Innocent as Sin sk-3

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “Why else would your supervisor be giving you a direct order?”

  You’ve given me lots of direct orders, jerkwad, and you usually change your mind a few minutes later. But all Kayla said aloud was, “I’m listening. What’s so urgent?”

  Rand made a motion with both hands and mouthed, Draw it out.

  “I certainly hope it doesn’t involve the Bertone account,” she added.

  Her tone was so sweetly reasonable that Rand had to smile-sweet reason had nothing to do with her eyes. They wanted Foley’s ass on a platter.

  “Actually, it does,” Foley said. His tone was less certain, like an actor whose lines had been changed.

  “I thought it might,” Kayla said gently. “I left the fund-raiser rather quickly last night. I wondered if Andre and Elena would be upset.”

  “What happened?” Foley asked. “We’ve been worried about you.”

  Rand wanted to spit on the floor.

  From the twist of Kayla’s mouth, she did, too.

  “Well, I was kind of upset,” she said. “A stranger made a hard pass at me in Bertone’s garden.”

  “Uh-” Steve cleared his throat. “That’s awful. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Somebody happened along at the right moment and wilted the guy’s dick.”

  Rand almost laughed out loud.

  “But I was too upset to stay,” Kayla said. “I spent the night at a friend’s house in Gilbert.”

  “Someone from the bank?”

  “No. No one you know.”

  “Are you headed to the ranch now?” Foley asked. “I know you’ve got more stuff to clean out.”

  Rand shook his head.

  “No,” Kayla said. “I’m just running some errands.”

  “Oh. Well, maybe I’ll drop by the ranch later, when you’re home, and help you out. I hate to think of you being alone after what happened last night. Poor baby. I’m so sorry.”

  Kayla lifted her middle finger at the phone, but her voice was smooth as she said, “Hang on a sec.” She put her hand over the microphone, looked at Rand, and said softly, “Sure you don’t want him at the ranch? We could give him and his gun-freak pal a real welcome.”

  Her smile was hard and predatory. Clearly she liked the idea of ambushing the ambushers.

  Concrete hummed beneath the SUV’s wheels. Hamm had turned onto the freeway and was speeding away from Guadalupe.

  Finally Rand shook his head. “Too many places for a sniper to hit you along the way.”

  Kayla took her hand off the microphone. “Oops, damn, I’m about to drop in the cell-phone dead zone at Shea. I’ll call you right back.”

  “Who were you talking to?” Foley asked.

  “Myself, same as always. Can’t break the habit.”

  “You’ve lived alone too long, babe. Why don’t-”

  She punched out and looked at Rand.

  “Why can’t we just call the cops and have them rig a trap at the ranch?” she asked.

  “Faroe is trying, but do you have any idea how much hassle it would be to wire the Maricopa County Sheriff ’s Office into this situation on a moment’s notice?” Rand asked. Then he added in a breathless falsetto, “Oh, Deputy, a very wealthy citizen who also happens to be an international arms smuggler and money launderer is trying to have me killed. He’s using a prominent banker, a Yaqui Indian thug with some ugly friends, and illegal automatic weapons he smuggled into the country.”

  “But St. Kilda-” Kayla began.

  “Is working for a foreign country in a gray area of the law. And the attack on you last night was never reported. Explain that away.”

  “Crap. I feel like Linda Hamilton in Terminator 2.”

  “Get used to it. The first data dump on the Bertones’ political activities just came back from St. Kilda’s research group. Last year they gave more than $1,700,000 in contributions, half to local politicians and half to national candidates. And that’s just the money we’ve traced so far. Who knows what they’ve given to elect the local sheriff? Money like that buys a certain amount of clout with local and federal cops.”

  “St. Kilda found out all that overnight?” Kayla asked, startled.

  “The Internet never sleeps and neither does a St. Kilda researcher. But it was no big hacking deal. Legal political contributions are mostly a matter of public record.”

  “So you’re saying we can’t count on any help from the authorities?”

  “Eventually, yes, they’ll trip all over themselves to help us. But not until we have solid evidence against Bertone. A lot of it. If we don’t get that, we’ll use the outrage after Okay Martin runs the show to twist the politicians, who will then lean on the cops.”

