Devil's Deal

by Terri Lynn Coop

  Snow rubbed his eyes, fatigue visible in every line. “I can give you twenty-four hours. Price, since you’re the lead, keep us informed and make sure this paperwork goes as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, we’ll draft the official versions. I assume you want those to go to Loeb?”

  “Yes and what is this about Price being the lead’?

  “You will work this with him. He’s your new partner.”

  “I work alone.”

  “Not any more you don’t. Price is now your handler and he works in conjunction with the Texas Rangers on logistics and ground support. Take it or leave it, Miss Martin.” Snow opened his briefcase, signifying the conversation was over.

  Meeting Price’s gaze, I started to say something. He shook his head slightly. Confused, I followed his lead. It was Price who broke the silence.

  “I think we have one more item on the agenda. Who in the hell is Rockhound?”

  In the give and take, I’d almost forgotten the prize. “Y’all are going to hate yourselves when I tell you. I can’t believe you don’t know. Apparently all that vaunted inter-agency cooperation doesn’t extend to the Secret Service. It’s been four years, but still.”

  Snow was all business now. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Rockhound was his Secret Service handle when his wife was a short-lived candidate for president in the last election. He liked it, so it stuck.”

  The reactions ranged from thunderstruck to amused.

  I adopted a sarcastic game show host tone. “Rockhound, better known as Dr. Allen Monroe, is the devoted husband—well, when he isn’t chasing hookers—of Lillian Monroe, the bible-thumping, flag-waving, big-business-loving darling of the far right. A pillar of his church, Dr. Monroe is a former professor of geology at Texas A&M and is now a private consultant to the oil industry while his wife flits around conservative talk radio. That is, when he isn’t facilitating the smuggling of contraband minerals between Africa and China.”

  The look on their faces was worth the entire morning ordeal.

  CHAPTER 32

  “Where’s Fisk?” I asked Price as he backed the sedan with the pee-stained tires out of the parking space. He seemed to be in as much of a hurry to get out of there as I was.

  “I’m sure the Major is bending his ear about this operation. Unfortunately, we’re stuck with him as our local contact.”

  Like I’m stuck with you.

  “Price, this is weird. I have to confess, I feel like I’m on a blind date.”

  With a blindingly sexy guy who probably thinks I should be in prison. No pressure.

  That earned me the sight of his mismatched dimples, two on one side and one on the other. “Hey, one day I’m writing up reports on meth buy and busts, the next I’m told to go team up with a lawyer who is tied up in some terrorist shit. A defense lawyer with a rep as a hot rod, to be exact. This isn’t exactly SOP for me, either.”

  That explained his less than high-and-tight appearance. Special Agent Ethan Price was an undercover specialist. At least he had skills and training.

  He interrupted my musing. “Where to?”

  “I have three things I need to do. First, drop off Simon at a friend’s place. Second, I have to go to Dallas and see my dad.” I left it at that.

  “And the third?”

  I laughed. The blind-date simile was about to get worse. “I have got to get some lunch. Do you like barbecue?”

  “That is a big ten-four, Miss Martin. I am at your service. Tell me how to get to that crazy-ass trailer park, we’ll drop off your pooch, and lunch is on me. We can talk about Dallas from there.”

  “If we’re going to work together Agent Price, you should call me Juliana.”

  “Make it Ethan and you’ve got a deal.” Dimples again.

  This was insane. It could work. It had to work.

  “I have a rep as a hot rod?”

  “Extreme. We were closing in on the Gato Negros when you short-circuited it with the Fuentes deal. Shot all of our info back to square one when they went underground. I didn’t get it until I saw his med records. That was well played. You caught the prosecutors flat-footed.”

  I bridled at the mention of the Gatos, but didn’t say anything. I didn’t know if he was fishing and reminded myself, despite looking like a rock star, he was a cop. And to him, I was little more than an informant, an asset to be used.

  “You’re on the outlaw MC beat?”

