“Hello, Connell,” Foster said. “What brings you to the West coast?”
The glass hesitated partway to the man’s lips, before rising. He took a long drink as the denizens of the bar rustled and adjusted their positioning, a few rising from their seats to come closer. Good, honest, hardworking Irish mafia boys, the lot of them, glowering with their guns hidden inside their jackets and their attitudes on their ugly faces.
Why did she feel more threatened by them than a hard-core biker gang?
“Supervisory Special Agent Quinlan Foster.” The man’s accent was subtle, but Irish enough, though more New York than anything. An affectation? Possibly. Or enough time spent with elders from the old country to rub off. “Congratulations on your promotion.”
“Thanks, Connell.” Foster took a seat, sighing happily. “You and your charming brothers are to thank for that.”
Connell’s glass hit the bar with a dull thud. When he turned his head to meet Foster’s gaze, Gerri got a good look. A handsome young man, maybe mid-twenties, a face the ladies probably swooned over. But eyes as flat and cold as a shark’s.
“Question is,” Connell said, “what are you doing here?” He glanced at Gerri, gave her the up and down. “If you’re into redheads, I can recommend some back East.”
A couple of the boys chuckled. Gerri grinned with her teeth showing, picturing slamming Connell’s arrogant face into the bar. “Aren’t you adorable,” she said. “So clever, and all that. In my city.” She flashed her badge. “Do you hear that, Mr. O’Reilly? New York is calling.”
Anger this time. “I’m not going anywhere.” He finished his beer while the tension in the place deepened, the old wood walls and rough floor seeming to vibrate with it. The bartender backed down the bar, hands under the counter. Another shotgun, more than likely. Or, for all she knew, some kind of semi-auto trained on her.
“The lady might ask nicely,” Foster said, voice low and soft, “but I won’t, Connell. You’ve already taken out Beecher. And Jordan Michaels killed himself this afternoon. So, your job here is done.”
Connell spun on Foster, jaw jumping, one index finger jabbing the agent in the chest. “We had nothing to do with Beecher,” he snarled. “It’s Michaels we want. He’s the rat bastard who killed my grandpa.”
Wait a second. He what?
“And don’t for a second think we’re falling for that dying act of his.” Connell turned back to his empty beer. The bartender reluctantly left his post—gun, no question—to refill the glass at the pour spout. “We’ll track him down and make sure the job is done. For Alroy.”
“For Alroy!” The cheer startled Gerri as every man in the room called out, the women, too. These Irish took their revenge seriously.
“As for Beecher,” Connell sipped his new beer, “you might want to ask Peter Ashmore about that.” He shrugged. “I hear he’s been looking for the boys since they turned him in to you Feds.”
Foster stood, adjusted his suit coat as though at a cocktail party surrounded by friends. “Nice seeing you, Connell.” He turned his back and strode from the bar, Gerri following with the same casual air, though her entire body vibrated with nerves.
It wasn’t until they were back in the car she exhaled all her anxiety. “Okay,” she said, “I might be impressive, but you, Very Special Agent, have balls the size of Texas.”
“Alaska,” he winked. “And you have no idea. Yet.”
More blushing. She was going to die of embarrassment.
Foster didn’t seem to notice, though was that pink on his cheeks, too? “Two dead ends,” he said, “though it’s the first time I’ve heard anyone accuse Michaels of Alroy’s death.”
“He said Beecher did it.” The lying little pusspocket. She was going to kill him herself and enjoy doing it.
“It’s what was rumored all along.” Foster frowned into the late afternoon sun. “One last interested party to talk to. You ready for the worst of the bunch?”
Gerri shrugged, settling back in her seat. “You met one scumbag…”
Foster laughed. “I see your scumbags,” he said, “and raise you Peter Ashmore.”
That sounded encouraging.