  Kayla laughed. “Okay. That’s Martin’s favorite word.”

  “You noticed. Anyway, we can’t count on outside help right now. If nothing else, it’s a weekend. Local cops with enough brass to go after Bertone are playing golf.”

  “Why can’t St. Kilda do the job?” Hamm asked.

  “If we go looking for a gunfight, ex-judge Grace Silva Faroe will have our balls for breakfast.”

  Kayla grimaced. “I’d rather eat at Cheesecake Factory, thanks all the same.”

  “In a booth away from the windows after eleven,” Rand said. “Anyone good enough to use a Galil is a sniper who will wait for a sure kill. Last thing he wants is you in a hospital surrounded by cops.”

  “What if Foley doesn’t want to play it my way?” Kayla asked.

  “Then tell him you’re too busy, you’ll see him at work Monday.”

  “He could fire me on the spot. Then we’d never figure out what he and Bertone are up to.”

  “Then we lose Bertone and live with it. I won’t let you meet Foley in a place we can’t control.”

  “I’m willing to risk it.”

  “I’m not,” Rand said. “Call Foley back.”

  “But-”

  “Call him,” Rand interrupted, “or I’ll visit him personally and boot this whole bloody act into the crapper where it belongs.”

  Kayla looked at Rand for a long moment. Shaving off his beard should have made him look softer, more civilized.

  It hadn’t.

  She picked up her cell phone and called Steve Foley.

  45

  Chandler Mall

  Sunday

  10:55 A.M. MST

  Yeah,” Faroe said into the mike beneath his collar. He had an earbud in each ear. Hamm was one connection. Grace was the other. “Got it. You make any progress with the cops?”

  “Finally,” Grace said. “Good thing one of your old Border Patrol buddies is a desk sergeant.”

  “Poor sod.”

  “Hey, Sgt. Masters is drawing a Border Patrol pension while drawing full pay from Phoenix PD. Poor doesn’t describe him.”

  Faroe grunted. “Be ready to patch me through to Masters.”

  “I live to serve.”

  He grinned.

  Beside him, Lane looked around the parking lot of the huge mall. “Bet they have a cool computer game store here.”

  “After you pass that test, we’ll worry about game stores,” Faroe said. Then, into the mike: “No, not you, amada. Lane is jonesing for a shopping expedition. And no, I don’t see a beat-up delivery van with mismatched cargo doors. Hamm says they haven’t left the driveway yet.”

  “Lane should be studying,” Grace said through the earbud.

  “All work and no play makes-” Faroe broke off and touched the earbud in his right ear. “Hamm says they’re moving. I’m switching over to Rand’s frequency.” He twisted the dial on one of the iPods in his pocket and said, “Angel on the move.”

  A scratchy sound came back as acknowledgment.

  “Showtime,” Faroe said to Lane.

  “Is the TV crew going to be here?”

  “Yeah, but you better not see them.”

  Lane grinned like a pirate. “See what?”

  46

  Chandler Mall

  Sunday


  11:05 A.M. MST

  The Cheesecake Factory brunch crowd had spilled out into the morning sunshine in front of the Chandler Mall. Rand and Kayla sat inside, with Rand between the door and Kayla. Hands in jeans, he leaned one shoulder against the wall, looking like a man listening to his iPod and waiting to be fed.

  Kayla glanced at him.

  A slight shake of his head was the answer. Then he scratched his neck, reminding her that he was part of other conversations.

  “Hamm tells me the van does indeed have metal slides set in at least the left rear door,” Faroe said. “Score one for you. Looks like they’re setting up a mobile shooting platform. Two dudes. Two Galils.”

  Relief went through Rand like rainwater. “Thank God,” he said without moving his lips.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “You’re not God.”

  “Stop. You’ll make me cry. No one has seen Foley’s car yet.”

  Rand flicked his collar in acknowledgment.

  “I’m calling in a local cop on a ‘hot tip,’ but I’d like to have Foley on tape first. And camera.”