  “Yes, I’ve been there for seven years, investigative and undercover.” He pulled back, like he also remembered who I was and that we weren’t on a date. “We’ll leave it at that, okay?”

  I nodded. Damn, this was weird.

  CHAPTER 33

  Luckily, drippy ribs are not conducive to serious discussion. We both stayed behind our chosen boundaries and kept it to the merits of different barbecue styles. When the last wet wipe was in a wad, we had to face the two-ton gorilla on the patio.

  “I have to get on the road to Dallas. It’s three hours and I need time to see Dad.”

  “Want some company?”

  I was afraid he was going to say that.

  “You are not going in with me, don’t even ask. This is all privileged.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it. Seriously, I have some business at the office and I want to swap that piece of government crap for something out of the undercover pool. Am I correct that a beige sedan is not conducive to whatever you have in mind?”

  I hadn’t even started thinking of operational details and he was already two steps ahead of me. I couldn’t decide if I was impressed or scared.

  “Good idea, Ethan.” His first name sounded strange to me.

  “Sweet. So, what’s the image? Do you want money, speed, or style?”

  That one sat me back. I had to think. Sipping my iced tea, I looked him from head to toe, pragmatically, not distracted by his looks. Despite the managerial firepower at this morning’s meeting, he’d worn boots, black jeans, and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled over his forearms. He lounged, at ease, under my scrutiny. What was it Dad had said in his letter, about my ability to go off the grid? I prided myself in being able to morph into whatever was necessary to make the deal.

  “How old are you?”

  “I’m thirty-six. Why do you ask?” He seemed surprised.

  I ignored his question. “Military?”

  “Air Force. One tour.”

  A vision formed in my head. “Ethan, here’s the shopping list for the vehicle. Vintage American, muscle if that’s an option. The body can be restored, but not customized. Get it totally stock, especially the wheels, and none of those tacky-ass spinners. Absolutely nothing that says city or hood. Got it?”

  “Anything else?” There was amusement in his voice, but respect in his expression. He was following my lead and he knew where it was going.

  “No, that ought to do it.”

  “I think we have what you’re looking for. Asset forfeitures have been brisk this year.”

  “Efficient lawyers are efficient.”

  He signaled for the check. It was time to hit the road.

  CHAPTER 34

  Ethan dropped me on the street in front of Gerald’s office over thirty minutes early with a promise to return at seven. I hadn’t needed to give him the address. Evidently, the dossier that Fisk was probably sketching my tattoos into must have included information on the family lawyer.

  He’d driven like a guy carrying federal ID in a car carrying federal plates. What the sedan lacked in style it had made up for in horsepower. We’d kept the conversation off-topic, swapping stories about cases and the hilarious stuff we’d seen in court. I found it most interesting that we both knew when to back off.

  “Gerry, she’s here!” I barely had time to register the elegant surroundings before Loeb’s secretary Sandra nearly broke my ribs with her hug. “How are you doing, sweetie? I can’t believe all of this. Can I get you some tea?”

  I tuned out her patter as I extricated myself and breathe
d deep. It was impossible not to be happy around her. Every staffer, lawyer, friend, and client was her baby and must have a glass of sweet tea in their hand at all times. If Gerald hadn’t restrained her, I think she would have led the crowd in a wave at my law school graduation.

  “Sandra, no thanks on the tea right now. Maybe a little later.” The next voice made me even happier.

  “Well, if it isn’t the boss lady, back from her exile in Rednecklandia.”

  My assistant Anthony dropped a file box to hug me with the same sincerity and a fraction of the compression.

  “What are you doing here? I can’t believe it.” Barely more than a week and the sight of my tall and painfully stylish sidekick brought home how much things had changed.

  “Since I was suddenly, and without warning, unemployed, Gerald hired me to deal with all the client files and RICO crap. The boxes started arriving yesterday. It also keeps me in the loop confidentiality-wise. So many birds with one little stone.”

  “He’s also the best damn paralegal in the city. I wasn’t about to let another firm grab him. And, it just so happened, I was down a staffer.” Gerald Loeb offered yet another hug. Damn, it felt like home here.

