Deadly Alliances

by Candle Sutton

  Lana sat on the front porch in the deepening shadows, listening for anything that didn’t sound right. But all she heard were the normal night noises: the faint rustling of the wind in the swamp grass, a muted splash as something either entered or exited the marsh, the throaty singing of dozens of frogs.

  Sitting there in perfect stillness, she blended with the night around her, wishing, praying, that a break would come soon.

  At least one good thing had come from all of this. She now knew that Alex had a capable team backing her up.

  It lifted a huge burden from her spirit to know that her best friend was in good hands.

  She could do without Peters and his attitude, but the rest of the team had tucked her in as though she’d been working with them for years.

  “Tanner.”

  Her breath caught in her throat as a male voice sounded behind her. Man, she had not been expecting that.

  It was almost like Peters knew she’d been thinking about him.

  Thank God it was dark enough that he likely hadn’t seen the way she started at the sound of his voice. “Yes?”

  “Inside. Alex got an update.” The words came out clipped, stilted.

  Typical.

  He didn’t speak to her often, but when he did it was usually the minimum required to get his point across and always in a tone that said he’d rather be talking to anyone but her.

  She pushed up and headed toward the door, which Peters had vacated as soon as possible. Stepping through the doorway, she locked the door behind her and turned to find everyone gathered in the living room.

  “Good news. The cops arrested a guy tonight. We’ll be transporting Reilly downtown tomorrow morning to view a lineup.”

  They had someone in custody? “Who is it?”

  “They didn’t say. They wanted Reilly to view the lineup before they release any information.”

  Of course. The smallest slip could give a good defense attorney enough ammunition for an acquittal.

  She was almost afraid to hope, but couldn’t temper the anticipation of tomorrow morning. Hopefully by tomorrow night, they’d all be sleeping in their own beds.

  And Reilly would be free from this threat.

  ₪ ₪ ₪ ₪ ₪

  “Number three.”

  Lana’s gaze flew to the man Reilly had so definitively identified. Light blond hair, square jaw, small nose.

  Calm eyes stared straight ahead.

  The man didn’t shift or fidget, hardly even blinked. It took experience to remain that calm while in police custody.

  This wasn’t his first time inside.

  Detective Sanders called for suspect number three to step closer to the one-way glass. Once he’d done so, Sanders’ eyes slid to Reilly. “You’re sure?”

  “No doubt. That’s the guy.” Reilly didn’t remove his attention from the blond suspect. “How’d you find him?”

  “A call came in on the tip line. Name’s Doug Garrett. Works for Rosetti Construction. Turns out he’s a known associate of Al Rosetti.”

  Reilly finally turned away from the glass. “I knew it. And Frank Rosetti put him up to this, didn’t he?”

  “Garrett’s not talking. Got a rap sheet with a bunch of small-time stuff on it, but this one could put him away for life. We’re hoping he’ll cop a plea.”

  Pushing off from the wall, Alex joined them. “What’re the chances that this guy was acting alone?”

  “Between you and me?” Sanders glanced at Garrett. “Slim to none. He and Al had some dealings together, but not the kind of stuff you pull a revenge hit for. Plus, we found five grand in cash hidden in the guy’s dirty laundry. If we can get a warrant for Frank Rosetti’s financials, I’m betting it’ll line up somewhere.”

  Lana struggled to keep her face impassive.

  All hope that they’d be back in their own beds tonight had died at the mention of Rosetti’s name. A man with everything to lose had tried – and failed – to kill her brother.

  Rosetti would try again. No doubt about it.

  Only next time, he’d hire a professional.

  The grim set to Alex’s lips confirmed they’d reached the same conclusion.

  Alex shook Sanders’ hand before herding Reilly out of the room. Peters and Chow fell into step with them outside the door.

  Once they were all safely in the bullet-proof SUV, Alex broke the silence. “Time to relocate. We’ll leave as soon as possible.”