***
INT. – THE MELTON HOTEL – EARLY EVENING
The Melton Hotel was probably the last place Gerri should have been with Agent Foster, considering the mood she was in. She let him take the lead, heading directly for the elevators past the long, black marble desk and smiling staff. She felt rather out of place despite her dress jacket, jeans and boots a contrast to Foster’s smart, black suit. Still, she knew how to hold her own when one or more of the desk attendants raised an eyebrow. She carried enough confidence around with her to shut up anyone.
Her mind was definitely on a dirty path as the elevator doors closed on the pair of them, alone in the quiet, muzak-filled space, with a mirror to her right and left casting Foster's reflection into her periphery. She liked the look of them together; he tall and broad, dark hair over tanned skin, she fair and flame-haired. They’d make an imposing couple.
Dear God, was she picking out china all of a sudden?
“I take it you already know where we’re going?” Gerri did her best to keep her tone light, startled by the huskiness in her voice.
Foster didn’t look at her, though his body leaned slightly toward her. “Not my room, if that’s what you’re wondering.” Gerri inhaled his scent, with about a half a heartbeat to absorb the rich aroma, before the bell chimed and the doors opened into a plush hallway.
“After you, Detective.” So stiff and formal suddenly. Gerri didn’t comment. In fact, she was grateful for his gruffness. It helped shake her free of her own intense fascination with the man. Maybe if he was a jerk to her the feeling would go away. Not likely. She’d dated her share of jerks and rather liked the type, at least in bed.
What was it about this guy that pulled her to him like this?
Foster joined her in the hall, gesturing, though there was no real need, down to the end where two large men in suits that strained to contain their massive bulk waited, hands folded in front of them. Matching buttheads. How original. Gerri put a swing in her hips as she stomped toward them, a grin growing on her face.
This was going to be fun.
But, before she could get in their faces—something that would have, at least, taken the edge off the sexual tension she felt between she and Agent Foster—one of them whispered into his wrist. Just as she reached them, the bodyguard opened the door and waved them through with a grunt of acknowledgment.
Foster was a gentleman about it, letting Gerri take the lead. This was as much his case as hers, so she appreciated his generosity. Considering she’d agreed to hand this mess over to him, he was going out of his way to see to it she stayed in play.
A man with a badge who respected her. Not a complete novelty, but enough of one he jumped in her books about ten pages to the front.
The suite within warmed with the last light of the day, long, golden sunbeams washing over the white leather furniture where a small man in a T-shirt and jeans lounged. He stood with a smile, waving to Foster before bowing over Gerri’s hand as the pair joined him in the living room of the sumptuous quarters.
“Detective Geraldine Meyers.” The young man’s sparkling personality and handsome face hid a cleverness she didn’t miss. “Agent Foster, you’ve made a new friend.”
“Mr. Ashmore.” Foster shook his hand. “Always a pleasure.”
“I’m sure.” Peter Ashmore sat again, bare feet on the coffee table, pointing to the comfortable looking chairs opposite him. Gerri paid close attention to the tall, thin man standing to the right and behind the sofa, in his own crisp, black suit. Faintly tan skin and dark eyes and hair had a mid-Eastern flair. She pegged him as former Mossad before Ashmore introduced him.
“My chief of security, Levi Shiloh.” Gerri nodded as the man nodded in return. Definitely Mossad, former Israeli intelligence if she knew her suits. He carried himself like an assass
in, all loose and watchful. What was a casino owner doing with such high-power help?
And Foster didn’t seem remotely surprised. If she’d been in control of herself in the elevator, she’d have asked some damned questions ahead instead of wondering what he’d look like naked. Now she’d have to make it up as she went along.
“Business or pleasure, Quinlan?” Ashmore seemed more than familiar with the agent.
“Always business, unfortunately.” Foster shrugged, wide shoulders rippling under his jacket.
“You haven’t given more thought to my offer, then.” Ashmore faked a frown. “You’d be an excellent addition to my team.”
“The FBI seems to be where I belong at the moment.” Why was Foster being so careful with this guy? He was accused of murder, wasn’t he? Gerri held still, wishing she knew more.
“Ah. Unfortunate. Well, ask your questions, and I’m happy to answer. As usual.” They had a past, that much was clear. Gerri would hate to find out Foster was dirty.