  “Don’t wait too long,” Rand said through his teeth.

  “If Gabriel shakes Hamm, I’m shutting this op down and pulling Kayla. Be ready.”

  Rand straightened his collar, then bent over Kayla. “Everything’s ready for lunch.”

  “We’re an item, right?” She gestured with the electronic paddle that was issued by the restaurant receptionist to signal diners that their table was ready. “I’m all over you like body oil so that Foley can’t miss the message?”

  Rand smiled slowly. “I’ll handle the body oil part. You can concentrate on Foley.”

  “An undercover item,” she mumbled.

  “Well, I do recall being under the covers…” He nuzzled her neck, then covered the microphone with his fingers. “It wasn’t a one-nighter, no matter what you say. Got that?”

  She brushed his cheek with the paddle. “Will Foley buy it?”

  “Fuck Foley. I’m talking to you.”

  “You fuck him. He’s not my type.” She couldn’t help smiling. “Okay. I hear you.”

  “Do you believe me?”

  “I want to.” She let out a long breath. “Let’s table it until this is settled.”

  He bit her gently. “Or until tonight.”

  She closed her eyes. “Or until tonight.”

  “Deal.” He nuzzled her again and released the microphone.

  She cocked her head at him-Stetson, dark shirt stretched over wide shoulders, narrow hips in close-fitting jeans. Definite drool material, and so not the type of man she’d dated since she “grew up.”

  “I hope Foley buys it,” she said.

  “Buys what?”

  “Me hitting the sheets with a western studmuffin.”

  Rand choked. “Studmuffin? Jesus, lady, you-”

  “What if Foley recognizes you as the artist from the party?” she interrupted in a low voice.

  “Then I shaved and cut my hair because you asked me to. But I doubt that he’ll recognize me. He’s too full of himself to really look at other people.”

  “But what if he does?” she insisted.

  “You can’t control all the elements of an undercover op. You just go with the hand you’re dealt.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I’m going to nail Foley’s ass to the shooting house wall.”

  She blinked at the banked fury in Rand’s calm voice. “Why? He’s not the one trying to kill me.”

  “No, he’s just the one setting you up for the hit. Nothing to worry about at all. He’s a real sweet guy.”

  She rubbed her temples. “I keep hoping it’s a bad dream.”

  Rand’s smile slid into a downward curve.

  “Well, not all of it was bad,” she said, touching his cheek, kissing him softly.

  He returned the kiss with interest, then broke reluctantly. “Faroe is around here somewhere. He might have Lane with him for cover-weekend dad takes teenager to the mall. They’ll probably work in pretty close, but don’t see them.”

  She nodded.

  “There are several other operators around,” Rand said, “so if somebody grabs you and whispers ‘St. Kilda’ in your ear, do whatever they say.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I laid a hundred on the receptionist and told her I’m asking you to marry me over nachos. As soon as we spot Foley, I’ll signal her and we’ll go to the head of the lunch line. After Foley arrives, be ready to leave the instant I tell you. I don’t want you out in the open one second longer than-” He broke off.

  Faroe was whispering in his ear.

  “Get a table. Foley’s here.”

  47

  Chandler Mall

  Sunday

  11:15 A.M. MST

  Steve Foley was wearing pressed black jeans and a white silk golf shirt. His leather boots had sterling silver toe guards. The wide amber sunglasses he wore were the type favored by trap and pistol shooters. The laptop computer case he carried was made of the same soft black leather as his boots, with the same engraved silver accents.

  White silk wasn’t a good choice for a man wearing a wire. Though loose, the fabric clung to Foley’s gym-hardened muscles…and the dark shadow of the wire he was wearing on top of them.

  “He’s wired for sound,” Rand murmured to his collar as he leaned close to include Kayla in at least part of the conversation.

  “Beautiful,” Faroe said. “Any guesses on the range?”

  “A thousand feet, max. No bulges for a bigger transmitter. He’s carrying a laptop, so I suppose he could be wireless.”

  “We haven’t found a reliable way to make that kind of transmission go beyond a building. He could have a bigger transmitter in his jeans.”

  “No bulges there, for sure.”