  “How are you?” asked Gerald.

  “It’s been a long-ass day. You have no idea.”

  “I have some. A bunch of documents were couriered here about twenty minutes ago. I was looking them over when you breezed in. Not that I’m complaining, but you’re early.”

  “I had a police escort.”

  His expression darkened. Obviously the joke hadn’t transmitted. I gestured to his office, “Can we talk?”

  “It’s what we do,” he answered. I followed him in and clicked the do-not-disturb lock. The first thing I noticed was the two documents on Gerald’s desk, the cover sheets bearing the DOJ logo.

  “Well, what do you think?” I asked.

  Gerald was silent as he busied himself at the bar. The top shelf stuff was out. He handed me a drink before he sat behind his desk. “Pretty fucking amazing,” he said, raising his glass in a toast. I loved that about him. So dapper, more like an accountant with a split-level ranch in the ‘burbs than the foul-mouthed, hot-tempered, high-roller attorney he truly was.

  “Here’s to transactional immunity.” I raised my glass in return before I took a sip of the mellow bourbon. “I wish I could have done better for Dad.”

  “Jewel, I can read between the lines and I know you saved his damn life. I’ll handle the prison sentence.”

  “They’ll want major asset forfeiture.” I was so commingled with the firm that such a move would slaughter me along with Dad.

  “Speaking of assets, weird shit has happened. They unfroze all of your financial accounts and released your loft.” He tossed a couple of sheets of paper my way.

  “What the hell? But everything is titled in the firm’s holding company. I didn’t even ask during the negotiation. Any clue what it means?”

  “Sweetie, look at the date. This happened a good thirty-six hours ago, well before your chat this morning. Honestly, I think it was a ploy to smoke you out and bring you back to Dallas. I don’t think they knew where you were and they were getting antsy.”

  Another sip. “But Gerald, they were on my doorstep at dawn this morning. They didn’t seem to have much problem finding me.”

  “Something must have turned up at the last minute. Have you been using plastic?”

  “No and the car is clean. Damn, wait a minute. I’ll bet I know.”

  Gerald gestured for me to continue.

  “Uncle Jimmy had a lawyer in Beaumont handling his stuff. I’d found out my inheritance was a camper, a Chihuahua, and an urn of ashes. Without thinking, I signed a Power of Attorney so he could do the title transfer. I am such an idiot.”

  “And the attorney, in a fit of efficiency, filed the transfer with your name and brand-spanking new address on it. You’ll probably have the new title and license plate waiting when you get back. I’ll bet it lit up the cops’ computers like it was Christmas.” He gave me another toast and drained his glass.

  “I am beyond words.”

  “I can’t wait to tell your dad. Juliana Martin, she-who-walks-like-the-night, was found through DMV records for a camper,” he said, his face contorted with suppressed laughter.

  “Shut the hell up, would you?”

  “Hey, Bond-Jane-Bond, let’s go see Tommy.”

  “I’m not sure I want to now.”

  He put the docs in his briefcase and pulled on his suit jacket. “It’s like a Band-Aid, grab an edge and pull it fast. It’ll hurt less in the long run.”

  “I hate you.”

  CHAPTER 35

  The Dallas County jail occupies a good chunk of the block on Commerce Street. I took the lead through security because I’d been there many more times than Gerald. Finally, we were in one of the West Tower interview rooms. They’d put Dad in a private cell in the protective custody wing after he’d offered to write an appeal for someone in the gen pop day room.

  I’ve seen a lot of things in my life, but nothing prepared me for my father in shackles and jail whites. No one said anything until the guard popped the cuffs and closed the door.

  “Jewel.” My name hung in the awkward silence.

  I had trouble answering. Even with his tousled hair and puffy face, he was still my handsome urbane father. His eyes sparkled and lips twisted into the smile I’d seen separate billionaires from their money many times. Tommy Martin was still on the case.

  “Hi Dad.” More silence. He was one of the few people on the planet who could render me at a loss for words.