But, anything was possible.
“We’re here about Ryan Beecher.” Ashmore glanced over his shoulder at Shiloh. “And Jordan Michaels.”
“Those two.” Ashmore leaned forward and retrieved his drink from the coffee table. “First they accuse me of murder, then they disappear before they can testify. Sounds sketchy to me.”
“Not if you paid them to run.” Gerri had no idea what was up, but she wasn’t going to let Foster pussy foot around the necessary.
“True enough.” Ashmore’s hazel eyes sparkled with good humor. His fanboy T-shirt rippled as he moved, the spaceship gracing the center of it taking on the contour of his chest. “Except, I didn’t. Unless you did, Levi?”
“No, sir,” the security chief said, voice soft, supple, without a hint of accent.
“There.” Ashmore saluted Gerri with his glass. “So, we’re left with one explanation. They lied, then ran when they had no evidence to share with our delightful Agent Foster here.”
Like Gerri was buying that.
“Ryan Beecher is dead.” Maybe Foster was playing soft to catch Ashmore unaware. When neither of the men reacted with any emotion, Gerri snorted.
“You already knew that.” She pulled out her notebook. “You do realize his death puts you in the clear for the initial charges against you, making you my first suspect in his murder?”
“How’s that, Detective Meyers?” Ashmore’s voice had grown cold, soft.
“Since he was the one who pulled the trigger for you,” she said.
Ashmore’s hazel gaze traveled from Gerri to Foster and back again. “I didn’t kill Mr. Beecher,” he said. “And, you might want to double check your details.”
Fucking Jordan. Fucking lied to her again, didn’t he? She should have been used to it by now.
“Not to state the obvious,” Foster said, “but you’re claiming Jordan Michaels pulled the trigger and killed the cheating gambler, Jared Patterson, at your casino?”
“If there had been a trigger,” Ashmore said, staring down into his drink. “If there had been a murder. I’d be much more likely to suspect Mr. Michaels.” He sipped before gesturing toward the door. “Thanks for dropping by, Agent Foster. It’s been lovely, as always.”
Shiloh was already moving, circling the couch to stand next to Gerri. He smelled of cinnamon and jasmine, a delicious combination, but his flat eyes promised violence.
“Thanks for your time.” Foster left without a struggle, Gerri following after him. A glance over her shoulder at Ashmore got her a jaunty salute before the door slammed shut behind her.
Gerri waited until they were in the elevator to hit the stop button. It jerked to a halt as she confronted Foster. Anger was a good thing. It fired off different feelings, different needs, kept the attraction at bay. “Who is he?”
Foster inhaled softly. “The son of a powerful diplomat. One we must tread lightly around.”
“Like hell.” She prodded Foster in the chest with one finger. “You could have told me.”
“I wanted to see how much he’d let you get away with.” The agent grinned down at her. “More than I would have without you.”
“I don’t like being played.” And yet, she couldn’t bring herself to be angry any longer. She would have done the same to him given the chance.
“Apologies.” He reached for the stop button. Hesitated. Turned back to her. “We need to talk about this.”
“I know.” She bit her lower lip, frowning. “We have three equally viable suspect pools, none of whom have eliminated themselves, as far as I’m concerned.”
Foster chuckled, hit the start button with one thick thumb. “Right,” he said. “Business it is.”
Gerri’s heart skipped. “Wait, what?”
He turned away from her, smiling at the elevator doors. “Nothing, Detective.”
Well, damn it all to hell.
She almost stopped the elevator again. But Foster was talking and the moment was lost.
“I always wondered about Ryan Beecher as a suspect,” he said. “He seemed too soft, too slow. But he confessed to the murder of Jared Patterson when he and Michaels came to see me originally.”
“Jordan Michaels is a charmer,” Gerri said, scowling as she thought about Kinsey. “And if they’ve been friends as long as he said they were, it’s possible he manipulated Ryan into taking the fall for him.”
Foster glanced at her with a frown. “Was,” he said. “You keep forgetting Michaels is dead.”
