A witness has skipped out on a high-profile case. Find her, bring her back, and there’s a big fat retainer in it for you. We need her. These women keep disappearing and she’s the only one who’s survived. We need her if we hope to can this bastard.
Not the most compelling case, if Lou was as half fire-forged as Lucy made her out to be. We’re going to look for someone couldn’t compare to let’s kill off the mafia.
And there was Brasso’s story itself.
You came all the way down here to ask for my help? King had asked, doing the St. Louis to New Orleans math in his head.
You’re retired. You can take a lengthy road trip, and no one is going to ask you to account for your time. And you’re the most trustworthy guy I know.
It was bullshit flattery and only made sense if Brasso believed there was a rat in the department, tracking his movement.
There was another reason why he would have said yes to about any request from Chaz Brasso.
Brasso’s face had been the first he’d seen after three days in the dark. The hand that had grabbed onto his and pulled him from the rubble.
What the media would later call the Channing Incident, had been the worst days of King’s life.
Eleven enforcement individuals had gone into a building for drugs and a mob boss, and only one had come out alive. King was beneath a set of stairs when the bomb went off, bringing down the Westside brownstone they were searching. For days he laid in the dark, trying to breathe, trying to stay alive.
At 8:30, King stood from his wobbly little chair and went to the pick-up window for another order of beignets.
When he came back to his table, she was there, at his table, as if she’d been waiting for him all along. He slid into the chair across from her. “Lou Thorne?”
She nodded, and he sat the plate of beignets, coffee cup, and three sugar packets on the table. Then he extended his hand, noticing a smudge of powdered sugar on his fingers.
To his surprise, she accepted it, sugar and all. She shook it firm, but not too hard. She wiped the transferred sugar off her hand with a couple of sharp slaps against her thigh.
“And you’re Detective King,” she said.
King snorted. “Is that what your aunt told you?”
She stilled. “You’re not a detective?”
“Not legally, no. I never was. I have the skill set. I was a DEA agent. I taught your old man at Quantico. Got him straight off the bus. He was brilliant. And a hard worker.”
The girl’s ears perked up at the mention of Jack. King filed this observation away as well. Then he kept on, riding this train for as long as the rails were.
“DEA agents do a bit of everything. Investigation. Undercover work.”
He gave her a long look, waiting for questions.
Her brown eyes held his unblinking. Her face was unreadable. She might be Jack’s kid, but those cold, flat eyes were Courtney’s and damn unsettling.
“You’d make a hell of a poker player.”
She considered this comment without smiling. Then she leaned back in her seat, a slight arch to her back. She’s packing, he realized. “Lucy said you want my help with a case.”
Ah, there was Jack. Right to the point. No time for bullshit. Now to see if she had Jack’s patience. He didn’t know how long the kid had been at this game. She could’ve survived this long purely by coincidence.
“This is an interview, Lou. You can’t expect me to hand over secrets about a high-profile case to a stranger. No matter what kind of past I’ve got with your aunt.”
That got a raised eyebrow. So Lucy hadn’t told her about the two of them. King wasn’t sure if his feelings were hurt or if he was relieved. Surely she hadn’t kept their brief but intense relationship secret because she was ashamed. Lucy once tried to get him to go to a naked hot yoga class with everyone’s bits flapping in the wind. Lucy Thorne didn’t do shame.
He saw Lou’s curiosity now. She was looking him over with a different expression on her face.
“Ask your questions.”
He took a long drink of coffee then began. “What kind of training do you have?”
“My dad taught me to shoot when I was a kid. He didn’t want me to be afraid of guns or blow my own brains out.”
King remembered this himself. A memory, warped with age, bloomed behind his eyes. “Maybe I saw you at one of the family picnics.”
“There were a lot of people and a lot of picnics,” she said, looking out over Jackson Square. She shifted in her seat.
She’d been a shy, forlorn kid, he remembered. All the other children had been little bullets of motion and chaos, running, screaming, laughing. And Louie had been at the picnic table with a book. When Lou disappeared, scaring the hell out of Jack, they’d stopped coming to functions.
However else she might have changed, the perfect stillness hadn’t left her.
“Apart from guns, I know some hand to hand. I studied aikido and Uechi-Ryu.”
“When you were a kid?” He sipped his coffee. He was trying to gage how much experience she had. Ten years? Fifteen? Of course, if she was hunting and murdering regularly, he supposed that would keep her sharper than most cops who sat behind desks eating fast food for lunch.
“I wanted my father’s service weapon, but Lucy has a stance on guns in the house. So we compromised. She agreed to send me to the dojo when yoga didn’t work out.”
He couldn’t suppress a grin. “Do you have your own gear? Vests? Concealed weapons?”
“Yes.”
King imagined what kind of apartment this young woman had. Did she push a dramatic red button and walls moved away, exposed studs and an arsenal worthy of a Colombian drug lord?
“Ever been tortured?” he asked.
She glared at him. “I’ve never been caught.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
Her teeth clenched. “Is that relevant to my job duties?”
“In this game, if they can’t catch you, they lean on someone you love. I’ve seen it enough it’s cliché.”
