by Cassie Miles
That conclusion was undeniable and unfortunate. She was not safe.
Their escape from those who pursued them would not be based on clever disguises or secret hideouts. In this moment, they needed to go on the run. Their survival depended on his detailed knowledge of the city where he grew up, and he was confident that his skill in navigating the detours and shortcuts and roundabouts would be enough. He could outsmart a bloodhound on the scent. Not to mention that his driving skills were exceptional.
After they left the cemetery, her disembodied voice rose from the back seat. “Where are we headed?”
“We’re going to the home of my friend and colleague, Chance Gregory. He’s a cyber genius. We can get more data from him in an hour than from talking to Jessop for days.”
“And where does he live?”
“You’ll be surprised, cher.”
Though Chance lived with his mama, he wasn’t a typical computer nerd who buried himself in a grungy basement and existed on a diet of cheese puffs and beer. He might best be described as an old-fashioned gentleman of the South. His family owned one of the classic antebellum plantations along the Mississippi River Road that ran between New Orleans and Baton Rouge.
“Speaking of surprises,” she said as she popped up between the seats, “is there something you want to tell me about Frankie Leone?”
“How much did you overhear?”
“Jessop said you took the job offer from Davidoff because there might be a connection with the Leone family in Florida. How do you know them?”
“Through an extended undercover assignment,” he said, fighting through his reluctance to talk about that time in his life. “Before I moved back to New Orleans, I was investigating their smuggling operation in Florida. Though I was close to several people in the family, I never met Frankie and knew nothing of his operation in Chicago.”
“Is that true? You really didn’t know the identity of the victim in my crime?”
“All I knew was that you witnessed a murder.” Her skepticism frustrated him. Would she never trust him? “If I heard mention, the victim was referred to as a warehouse foreman.”
“Did you enjoy undercover work?”
When she peeked around the edge of his seat and stared at his profile, he noticed that her wan complexion had returned to normal. “Covert operations can be très difficile, especially when they are long-term.”
“You have to be a good liar to pull it off.”
“I suppose.” He tried to brush off the unfortunate direction of her questions. “It was my job.”
“You were deceiving people for months at a time.”
He stopped for a light and turned his head to confront her directly. They were close, almost nose to nose, and he was momentarily captivated by the facets of silver and hazel in her green eyes. He inhaled and regained his composure. “There are times for lies and times for truth. I know the difference, cher. I’m being straight with you. Ask me anything.”
“I will.” She pulled back. “In Florida, what was your cover story?”
“I passed myself off as a race-car driver.”
His driving skills were nowhere near professional level, but he talked a good game. The Leone family accepted him as an eccentric Frenchman who had participated in several Grand Prix races in Europe. He recalled that ruse while he drove through New Orleans making unpredictable turns and dodging anyone who might be trying to follow his SUV.
Alyssa jostled backward as he slammed on the brake. “Watch it! You’re not on a racetrack now.”
“Put on your seat belt, cher.”
He heard her rearranging herself behind him before she said, “Tell me more about the Leone family. What kind of smuggling did they do?”
“They owned a legitimate trucking company, but their trucks were sometimes filled with stolen merchandise, mostly appliances or electronics. They were considered small-time operators and too unimportant for the FBI to investigate.”
“I don’t understand. Why did you go undercover?”
“Information suggested that the Leones were expanding their operation into the smuggling of illegal weapons and possible drug trafficking.” He guided the SUV through a sharp left turn. His goal was to evade pursuit until he left the city limits. At his friend’s home, he could borrow another vehicle.
“Did Jessop give you any new information?”
“Currently, the FBI believes that Frankie was responsible for the missing millions.”
“That’s crazy!” Her disbelief exploded from the back seat. “I can’t give you an accounting down to the penny, but I guarantee that the pawnshop wasn’t making so much money that Mr. Horowitz wouldn’t notice if seven point six million dollars went missing.”
“Think about it, cher. Frankie’s thieving was spread out for a very long time, all the way back to ten years ago when he was dating your aunt. And Horowitz was known to keep high-ticket items in his warehouse. Davidoff used to store some of his vehicles there, including a vintage Rolls-Royce that was worth close to three hundred thou.”
For several long minutes, they were both silent. He imagined that she was remembering the many expensive objects that were housed in the Chicago warehouse. The locked safe was large enough for her to walk inside, and it must have held precious objects of great value. Over the years, it wouldn’t have been difficult for Frankie to remove these artworks, jewelry, antiques and furs—especially since some of these items had been stolen in the first place.
“I can’t believe it,” she murmured. “Mr. Horowitz was careful with his inventory. He would have noticed.”
“Not if Frankie was clever enough to replace the real objects with forgeries. He was in charge of the warehouse and had complete access. There would be no record of the pickup because he used trucks from his family’s business to ship out the merchandise.”
“If that’s true, Frankie was a whole lot smarter than I gave him credit for. What was his mistake? What got him killed?”
