville and walk across the bridge. They'd have a flag on my passport, but somebody else's passport wouldn't be hard for me to grab.

  I could survive a long time, especially if I kept moving south. I could get away.

  Fuck getting away.

  If they didn't find me, it was a matter of days, if not hours, before the cops nabbed Clary. Sooner or later, they'd want to see what they could squeeze out of her if they applied enough pressure. And they could squeeze hard, threaten her with prison. Maybe the death penalty wasn't even off the table. Accessory to murder of a police officer carried the same penalty as committing the murder yourself in some states.

  I couldn't leave her there. Hell, I couldn't leave any innocent person there, but especially not Clarissa Stanton. She'd had her life blown up over things that were no fault of her own once already. And I'd contributed to that.

  It couldn't happen again. I wouldn't let it happen.

  This time, we were going to get it right.

  I was going to get it right.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Clary

  I rubbed Yukon on the head for luck and took out the burner.

  Me: You got a plan to call off the cops?

  Draco: I got a distraction coming. When you need it?

  Me: Twenty minutes. I'll be walking the dog.

  Draco: Leave the damn dog.

  Me: I'm not walking on New Orleans city streets without a dog. That's ridiculous.

  Draco: Head in the direction of the museum entrance to City Park. You can wander generally in the direction of the Singing Oak but don't go beyond it.

  Me: Got it.

  So much could go wrong with my big plan. No use worrying about it now. My watchers may or may not have decided the telegram was a message suggesting a meet at tonight's wrap party, but they'd still have eyes on me at all times, even if they didn't expect the real action until later.

  Dauphin's distraction had better be damned good. FBI-level good.

  The burner wasn't a smartphone, but nobody needed to draw us a map to the Singing Oak. Its hidden chimes pulled you from some distance away. Yukon and I strolled at a leisurely pace toward Big Lake, which was actually a smallish pond. I tried to look around like any random tourist who might, or might not, also be a movie star.

  A couple of Catholic schoolgirls sat eating lunch on the bench beneath the oak. They seemed lost in each other's eyes.

  A large woman with a German shepherd on a leash walked in my direction. She glanced away from me, although dog owners usually acknowledged each other.

  Cop, I thought.

  A couple of guys walked in the direction of the pond with binoculars in their hands. Bird watchers checking out the spring migration. Or, you know, more cops.

  Hell, everybody around me was probably a cop. Maybe that nine-year-old on a skateboard wasn't, but everybody else, even the schoolgirls, seemed questionable. The paranoia was getting to me. A movie star is used to being stalked, but having the paparazzi chase after you didn't feel quite the same.

  Yukon felt the hitch in my step, and he paused.

  “It's all right, boy.”

  Although it wasn't.

  This was a true mission impossible. I saw no w
ay to shake off all these eyes. How could I get back to Ronnie without tracking half the state and federal cops in town directly to her door? And where was Matt's fucking distraction? Shouldn't something be happening right about... now?

  My eyes narrowed as I looked beyond the shade beneath the sprawling oak to the light beyond. There was a gazebo back there marked off with orange construction tape. A new paint job, maybe. Or maybe not.

  The fireball went up like something in a movie, the flames shooting thirty feet into the sky before I could blink. It was so sudden, so much like some special effect, that I stood rooted in place. Was Claus still filming? Was this something he'd set up?

  Even knowing it wasn't, couldn't be, I still stood frozen, my hand on Yukon's scruff to keep him calm. Or maybe his scruff was there to keep me calm.

  People were screaming. Running.

  The ones heading for the exploding gazebo had to be cops. As for the ones running the opposite way toward me, probably only some of them were cops.

  I jolted awake. Started running too. An easy lope, so that Yukon could keep up without straining those big dog joints. We didn't need to go all that far. There. Back at the road already, where a black Ford Focus was pulling over with a great shrieking of brakes.

  The driver flung open his door before scooting to the passenger side. “The fuck have you involved me in.” It wasn't a question or even said with much emotion. This was just another role for Taylor Tercelle.

  I threw myself behind the wheel. Yukon had already somehow inserted himself into a sprawl that filled the entire back seat. The cops would have this area blocked off within minutes, so we had no time to waste. “You are truly an action hero, Taylor. My hero. You arrived just in the nick of time.”

  “Fuck you.” He adjusted his shoulder harness as I pulled out fast to make a high-speed U-turn the hell out of Dodge. “This isn't even a real car.”

  “It's real enough to suit me.” There must be a thousand sedans like this within a quarter mile of City Park. Unlike the Fleetwood, which could probably be seen from the International Space Station. And Taylor's mustard-yellow Lamborghini was visible from Pluto. “How did you get it?”