  Faroe laughed. “I’ll tell St. Kilda.”

  The hostess showed Foley to the table personally. Her smile said that if he was lacking bulges anywhere, she hadn’t noticed.

  “Don’t you ever take a day off?” Kayla asked.

  Foley looked blank.

  “Your laptop,” Kayla said.

  He smiled tightly. “Money never sleeps.” His smile faded when he looked at the man beside Kayla.

  Rand met Foley’s glance with a total lack of interest.

  Rude bastard, listening to his iPod while on a date, Foley thought. “Where did you find him?”

  “She pulled back the sheet and there I was.” Rand’s smile was all hard teeth.

  Kayla rolled her eyes. “Jerry, this is my boss, Steve Foley. Steve, this is Jerry.”

  Neither man offered to shake hands.

  If Foley asked for a last name, Kayla was going to say she and “Jerry” hadn’t gotten that far.

  Foley slid into the booth opposite the closely pressed couple. Then he winced and shifted slightly.

  Rand almost laughed. Poor bastard. Someone didn’t put the wire on right. It’s jerking every time he moves.

  “What’s up?” Kayla asked, leaning against Rand with the ease of a woman with her lover.

  Rand nuzzled her neck and watched Foley’s leather laptop case. If the banker started to take anything lethal out of it, Rand would be over the table and around Foley’s throat before anyone could blink. That case was wide and deep enough to conceal more than one weapon.

  “Sorry to interrupt your Sunday morning, but I need Kayla for a few minutes. Bank business, you understand. Private.” Foley’s smile was barely civil.

  “I’ll just put in my other earbud,” Rand said, straightening and moving slightly away from Kayla. “Plenty of privacy that way.”

  “I hate to be rude,” Foley said, “but Kayla and I have work to do.”

  “You’re not being rude.” Rand grinned. “Kayla’s been praising you to the skies. Says you’re the world’s smartest banker. I’ve got money to invest. Match made in heaven, right? You just go ahead and conduct your off-hours business while we eat lunch. That wa
y she won’t put in for overtime.”

  Foley stared at the other man.

  Rand stared back.

  The banker realized that short of physically throwing Kayla’s date out of the booth, he wasn’t going to get her alone. A scene was the last thing Foley wanted, but he gave in with little grace.

  “Lunch.” With a grimace, Foley picked up a menu that had more pages than a small weekly.

  “Order for me,” Rand said to Kayla, running his fingertip over her bottom lip. “You know what I like.”

  She caught the fingertip in her teeth, nipped, licked, and released. “I sure do,” she said in a husky voice.

  Foley’s eyes narrowed.

  “Is Lane old enough to see this?” Faroe’s voice asked in Rand’s ear. “We’re only a few tables away.”

  “Behave, darlin’,” Rand said, “or we’ll never get rid of-um, get through with business and on to better things.”

  Kayla ordered steak and eggs for them.

  Foley ordered a Bloody Mary.

  While the server wrote, Rand looked casually around the restaurant. Faroe and Lane were in place several tables over. They’d been there long enough to have food in front of them. Faroe was drinking coffee with his sandwich while Lane sucked up cola and made his way through a plate of cheeseburgers that were barely bigger than silver dollars. Lane was careful not to look anywhere but at his dad or his food.

  The server left, promising Foley the drink in short order.

  If there were other St. Kilda operators in the restaurant, Rand didn’t recognize them. Nor did he see any of the thugs who’d been gathered around Gabriel in Guadalupe.

  A minute later the Bloody Mary appeared in front of Foley. The restaurant made its profit on the bar. As long as someone was drinking, the food would wait.

  Foley took a swallow, then another. “Kayla, we really should be alone to talk about the account I have in mind.”

  “That dude makes a lousy undercover,” Faroe murmured in Rand’s ear. “You’re supposed to guide the mark, not beat him to death.”

  Kayla managed a look of confused innocence. “I don’t understand. Is this about the Bertone account?”

  “Some aspects of banking involve proprietary information,” Foley snapped. “Our clients expect confidentiality. I shouldn’t have to explain that to you.”