“Greed.” That seemed to be the underlying motive for everything that had happened. “Frankie deviated from the plan. Instead of funneling the merchandise to his family, he set up his own operation in Chicago.”
“A double cross,” she said. “He was stealing from the warehouse and double-crossing his family while building his private fortune. Then Ray McGill shot him. How does he fit into this picture?”
“The FBI has known for a long time about the connections between the McGill family and the Leones. They’re criminals but still businessmen.”
While she repeated and reviewed the twists and turns of Frankie’s scheme, he checked his rearview mirror. After several blocks, he determined that they weren’t being followed, and he set a course for the Mississippi River Road.
Under different circumstances, he would have enjoyed taking Alyssa on this trip, giving her a view of the more refined aspects of life in New Orleans. Not everything was about jazz and Mardi Gras and parades in the streets. The city was one of the oldest settlements in the country. Traditions ran deep.
“About the Leones,” she said. “Jessop said something about how your assignment with them destroyed your career. I want to hear the whole story.”
He’d hoped to avoid this painful memory. “My mistakes aren’t relevant.”
“I want to know the truth. You say that you aren’t lying, but hiding the details is deliberately misleading.” She exhaled a powerful sigh that he heard in the front seat. “I want to trust you, Rafe.”
And he wanted the same thing. “After several months with the family, I earned a place in their organization as a getaway driver.”
“For bank robberies?”
“Never a bank. But there were meetings when it was necessary to make a swift escape. I kept the FBI informed, and they acted appropriately. Sometimes there were arrests. Other times, there were not. By the time my investigation was
drawing to an end, I had become friendly with several in the family, including a young mom named Deedee who was routinely abused by her husband.”
He remembered that slender creature with her long black hair and soulful eyes. Deedee looked older than her twenty-two years, except when she was playing with her two toddlers. That tiny glimpse of her happiness had touched his heart. One day, she’d confided in him, revealing that she was pregnant again and terrified of how angry her husband would be.
“My assignment had been a bust,” he admitted to Alyssa. “I hadn’t uncovered gun smuggling or drugs. The Leone family appeared to be small-time crooks and nothing more. I wanted my time with them to mean something.”
“You tried to help Deedee,” she said.
“I referred her to people who could protect her from her husband and help her establish a new life for herself and her children. I should have stayed with her, shouldn’t have left her alone with strangers.”
“I understand,” Alyssa said. “You thought you were doing the right thing.”
He should have known better. After the time he’d spent in Florida, he should have realized that Deedee’s loyalty to the family and to her husband was more important than her personal safety. She went back to her abuser.
As soon as Rafe heard, he’d raced to their house. Too late.
“He killed her.”
Chapter Thirteen
Sitting in the back of the SUV with her seat belt fastened, Alyssa couldn’t see Rafe’s face, but she heard the intense pain in his voice, and she knew that he blamed himself for Deedee’s death. “What happened to the children?”
“They were placed with a good family, and the arrangement seems to be working out. The foster parents are planning to adopt the boys. I send payments for their care.”
“It sounds like you’re doing the best you can to help out.”
“Money is not enough. These babies lost their mama. I’ll make sure that no one—especially not their father, who is incarcerated—will hurt them again.” He jiggled his shoulders as if he could shake off the anger. “That’s my story, cher. Have you heard enough?”
Though she appreciated how hard it was for him to talk about Deedee’s murder, she had other questions. “Jessop said the Leones messed up your career. Is that true? Did you get fired?”
“The opposite,” he said. “The FBI was very willing to sweep Deedee’s murder under the rug and call it a case of domestic violence. They hoped I could continue undercover. But no, I couldn’t stay in Florida. I had to come home to New Orleans and figure out what was the right course for the rest of my life.”
“And you came up with being a private investigator?”
“For now, it works. I’m my own boss, I don’t have to take orders from anyone else and I can use my training.”
“Your special skills? Like beating up thugs in skeleton masks and escaping from a second-story warehouse window and tearing up the streets with your evasive driving? An interesting collection of talents, but I’ve got to admit that you’re good at what you do.”
“Merci.”
“I’m guessing there’s something else driving you. You’re not a pirate—you’re a hero. I think you enjoy helping people like me, doing the right thing.”
Again, he shrugged. “I like being able to choose which jobs to take and which to turn down.”
“Why did you choose me?”
He pursed his lips and scowled. “Now and then, everybody makes a mistake.”
His little joke diverted their conversation from uncomfortable topics like honor and nobility. She was glad that he didn’t take himself too seriously. Not everything that happened was about him. She hoped that Rafe didn’t think Deedee’s murder was his fault. If anything happened to her, he wasn’t to blame.
He was a good man. But she didn’t dare tell him so—not yet, anyway. Trusting him would be easy but risky. He might disappoint her. “Thanks for telling me about Deedee.”
“You shared details about Frankie Leone’s murder. Turnabout is fair.”
“It’s good to know that you’re dedicated to your job—keeping me safe from the idiots who think I’m the key to finding their fortune.”
“Was there any doubt?”