  ₪ ₪ ₪ ₪ ₪

  “My client said the deadline is the end of the month.”

  A tremor shook Frank Rosetti’s hand. He clutched the cell phone tighter. “Until?”

  “I don’t want to know.” A rasping cough followed the woman’s words. From the sounds of things, Garrett’s lawyer smoked at least a pack a day. She cleared her throat, which did nothing to ease the huskiness of her voice. “Doug said you’d understand.”

  He did understand. All too well.

  Month end; that gave him only twenty days to figure out a way to get Garrett out of this mess.

  But how?

  Al would’ve known what to do, but Al was in prison. Waltzing in there and discussing this under the guards’ noses wouldn’t be his smartest option.

  “Mr. Rosetti? Do you understand?”

  “Yes. Tell your client he has nothing to worry about.”

  “Very good.” A click signaled the end of the call.

  Frank punched the off button and dropped his phone on the desk. Twenty days. If he didn’t come up with some kind of plan, Garrett would turn on him.

  What would it take to keep Garrett out of prison?

  Sources told him that they hadn’t found the murder weapon. While Garrett owned a gun of the right caliber and drove a car that fit the description, the evidence was circumstantial at best. The gunpowder residue forensics had found on the passenger door was a little trickier, but they could still come up with a reasonable explanation.

  The most condemning evidence was Reilly Tanner’s positive identification.

  If he could fabricate a solid alibi and eliminate the only eyewitness, there wouldn’t be enough to make the charges stick.

  The alibi would be easy. But getting rid of Tanner, who’d surely gone into protective custody, now that would be a bit harder.

  No more screw-ups. Time to call in a professional.

  Lucky for him, Al should have contacts that could put him in touch with the right man for the job.

  He strode across the office to a tall bookcase. The dust-covered dictionary waited on the bottom shelf. Grabbing it, he flipped it open to the Qs, where a single sheet of paper nestled between the pages.

  A dozen names and phone numbers. How did he know which one to call?

  Maybe Al had put them in order of usefulness. He’d start at the top and work his way down.

  The first two numbers had been disconnected. He punched in the third. A smooth, heavily-accented voice answered on the fourth ring. “What.”

  “Uh, this is Frank Rosetti. My brother, Al–”

  “I know who your brother is. Why are you calling?”

  How much was safe to reveal over the phone? “Yours is one of the numbers Al left for me should I need… advice.”

  “Can’t help you.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” Frank drew in a deep breath. “What’s it going to cost?”

  “Ain’t ‘bout the money. Don’t call again.”

  “Wait!” Frank paused long enough to hear the man breathing before plunging ahead, “Al said if I ever need help–”

  “You got a Zed on your list?”

  Frank glanced down the list. There, about number seven or eight. “Yes.”

  “Call him. And burn this number.” The line went dead.

  A measured breath eased through Frank’s lips. He forcibly relaxed his grip on his phone.

  Zed. The name didn’t inspire much confidence. But what choice did he have?

  He punched in the number.

  A sandpaper voice scratched ac
ross the line. “Yeah?”

  “Zed?”

  “Who’s askin’?”

  Almost as good as an admission. “Frank Rosetti. Al left me your number.”

  “Al, huh?”

  “He said you might be able to help me clear up some of his business affairs.”

  A harsh laugh burst across the line, erupting into a cough halfway through. “His affairs, yeah. Maybe we oughta get together to work it all out. Have a drink for ol’ Al’s sake, huh?”

  The place Zed suggested made his stomach lurch. Cockroach burgers served on buns that expired last year paired with salmonella salad would probably be the daily special.

  On the upside, at least he wouldn’t run into anyone he knew at that dump.

  “Fine. Two hours.”

  ₪ ₪ ₪ ₪ ₪

  Lana stepped into the room she and Alex had shared for the last week and closed the door. No matter how much Reilly wouldn’t want her to have this conversation, it had to be done.

  Folding a shirt precisely in half, Alex set it on top of a stack of similarly folded shirts in her suitcase. She glanced up. “Is Reilly packing?”