  Finally, Gerald opened his portfolio and pushed the agreements across the table to my father. “Okay, I hate to interrupt this touching family reunion, but we don’t have a lot of time. Tommy, this is a setup, and your daughter is willing to risk her ass to save yours.”

  Dad arched an eyebrow so blond it was nearly transparent and picked up the papers. After a few minutes, he put them down and folded his hands.

  “Rockhound?”

  “Yes. They didn’t know who he was. Those agreements cost me Monroe’s name and the guts of the smuggling arrangement. Dad, I gave up a client.”

  I sat back, waiting to be blasted for my betrayal. Instead, he reached across the pitted metal table and took my hands.

  “Punkin, you don’t have to do this. This is on me. I’ll take the load.”

  His hands were cool and dry. I clasped them tighter and answered, “Yes, I do. Pragmatism aside, remember, I confessed to make that deal. If I don’t go through with it, my immunity evaporates and I’m fragged, tagged, and bagged. There is also no way I can let them fry you for murder. They aren’t stupid. They knew how to stack the deck in their favor.”

  “You know I had nothing to do with that, right?”

  I had to choose my words carefully here. No, my dad had nothing to do with the throttling of little Cami Jo, but his escalating recklessness set the stage.

  “Yes. In fact, you were in Tulsa getting your ego stroked at some sports banquet. Do you remember her? The stripper?”

  An artfully blank look I knew well fell over his face like I’d asked a frivolous question that amused him. This was his thinking mode. Cami Jo wasn’t his type. He didn’t pay to play often, but when he did, the girls were exotic and rare, something he couldn’t pick up in a bar.

  “No, I don’t remember her. Do I even know her? I thought the FBI had picked a random body to hang on me.”

  There was nothing artful about the annoyance I’m sure showed on my face. “Dad, two days before your trip to Tulsa, you had a party out at your ranch. You let that idiot Ian Hooper hire the talent and he bought secondhand off the rack. Little Miss Floyd was a ringer. She brought a nanny cam in her purse and caught vid of Rockhound and somebody I couldn’t identify double-teaming her. Ask me how I know this.”

  Another ice-blond lift. “I remember that bash. The party favors did seem on the cheap side. Okay, I’ll bite. How
do you know?”

  “Because I saw the vid and there’s some shit you just can’t unsee. She showed up at Rockhound’s office, demanding to see him. I got the call. You were golfing with the mayor before the sports banquet.”

  “Well, I would have called you anyway. That is your specialty.”

  Yeah, and that’s why I was ready to quit when this shitbomb exploded.

  “I bought the camera from her along with the standard lecture on how lovely Vegas is this time of year. She took the cash and the bus ticket. I can only assume she kept a copy and decided to try a double-dip. That choice killed her. But you were in Tulsa for the rest of the week. This one is not on you.”

  “So you think Rockhound had something to do with it?”

  “That makes sense. Double-humping a low-rent stripper at a gold-plated frat party wouldn’t do much for his little wifey’s career as a wingnut darling,” said Gerald. As usual, he nailed the issue square on its pointy head.

  “But I have to flush out Rockhound before anything can happen. I’m working an idea to introduce Ethan as a transport conduit into Yemen. Ex-military, still has friends, knows the backdoors through the military coverage. It’s an old rap, but Rockhound has never been subtle.”

  “Ethan?”

  “Ethan Price is my FBI watchdog. Part of the deal is that I take him along. He seems cool though. He’s undercover and an ex-flyboy. He’ll hold his shit. But, I have another problem.”

  “Juliana, I don’t like this. You’re taking a Fed into the belly of our operation.”

  I slapped the table hard enough to make both men jump. “Dad, there is no operation. They’ve picked you clean. According to Snow, they were about to lower the RICO boom on you when this shit came over NSA surveillance. It is over. Done. The answer is no longer yes or no, but how long, and can I save you from the needle. This is Texas. They will hang you with a murder that happened when you were out of state. We both know they will.”