by Jana DeLeon
Spider let out his breath in a whoosh. “Thank God. I mean, I wouldn’t want to be the one carrying that news. As far as I’m concerned, I never seen you, okay?”
“Not exactly. I still have enough on you to put you away for a long time. I can pull that evidence out if I want to.”
“What do you want from me? I already told you I didn’t know nothin’.”
Raissa reached into her bra with her free hand and pulled out a card with her cell number on it. She handed it to Spider. “You don’t know anything yet. But if you hear anything at all about Monk or that little girl that’s missing, you’ll call me. Right?”
The blood rushed from Spider’s face. “You don’t think Sonny has anything to do with that little girl…Oh shit, you do. I ain’t got nothing to do with hurting kids, and I never would. I got some standards, even if you don’t believe it.”
“Just keep your eyes and ears open. If you come across anything out of the ordinary, then you give me a call. The phone’s unregistered, so no one will ever track it back to me.”
“Out of the ordinary?”
“Anything that’s not business as usual. And I mean anything. If Sonny wears a white suit or calls his mother on any day other than Sunday, I want to know.”
Spider nodded but still looked confused. Raissa could hardly blame him. The last time she’d seen Spider, he’d put a single bullet through her chest. Raissa had still threatened to kill him while she was standing there bleeding.
“Go on,” Raissa said and nodded toward the door. “I need to leave, and it’s probably better for you if we’re not seen together.” Spider jumped up as if he’d been shot, and Raissa realized she’d never removed the gun from his crotch. What a shame.
She slipped the gun back into her bag and had started to slide out of the booth when Zach Blanchard slid in beside her.
He gave her the once-over, and Raissa could feel a blush starting on her very-exposed chest. “Ms. Bordeaux,” he said with a smile. “That’s an interesting outfit for a psychic.”
“Well, psychics are rarely boring.”
“It was even more interesting when you threatened that man with castration by Glock.”
Shit!
“He owed me for a tarot reading.” She shrugged. “I have this thing about old debts.”
Zach raised his eyebrows. “I bet.”
“Well, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a ton of things to do.”
Zach studied her for a couple of seconds. “You know, I could haul you in for assault on that man.”
“Well, now, that would be your word against mine, and I’m not going to admit to being that close to Spider’s crotch any more than you’re going to admit looking at it.”
Zach blanched. “You really know how to hurt a man.” He glanced at her hands, then the empty table. “Barehanded, and there’s not a thing I can take with me to run a print. You’re sharp, but you’re not going to be able to avoid me forever.”
An idea flashed through Raissa’s mind, and before rational thought took over she ran her index finger along her lips, coating the tip with bright red lipstick. Zach’s eyes widened as he followed her finger along the sexy pout of her mouth and sweat began to form on his brow. She leaned close to him and rolled her finger on his cheek, leaving a perfect print.
She slipped up from the booth seat and perched on the edge of the table, looking down at him. Giving him a wink, she spun around on the table and slid her long legs onto the floor. She pulled her skirt down to a barely legal level and leaned over the booth, placing her lips next to his ear.
“When you come to question me later,” she whispered, “wear a uniform, and definitely bring handcuffs.”
Unable to speak, Zach watched Raissa walk out of the bar, her curves swaying with every step in the sexy, spiked heels. His body had responded to her in all inappropriate manners, especially considering he was on duty. Especially considering she was a suspect.
His face still tingled where she’d left her print, and he tried to block his mind from recalling the way she’d run that finger across her lips and the look in her eyes as she’d done it.
Too late.
He groaned and waved a hand at a waitress at the far end of the bar. What he wanted was a scotch. What he was going to settle for was a piece of Scotch tape to remove the fingerprint from his cheek. No way was he walking into the CSI unit sporting a lipstick print on his face. There were some things a man could never live down.
He wondered briefly where he’d stashed his old patrolman’s uniforms and if they still fit.
She’s a suspect.