Outside her window, the landscape had changed. They’d left the city behind and were driving north on a divided four-lane road into a more sparsely populated area. “Where are we?”
“River Road.” He pointed to the right. “Over that ridge is the levee, and beyond that is the Mississippi. This drive was once famous for the many plantation-style mansions.”
The buildings they passed were far more mundane—gas stations, odd shops and tired-looking houses. Beyond the oaks, poplars and shrubs at the roadside, she glimpsed a ramshackle two-story structure with faded gray columns across the front. It looked like the great-great-grandmom to Tara. “What happened to the plantations? Were they destroyed in the hurricane?”
“Nothing so dramatic. The mansions grew old, required too much upkeep and were abandoned.” At an intersection, he turned left and drove through a very small town. “We’ll stick to back roads so no one can track my SUV.”
“There’s not much traffic,” she pointed out. “We’d see anybody who follows us.”
“I’m concerned about drones.”
In spite of her massive paranoia, she realized that his knowledge of surveillance and tracking techniques was superior to hers. When she’d planned her getaway routes, she’d tried to consider every detail and contingency, but drones had never crossed her mind. If she hadn’t been with Rafe, Alyssa doubted she would have survived the first assault by Woodbridge and his skeleton crew.
They drove along a two-lane asphalt road that curved through an overgrown area of streams, reeds, shrubs and ancient oak trees with long, twisted limbs that reached toward them like the grasping, gnarled fingers of witches. Spanish moss draped from their boughs. This close to the river, humidity thickened the air. “Your computer genius lives around here?”
“Chance Gregory is one of my oldest friends. We went to the same prep school. Across that field, that’s his family’s place.”
In the distance, she spotted a two-story white mansion with pillars that reached from the veranda to the shingled roof. The carpet of grass on the hill leading to the magnificent entrance was neatly trimmed with autumn flowers planted in tidy beds. Two monstrous oak trees loomed behind the structure like sentries, and a weeping willow in the front completed the picture.
“I’m impressed,” she said. “Keep in mind that I lived in Savannah, and I know what Greek revival–style architecture looks like.”
“The best part about this place is the horse barn in the back. Chance raises thoroughbred race horses and Arabians.”
She wished that she’d been wearing a more appropriate outfit. Her khaki shorts and sweat-soaked T-shirt seemed far too casual. Clothing shouldn’t matter. People in Chicago didn’t seem to pay too much attention, but Alyssa’s mom had taught her about proper attire for a lady. If you dress for the occasion, people take you seriously.
“I must look a mess.” She found a mirror in her backpack, slapped on a dab of blush and arranged her hair. “Can we explain to your friend that I was locked in a tomb for what seemed like hours?”
Rafe drove the SUV up the curved driveway leading to the Gregory mansion and circled around to the back. Outside a long garage, a slender man in jeans and a denim shirt stood waiting. He directed Rafe to pull into the last parking bay. Inside the garage, the SUV was completely hidden. Because of drones?
She slipped into her jean jacket, still musty from the tomb, climbed from the back seat and latched onto Rafe’s arm. He leaned down and whispered, “No need to worry, cher. You’re beautiful.”
Outside the garage, Chance greeted her with a kiss on both cheeks that somehow didn’t seem phony. His hair was light brown, his eye
s were blue and he smelled like lemons.
After Rafe introduced her, Chance said, “I didn’t believe it, but my old partner in crime was right as rain. You are Scarlett O’Hara come to life and ready to rule the bayou.”
She opened her mouth and closed it again. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Come inside and have something to eat. Mama and Auntie are at church, but I have leftover jambalaya and corn bread from last night.”
Rafe joined them. He was taller than Chance and broader across the shoulders. Rafe’s features were more rugged, especially his chiseled cheekbones and the dent in his chin, but there was a similarity between the two friends. Maybe it was the cool assurance behind their eyes. Maybe it was the way they both had kissed her when they met for the first time. She couldn’t say why, but she was a little bit fascinated by Chance.
She gave him a nod and said, “I’d love to taste your mama’s jambalaya.”
“Don’t get too deep into hospitality,” Rafe warned. “That goes for both of you. We’ve got work to do.”
“I’m way ahead of you.” Chance led them through the back door into the mansion. “I’ve already been digging into the business of Diamond Jim Davidoff and the Leone family. Which do you want first?”
“Davidoff,” Rafe said.
They entered a well-equipped country kitchen that was big enough to prepare a sit-down banquet for a couple hundred people. It was obvious that Chance knew his way around food preparation, and he talked while he reheated the spicy, redolent rice and andouille dish, warmed the corn bread and threw together a light salad.
“Viktor Davidoff goes by the name Davis James or Diamond Jim, but his real name is a poorly kept secret. As far as I can tell, he has no family connections in the Chicago area, but he has links with the Russian mob in New York.”
“Are you sure there’s no family?” Rafe asked.
Chance set a plate of corn bread on the countertop, planted his fists on his hips and glared. “What’s wrong with you, partner? You know better than to question my research. I’m never wrong.”