Shit. And yet, she really, really wanted to see Jordan get what was coming to him.
“About that.” She sighed as the doors opened. Foster spun on her, his turn to scowl.
“I knew it,” he growled. “He’s still alive, isn’t he?” He shook his head, striding off, and for once Gerri had to pick up speed to keep up. “Why were you covering for him?”
“I wasn’t,” Gerri said. “Not exactly.” Humidity hit her in the face as they stepped out into the early evening. “I’m just keeping him under wraps until I can find Ryan’s killer. I was going to give everything over to you once I had the case solved.”
Foster paused next to his car, staring at the pavement before nodding. “I would have done the same, before I got to know you.” He looked up again, anger burning in his eyes. “Thanks for telling me now.”
She didn’t know what to say to that. “You know what? I just want him off my hands,” she said. “Can you do that?”
“Sure you don’t want in on the rest of this messed up case?” Foster’s temper faded to a faint smolder.
“I think you can handle it.” Gerri’s pocket rang. She fished the phone from her jacket, noting Ray’s number, answered.
“Gerri.” That was panic in the medical examiner’s voice. Damn it, what now?
“What?” Gerri jumped in the car, Foster already behind the wheel.
“Someone kidnapped Jordan,” the brunette said, breathless. “And Kinsey with him.”
***
EXT. – SILVER CITY STREETS – EVENING
Gerri tracked Kinsey’s phone easily, directing Foster as they went. “Ray said the Divinities,” she said as Foster raced through the streets toward the blip on the detective’s screen.
“I need to call in my team.” All business. And though she agreed with him, what if Jordan was shot? And Foster witnessed the death first hand this time? He’d never believe Jordan’s end was an act.
Bad enough to have one FBI agent realize there was something weird going on, let alone three.
She couldn’t stop him when he made his call, and made one of her own, to Jackson of all people. Got his answering service, the jackass. Mills was next on her list.
“On our way.” The wail of her unit’s siren cut off as she hung up.
Gerri’s body pressed hard against her seat belt as Foster took the next turn too fast, tires skidding on pavement as they raced toward the pier. A great place to murder someone if you were a biker gang, and dump the body in the ocean for the sharks. While she
had no problem with the idea Jordan might wake up alive and well in the belly of a beast, Kinsey wouldn’t be so lucky.
The blip on Gerri’s phone went out, indication the Divinities found the blonde’s cell and dumped it. But, too late. They were already in sight, around the corner of a massive, empty warehouse. Foster didn’t bother with a siren or a light, aiming the sedan directly for the gathering of motorcycles with his foot on the gas.
“Might want to hold onto something,” he said.
Gerri didn’t bother, breathless at the anticipation of the impact.
Guns fired in their direction, the small figures of gang members growing large rapidly as Foster barreled toward the cluster of Divinities. They scattered at the last minute, Gerri catching sight of Kinsey, Jordan beside her, diving for cover just as Foster hit the brakes, spinning the wheel to the left.
The sedan skidded to a halt, rocking sideways within feet of the first line of bikes. Foster was already out of the car, gun in hand, covering the scene, Gerri right behind him. The blare of sirens behind her told her Mills didn’t come alone.
Chigger glared up at Gerri from where he’d fallen to the ground, blood on his cheek from an asphalt scrape. “You almost killed us,” he said.
“Almost.” Gerri grinned, gun sweeping over the half-dozen Divinities who held up their hands, sullen expressions flat and angry. “Doesn’t count.” She tipped her chin to Foster. “Nice driving.”
Mills’s unit screamed to a halt, she and Purcell leaping out with cuffs at the ready. Gerri went for Chigger personally, shoving him down onto his face on the pavement before frisking him with one hand. The revolver tucked in his waistband clattered to the ground, shoved aside with one of her boots before she cuffed him nice and tight.
“Kidnapping, Chigger.” She breathed in his ear as she pulled him to his feet. “Gotcha.”
Try Dying (Episode Six: The Nightshade Cases) Page 7