He blew out a breath. The sooner he ran that print, the better. God forbid he came up with nothing, because he was certain his spare handcuffs were in his glove box.
Hank Henry pulled the business card from his pocket and checked the address once more. This was the place. He parked his truck and walked across the street to the construction site, scanning the workers for the owner, a guy named Chuck. He finally located the man on the side of the building and introduced himself.
Chuck gave him the once-over, then lit a cigarette. “Pauley says you do some damned fine cabinet work.”
Hank nodded. “I’m glad Pauley’s happy with his cabinets.”
“Pauley also said you do some damned fine drugs and some not-so-fine petty crimes.”
Hank gritted his teeth and counted to three. You have to expect this given your past. Don’t take the bait. “Well, sir, that would have been absolutely correct if you’d spoke to me a year ago.”
The foreman blew out a puff of smoke and squinted at Hank. “Got clean, huh? I can respect that.” He crushed out his cigarette on the side of the building and motioned Hank inside. “Place is gonna be some sort of clinic. Every room in the place is going to need cabinets, and they didn’t want those cheap white prefab jobs. Said it was ‘too clinical,’ whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean. The place is a clinic, after all.”
Hank nodded and poked his head into a couple of different rooms. After rehab, Hank understood exactly what too clinical meant. The center he’d been in was a restored Colonial mansion, and the people running it had taken a “home” approach to getting clean and their counseling. For the first time in his life, Hank had felt like a member of a family, right down to the chore list and sharing dinner every eve ning.
“Looks nice,” Hank said, wishing he had the clout to actually score the job.
“Think it’s something you can handle?”
Surprised, Hank looked at the foreman. “You’re serious?”
“Of course, I’m serious. Did you think I had you come all the way down here just for me to smoke a cigarette and run my mouth?”
“Yes…no…I mean, I figured you were talking to me as a favor to Pauley. I guess I didn’t figure you were serious about hiring me.”
“Hell, I like Pauley, but not enough to hire any excon or reformed druggie he tosses out to me. My reputation’s good in this town, and I want it to stay that way. Truth is, I saw the work you did at Pauley’s bar, and it’s some of the best I’ve seen in years. I like that you took the time to customize those cabinets particularly for the same feel as the bar, but higher scale. Really classed the place up, but without making the rest of it look shabby in comparison.”
Hank smiled, pleased that Chuck had latched on to the very thing Hank had been attempting to do with Pauley’s bar. “Thank you, sir. I really appreciate that, especially coming from you. Pauley says you’re pretty well sought after for this sort of work.”
Chuck nodded. “Stay pretty much booked.” He pointed his finger at Hank. “If you’re serious about being straight, I can help you make a name for yourself. You got the talent. If you have the discipline, you could have a hell of a career.”
Hank stared at Chuck, feeling almost dizzy over his words. A second chance at life. And not just any life—a great life, doing something he loved to do. It was almost too good to be true, and before he could stop himself, he started mentally
calculating all the ways he could screw it up.
Stop it.
He forced his whirling mind to a stop. This was a golden opportunity. Some people never got one at all. He’d been given plenty and pissed them all away. If he didn’t make this one work, then he’d have to put a hit out with the Heberts on himself. “You really think I could make a living doing this?”
Chuck laughed. “Are you kidding me? With your talent, you could get rich doing this. So what do you say? You interested in this job?”
Hank smiled until his jaw ached. “Damn straight.”
Chuck stuck his hand out, and Hank shook it. “Be here tomorrow morning around nine, and we can go over the plans and the owner’s ‘vision’ for the clinic. The owner will want to be here for that. She’s nice, though—doesn’t pick things apart and ask a lot of questions like most women.” He elbowed Hank in the ribs. “She’s cute, too.”
Hank shook his head. “I just got divorced from a great woman who I wasn’t even married to for a month before I ran out on her. I’m not looking to ruin anyone else’s life.”
Chuck laughed. “Sounds like what I told my wife twenty years ago, but she did okay.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow at nine.”