  “Yes. Do you know where we’re going yet?”

  “Maxwell sent over some files, but I haven’t had time to go through them.” Narrowed eyes regarded her for several seconds. “What’s up?”

  Lana massaged her right temple. “Did you hear that Reilly almost died that day?”

  “Kinda the reason we’re all here. What of it?”

  “For reasons that had nothing to do with bad guys and bullets?”

  Alex stilled, serious eyes locking on her. “I didn’t hear about that one.”

  Big surprise. He’d always tried to keep his asthma a secret. “Reilly has severe asthma. The shooting triggered an attack. If EMS hadn’t arrived when they did, he wouldn’t still be with us.”

  Pointer finger brushing her lip, Alex nodded.

  The look was one Lana had witnessed many times as Alex processed new information.

  Easing down on the mattress, Alex locked her gaze on Lana. “And stress makes it worse.”

  “Much worse.”

  “Then we’ll have to avoid stressful situations, won’t we?” Alex leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. “I’m assuming he has an inhaler.”

  “And some pills he can take if the inhaler isn’t cutting it.” According to Reilly, the pills had been in his briefcase at the time of the attack. Across the parking lot, but not close enough to do him any good.

  “Okay. We’ll make sure he has an ample supply of both. Anything else I should know?”

  “That’s the most critical.” Lana sank onto the bed across from Alex.

  “Have you already finished packing?”

  “I never unpacked.”

  Picking up a stack of files, Alex dropped them on the bed beside her. “Well, if you’d like to help, maybe you could sort through these. See which one looks best to you.”

  “Sure.” Lana scooted further onto the bed and sat cross-legged before grabbing the closest file.

  It seemed weird that they would even have options. Wouldn’t it make more sense for Maxwell to simply assign a location?

  Well, no matter.

  She’d go through these and make a suggestion, just like Alex had asked. Not that she knew what she should be looking for, but as long as it was a government safe house, it shouldn’t matter.

  Each file took only a few minutes to study. Containing pictures, specs, and information on the surrounding area, it felt a lot like house shopping.

  Except that she wasn’t spending any of her own money. Even better.

  She set another folder aside and reached for a new file. Really, any of these places would suffice–

  Lincoln City, Oregon.

  Her gaze froze on the location printed on the top of the first page in the folder. Lincoln City. It both drew and repelled her at the same time.

  She’d never been there. At least not that she remembered.

  Yet there was something about it that enticed her like a thief to an open door.

  Weird. She shook her head to clear it before moving past the name to the specifics on the house.

  Seized ten years ago in a drug bust. Located on the beach at the end of a dead-end street. Five bedrooms. Three bathrooms. Custom built with a security system and panic room.

  Nice.

  The words at the top of the page lured her eyes back.

  Lincoln City.

  She didn’t think she’d heard of the place before today. In fact, she didn’t even know how she felt about the place. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t longing or fondness. And it sure wasn’t familiarity. But something tugged at her and she couldn’t put her finger on what–

  “Must be a good choice. You’re sure taking your time looking it over.”

  “Uh, yeah.” Lana summarized the house, handing over the file when Alex extended her hand. No point in mentioning her undefinable feeling since she didn’t know what it meant.

  Several seconds passed before Alex looked up. “I like it. Nice choice.”

  Not that she’d necessarily chosen it, but she let it ride.

  Maybe she’d figure out what was going on once they arrived there. Or maybe not. Maybe there was no good reason. Maybe she was simply acting like some kind of freak.

  Yeah. That was the most likely scenario.

  Alex checked the silver–banded watch on her wrist. “We need to get in the air. Check on Reilly, will you? I’ll touch base with the team.”

  ₪ ₪ ₪ ₪ ₪

  Frank shut his car door, armed the alarm, and turned to face the building in front of him.

  A crooked sign hung above the door. The Shady Palm Restaurant.

  They had the nerve to call this dive a restaurant? Someone had a sick sense of humor.