He thought she would shrug him off again, fall back on the false bravado today’s youth relied on. But her face remained pensive. She was serious. God, she was too young to know this was serious.
Goddamn, Jack. I’m sorry.
Sorry for giving him the case and the credit. For painting the target on his back. But most of all he was sorry for this hardened kid left behind.
“Lucy is the only one they can lean on,” she said at last. “And she can take care of herself.”
He took another sip of coffee. “Yes, she can. And from what I’ve heard, so can you.”
“Do you want my help or not?”
“I do,” he said. He grinned and shoved one of the beignets in his mouth. Sucking powder sugar off his fingers. “So you want to know about the case before you say yes? It’s dangerous.”
She gave him a flat, humorless smile. “I appreciate a challenge.”
“My old partner still works for the DEA. He’s got a partial case built but not enough to charge or convict. A senator invites women out onto his boat, only they don’t always come back. One woman took a boat ride into the Texas bay and barely escaped with her life. She agreed to testify against the senator, but then she disappeared. She’s either dead or on the run. We need to find her and convince her we can keep her safe until the trial. Bonus round: We find even more damning evidence on this guy.”
“Why doesn’t your partner want to look for her?” Lou asked.
She asked the right question, without accepting something at face value. Questioning people and their motives was what kept you breathing. Maybe he could keep her alive after all.
King smiled. “Good question. It’s because of who he wants to convict.”
She waited for him to go on, her flat shark eyes never leaving his. It was enough to make his skin crawl.
“Most drug trafficking is a front. A way to generate funds for more ambitious projects. It’s not unlike municipal bonds actu
ally. And when you work within the law, you’ve got to follow the law. And powerful men like Ryanson always have the law on their side.
Lou arched an eyebrow. “Senator Greg Ryanson?”
King nodded, knowingly. “I know. Pristine public image. Philanthropist wife. His two daughters serve charities that make you feel all fuzzy inside.”
“I saw the picture of Ryanson holding the baby panda.”
“His eldest Emma runs the wildlife charity, and she isn’t afraid to use dear old dad’s face for publicity.”
King slid the file across the table and watched her open it.
“But this is him, in the photos, and it’s...” Her voice trailed off.
“Looks damning, doesn’t it?” he agreed. “So we’re going to dig deeper, starting with Paula Venetti. She was his girlfriend for a long time. If she’s still alive, I want to interview her in person. We’ll ask better questions and build on what she gives us.”
“Leads,” she murmured, her face still focused on the photos.
Like a fish to water.
“According to your aunt, we should be able to figure out if she is still alive fast enough.”
Lou didn’t smile. She flicked her eyes up to meet his.
“This case is a chance to expose a horrible man for what he is. Maybe save some lives,” he said. But he didn’t think she cared about the heroic shit one bit. “At the least, we might defund some horrible projects.”
She pushed the folder back over to him but didn’t answer. Her eyes were roaming along the square, taking in the crowds shuffling beneath the streetlights. It was late, but jazz music still played, and the tarot readings over shaky card tables were in full swing. Several cigarettes burned in the dark as peddlers and pickpockets watched the crowd with hungry eyes.
“I’ve only got one last question,” he said, vying for her attention. “I’ll ask it while you’re walking me back.”
She looked at him warily as he slid the folder under his arm and stood. They exited Café du Monde’s congested patio, stepping out into the hot summer night. She moved through the crowd effortlessly, cutting the waters without bumping into the drunks or the beggars with their hands out.
She’d be a hell of a stalker.
They’d made it to St. Peter Street when he stopped her. “Your aunt seemed to think you were in some kind of trouble. Maybe it’s too late to get out. That’s why she asked me to hire you.”
Lou leaned against a brick wall at the mouth of the alley. Most of her was in shadow, with only a square of light from an adjacent shop, a closed antique store, cutting across her face.
“She said you’ve been killing off the men responsible for your old man’s murder.” He waited for her to speak. When she didn’t, he backtracked. “What?”
“I’m listening for a question,” she said.
Smart-ass. King wasn’t sure if she’d gotten that from Courtney or Jack. “Are you in trouble?”
“If you want a partner,” she said, turning away from the lit mannequin in the window to face him. “Don’t talk to me like I’m a victim. I don’t need your protection.”
“There’s nothing wrong with accepting help,” he said. He felt stupid as soon as the words left his mouth. He didn’t know her. And the idea she needed help from this old man with a gut was patronizing at best. “I’m not going to sell you out. I’m just wondering if you’re in too deep to surface on your own.”
“You have your own problems, King.”
He had no time to react before she pulled herself up onto her tiptoes and clasped her hands on the back of his neck. She brought her face close to his, and for a horrifying moment, he thought she was going to kiss him.
She was beautiful. No question. Her body was young and tight in all the ways his had gone soft. She had Courtney’s full jaw and Jack’s big eyes. Her slender neck gave way to sharp collar bones.
He tried to pull away, but the hand on the back of his neck tightened, locking him in place. Any illusion he had about how easy it would be to disentangle himself evaporated. His pulse leapt. She could snap his neck if she wanted.