Chuck gave him a nod and walked off through the building, calling for one of the workers. Hank took one final look around and exited the building, doing his best to contain his excitement. His new boss might fire him if he looked outside and saw Hank skipping. Men probably didn’t skip unless they were high, so no use giving the man any reason to worry. But still, his step was lighter as he crossed the street.
He’d already slid into the driver’s seat before he realized he had a passenger. The blood drained from his face as he looked over and saw Rico Hebert cleaning his fingernails with a razor blade.
“What’s up with the construction?” Rico asked, still focused on his fingernails. “You know this is my territory. If you’re hitting them up for anything, you gotta cut me in.”
“I’m not hitting them up for anything. The man hired me to build some cabinets.”
Rico looked up at Hank. “Straight work? Why would you want to go and do something like that? Work a shitload of hours for pennies. Break your fucking back and put stress on your heart. A workingman’s life ain’t no picnic, Henry.”
But being a Hebert was. Right. “I told you I was straight now,” Hank said, trying to keep his voice strong and steady. “I meant it. I’ll work all the hours in the world if it means I’m not looking over my shoulder for cops all the time. That’s stress on your heart.”
Rico shot him an amused look. “It’s stressful if you’re a pussy, but then I guess that’s where this conversation is over, right?” He laughed at his own incredible humor. “So what about the job I asked you to do with the magic lady?”
Hank felt sweat begin to form on his brow. “I already told you no, and the answer’s still no. Get someone else.”
“But no one else knows the broad.”
“Hell, I don’t know her, either! I’ve only seen her a time or two and that was at a distance.”
“Hmmmmm. That’s a shame. Sonny was really hoping you’d have the inside track on her. Sonny’s real interested in knowing what she’s up to. And you know how Sonny can be when he’s really interested.”
“She’s my ex-wife’s friend, not mine. And in case you’ve forgotten, I haven’t lived anywhere near Maryse in over two years. I don’t even know what she’s up to, much less her friends.”
Rico nodded. “Yeah, I guess I can see that. But you see, Sonny’s real interested, and you know how he can be. So what do you say you do a little asking around, maybe to that pretty little ex-wife of yours, and find out what the magic lady is up to.”
“And if I don’t?”
“It wouldn’t be that hard to put some drugs in your toolbox, make a call to that new boss of yours. Or maybe in your truck. Maybe even somewhere on the job site. Hard to know what I might come up with. I’m a creative motherfucker when I want to be.”
Hank felt despair wash over him. He knew Rico was capable of everything he’d just threatened to do and much, much more. “I’ll make a phone call, but I’m not promising anything. My ex may not know the woman’s personal business.”
“Let’s just hope for your sake, she does.” Rico opened the door and stepped out of the truck, then leaned back in the passenger-side window. “I’ll be here tomorrow to see what you found out. And every day after that until Sonny’s satisfied. Understand?”
Hank clenched his teeth and nodded. The last thing he needed was Rico Hebert at his job site every day. Chuck would immediately know that something was up, and it wouldn’t take much to find out who Rico was and what business he was in.
He was royally fucked.
Chapter Five
Raissa pulled into the dimly lit parking garage and slipped through the shadows to the back door of her store building. Her mind raced with all sorts of things, none of them good. What Spider had told her was the absolute opposite of what she’d expected to hear. If Monk Marsella was really at the bottom of the Mississippi and had been for six months, then there was no way he could have kidnapped Melissa Franco. Which meant either that she’d been wrong nine years ago when she’d pegged Monk for the kidnapper, or someone had picked up his work with the exact same MO nine years after the fact.
Neither were very plausible explanations.
She gave the alley and garage a quick scan, an old habit but a practical one, and was relieved to see that neither Zach or any of Sonny’s guys were lurking around corners or trash bins. She unlocked the back door and hurried up the stairs to her apartment. No way had she been wrong about Monk. She’d seen the evidence firsthand in Monk’s house, and the only person besides her with a key to that closet was Monk. If only she’d been able to get the evidence out before he came back and caught her snooping.