  No paint remained on the walls, assuming the walls had ever been painted, of course. Maybe they’d always had that third-world-country vibe.

  Next to the building, flies smothered a dumpster overflowing with food.

  Ugh. It smelled like something had died. Maybe it was the last patron who actually ate something here.

  Dodging the broken glass scattered across the parking lot, he pulled open the solid wood door and stepped into the dim interior.

  His stomach pitched and bile burned his throat.

  Burning meat mingled with years’ worth of cigarette smoke; mixed with a dash of vomit it lingered like bad perfume. And he’d thought the dumpster was putrid?

  The door thudded behind him like the lid of a coffin.

  He waited until his eyes adjusted to the dim light before moving further into the room.

  About a dozen people occupied the various tables, all silent, staring at him with unmasked suspicion. Even the frizzy-haired woman behind the grill watched him, a metal turner in her hands.

  This place obviously didn’t see normal people very often.

  Now which of these losers was Zed?

  A green hat sitting on the corner table snagged his attention. He crossed the room, transferring his gaze from the hat to the man sitting in the shadows behind it.

  “Rosetti?” The gravelly voice matched the one he’d heard on the phone earlier.

  “Zed?”

  The man nodded. Knocking a French fry off the bench, Frank slid in on the opposite side.

  Stringy blond hair brushed the tops of his shoulders. Dozens of piercings caked his lips, nose, and eyebrows with metal. Surprisingly sharp eyes regarded him in interest.

  “I knew it hadta be you ‘cause ya look just like Al. How’s he doin’ anyway?”

  Was Zed some kind of idiot? Maybe he thought he was being funny. “Al’s in prison. How do you think he’s doing?”

  “Could be better, huh? Can’t believe they finally nailed somethin’ on Slippery Al.” He leaned back, crossing his arms over his bony chest. “So whaddya need? I’m thinkin’ this got nothin’ to do with stuff Al did, huh?”

  “Uh…” Sweat made his p
alms sticky. He rubbed them on his pants and tried to steady his voice. “I need to hire someone who can clean up a mess I’ve made.”

  “A mess.” Zed stared at him, his metal-spiked face unreadable. “You tryin’ to say you need a hit man?”

  Letting out a shaky breath, he nodded. “I need the best.”

  Zed’s eyes narrowed as he regarded Frank with fresh suspicion. “Al said his kid brother was gonna do okay and stay outta trouble. Why’re you gettin’ mixed up in junk like this?”

  “Personal reasons.” His kept his voice level, faking a calm he didn’t feel. “I didn’t think something through and now I have a problem I can’t handle myself. Can you help me or not?”

  After a few seconds of scrutiny, Zed nodded. “Yeah. I can help you.”

  He grabbed a napkin and pulled a pen out of his pocket.

  While Zed wrote, Frank looked around the room, feeling a small measure of relief to find no one that seemed interested in him or Zed. Zed pushed the napkin across the table and Frank unfolded it to reveal a name and phone number scrawled in sloppy block print.

  “This got anything to do with Al’s trial? Lookin’ to snuff out a witness?” The pause said more than Zed’s words. “Or the DA?”

  So Zed wasn’t as stupid as he looked.

  Not that Frank had any intention of confirming the truth. “That’s not something I’m comfortable discussing.”

  A smirk tweaked the corner of Zed’s mouth. “Well, you want the best, that’s him. But he ain’t cheap.”

  “I don’t care.” Pushing himself to his feet, Frank pulled out several hundred dollar bills and tossed them on the table. “Thanks for the information. Enjoy your meal.”

  Zed’s long, bony fingers clamped onto his arm. “You be sure to tell ‘im you’ve got yourself a pest problem when ya call. Use them exact words or he might hang up.”

  Frank couldn’t tear his attention from the hand dampening his arm.

  What, being in this filthy dump wasn’t bad enough? He’d have to scrub his arm with searing water and bleach just to feel clean again.