She brushed her lips against his ear. “You have a man following you, and he looks like a professional asshole. What do you want to do about it?”
He plastered on his own fake grin, seeing his reflection in the shop window do the same. He hated the look of it. An old man preying on a girl half his age. Less than half his age.
Lou stepped away from him, placing herself entirely in the alley shadows. She was impossible to see. In darkness, the eye relied on movement, but Lou was perfectly still. Invisible.
“$300 an hour,” he shouted. “That’s outrageous!”
He heard her dry laugh.
King made a big show of patting himself down. Then he whipped his head up. “You stole my wallet! Hey, come back here!”
He pretended to chase her down the alley, stepping off the side street into the dark. He fumbled through the darkness until she took pity on him and took his arm.
“Get us a better view,” he rasped. He was embarrassed how winded he was from shouting.
The world had been yanked out from under him.
His stomach dropped as if he’d reached the top of a roller coaster and was now sailing down the other side. He was falling.
Then they were on a balcony. They stepped away from the corner of a privacy wall, dividing the balcony for two separate units’ use. Lou grabbed his arm and yanked him down, so they were hunched behind the iron rails. She pulled apart a nest of fern tendrils and peered at the street below. King did the same. His knees popped when he crouched, and already his lower back burned. He had little confidence he would be able to get up from this crouch quickly.
“Look,” she said, still watching the street. The stalker entered the alley, then came back out. He threw up his hands, apparently angry he’d lost his target. Then he headed up the block, presumably to catch King further up.
“The question is, was he tailing you or me?” he asked.
She looked ready to dismiss him outright, but then she hesitated.
“No one tails me.” She met his gaze, her eyes shimmery in this streetlight. “They’re looking for you. Maybe they know your game for Ryanson.”
If they did, that was damn fast.
He stood slowly, slipping back into the shadow of the overhang. He leaned against a dark window. As soon as he did, a light kicked on in the bedroom, and a woman shot straight up in bed, screaming. Lou grabbed his shirt and shoved him into the corner.
Another roller-coaster drop and they were by the river beside a streetcar stop. It was abandoned this late at night, the tram running only during reasonable hours. They were alone except for the homeless man sleeping beneath the bench, a brown bottleneck protruding from a paper sack inches from his face. He was snoring too damn loud to give a shit about what they were saying.
“God, how can you stand that?” he asked, one hand on his stomach.
“What?”
He described the feeling to her. “It’s jarring.”
“I don’t feel anything,” she said.
King wanted to ask more, part horrified, part fascinated by her strange gift, but she looked ready to run. He would’ve bet a twenty spot she had somewhere to be.
“Are you sure you want to work this case?” he asked. He ran a hand through his hair. Sweat had beaded along his scalp, and his palm came away damp. “If those men were looking for me, then this is hot. And it’s only going to get hotter.”
“Are you sure you want to work with me?” she countered. “You’ll have twice as many enemies.”
He smiled at that. He saw Jack standing at ease in the Quantico gym as King paced in front of the men and women with their hands clasped behind their backs, chins up.
Are you sure you want this job? It’s not all party dresses and tea time. DEA agents die every day. Some hard ass motherfuckers roam the streets of America. He’d stopped in front of Jack Thorne, speaking to him for the first time. Are you re
ady for them?
Are they ready for me? Jack had asked.
“You’re more vulnerable than I am,” she said. Her lip pouted out when she was thinking. It was cute. “If anyone sees us working together, they might kill you thinking you were part of...” Her voice trailed off. “...of what I’ve done.”
He considered this. It wasn’t bravado. Lou wasn’t blowing smoke up his ass or puffing her chest. She was stating a fact.
“You are in deep,” he said.
Lou smirked, a cold, hard twitch of her lips. “I’ve no illusions as to how this ends. I know what happens to people like me. People like my dad.”
People like me, he thought.
“Live by the sword, die by the sword,” she said.
The skin on the back of his neck stood up.
She turned, giving the impression she was about to leave him there by the streetcar stop.
“You’re right,” he blurted out, hoping to stop her. He gestured around them. “I am vulnerable. But you’d save me a lot of time. It takes hours and hours to research and hunt. More if I have to fly or drive. I can’t say you’re not a preferable alternative.”
Not to mention her skills. She’d spotted the men in the crowd when he hadn’t. She was young. Sharp. And he preferred working with a partner than working alone. He always had.
She gave him another once over. “When do you want to go talk to Paula?”
“Tomorrow?” he asked.
She agreed to his suggested time and meeting place before she disappeared, leaving him alone at the deserted trolley stop.
He thought, Lucy is going to kill me.
8
As soon as she could, Lou ditched King and went looking for Castle. She made only a quick stop at her apartment for a wardrobe change, having left the heavy stuff at home lest the retired cop turn out to be a snitch for Aunt Lucy.
Sitting on the edge of her bed, Lou slipped her feet into black sneakers. Then she pulled her dark hair into a low ponytail and brushed her teeth. It was a waste of time to wash her face. She’d be filthy again by the end of the night.
Ready, she stepped into an empty closet and waited in total darkness.
Shadows in the Water Page 7