That proof that she’d pursued but not collected had cost her two years of undercover work and nine years of her old life. But if Monk hadn’t kidnapped Melissa Franco, then who had? It couldn’t possibly be a coincidence that the MO was exactly the same. Certain details of the case had never been released, so an unrelated copycat wasn’t likely. The only other answer was that Monk had a partner. Someone who’d been in from the beginning and knew how to create the same setup.
But who, and why wait nine years between kidnappings? It made no sense.
Neither did hitting on Detective Blanchard.
Raissa unlocked the door to her apartment, trying to block her mind from the earlier scene at the bar. The fingerprint wasn’t an issue. Sonny was well aware of where she was, so hiding was no longer a concern. The FBI would likely perk up considerably when Zach ran the print through the database, especially as Raissa knew the bureau had presumed her dead years ago when she’d fled protective custody and they’d been unable to find her.
I told him to bring handcuffs.
Raissa groaned and stepped into her apartment, a cold drink and a cold shower the first two items on her to-do list. She stopped short when she realized she had company. Maryse and Sabine sat at her kitchen table, staring at her as if they were waiting for her to pull a rabbit from a hat. Or maybe her cleavage.
“Do you give tarot readings in that outfit?” Maryse asked. “Or do you have another occupation you forgot to mention to your best friends?”
Her friends’ obvious disapproval at her less-than-forthcoming behavior washed over her as if she’d been doused with a bucket of cold water. The good part was, she didn’t need the shower any longer. The bad news was, it looked like the drink was going to have to be a triple. She tossed her keys on the kitchen counter, pulled a bottle of scotch from her refrigerator, and set three glasses on the table. Maryse raised her eyebrows at Sabine, but neither of them said a word.
Raissa poured a splash of scotch into each glass and added a couple of ice cubes, then slid into a chair at the table with her friends. She pushed a glass across the table to each of them and
downed a good portion of her own. “I was a bartender in college,” she said finally. “Got big tips for pulling the caps off beer bottles with my teeth. Took me two years of working at the FBI to pay for all the dental work I needed.”
“You know that’s not what we mean,” Maryse said.
Raissa shrugged. “I might also do a little security work for corporations.”
“What kind of security work?” Sabine asked.
“Companies hire me to test their system’s security.”
Sabine’s eyes widened. “Companies pay you to hack their computer network? How do they even know how to find you?”
“Word of mouth on the Internet. Word goes out that a company is looking for me. I contact them on a secure computer with a new e-mail address, so I can remain anonymous. I get the particulars, hack their system, and point out where the weaknesses are.”
Maryse leaned forward. “That is too cool, but how do you get paid if you have to remain anonymous?”
“Wire transfer to an offshore account.”
Maryse stared. “You’re kidding.”
“I never joke about money.”
“Just how much money are we talking about?” Sabine asked. “I mean, if I’m not being entirely too nosy.”
Raissa smiled. “Anywhere from ten to fifty grand a job. Don’t worry—I pay taxes on all of it. God knows, I don’t need any more trouble with the government.”
“So what happens if they don’t pay?” Sabine asked, clearly fascinated with the entire thing.
Raissa laughed.
“Oh,” Sabine said, her face clearing with understanding. “I guess if you just hacked their system, that wouldn’t be a good idea, right? Talk about guaranteed payment.”
“Holy crap.” Maryse sighed. “Nine years, Raissa. In nine years of knowing us, you never once thought you could trust us with all this?”
“Hell, yeah. Jesus, all of this had nothing to do with trust. I didn’t want to get people involved—especially with something that might put them in danger. Why do you think I keep my security testing anonymous? Even corporations can be convinced to provide information if the right person is asking. Surely, the two of you can understand that.” Raissa frowned, knowing she was hitting below the belt a little. Well, a lot.