Table of Contents
Cover Page
“YOU’RE GIVING ME A LOT OF INFORMATION.”
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In Too Deep
Copyright
PROLOGUE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
About the Author
“YOU’RE GIVING ME A LOT OF INFORMATION.”
His gaze lit on her mouth. He forced his eyes downward, away from the curve of those luscious lips.
“Am I scaring you?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think I would,” she said with just a touch of relief. He was as still as stone. “What?” she asked, suddenly afraid she’d said more than she should.
“Nothing.”
“Something,” she disagreed, watching him.
“I’m not good at divulging secrets,” he said finally, scowling.
She kept her beautiful blue eyes trained on him and he worried that she was looking into his soul. “I think that could be an asset in your line of work. I believe you’re in security. And I don’t know if you’re looking for a job”—she laughed faintly—“or maybe a lost cause, but I need someone to help. I guess I’m offering you a job,” she said in a smaller voice. “I didn’t intend that, when I asked you to come here tonight, but maybe I was hoping …”
Hunter dragged his gaze away from her, staring out to the Pacific, where the sinking sun was just a memory, only the faintest violet afterglow. “What did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know exactly. But whatever it turns out to be, it will require you to be in Houston until I move, and then in Santa Fe.”
Hunter stood in silence, wondering how to respond.
“Listen to me,” she said, sounding annoyed with herself. “I’m pussyfooting around because I’m scared. I’m scared of what Troy will do when he finds out about Rawley. I’m scared for my son, who doesn’t know the truth about his father.”
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In Too Deep
Janelle Taylor
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
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New York, NY 10022
Copyright © 2001 by Janelle Taylor
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First Printing: October 2001
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ISBN: 978-1-4201-2998-4
PROLOGUE
Santa Fe, New Mexico
Obie Loggerfield was truly disgusting, especially up close. Detective Hunter Calgary tried not to breathe too deeply. It was a certainty Obie hadn’t bathed for decades. Grime mixed with sweat and body oils had become a black sheen that covered every visible inch of flesh and filled the lines on his face.
The only time the drunken lout got near water was when it rained, Hunter knew, and even then the man did his best to avoid it. Which was why, during this morning’s cloudburst, he’d taken up residence on the steps of the police station and why Hunter had allowed him inside.
As an advertisement for the colorful Southwest, Land of Enchantment, Obie was a poor bet. Luckily for tourists and residents alike, rainfall was next to nil most of the time; and Obie lived well north of town where he could offend no one, in a makeshift canvas tent pitched in the shadow of a jagged red rock formation.
Now, he gave Hunter a crafty look as he settled his filthy bulk into an old oak desk chair. “You gonna keep me, copper?”
The odor the old man threw off was indescribable. A mixture of so many things that Hunter’s generally excellent vocabulary provided only one adjective: bad. “I’m going to give you a lift out of town, Obie. Either that or someone around here might think about putting you in jail.”
“Jail cells are dry,” Obie said hopefully.
Through the opened door of Sergeant Ortega’s office came a snort. “Don’t even think it,” Ortega’s stern voice warned Obie, who started scratching in places that were not often scratched in public. “Those cells are meant for criminals, not transients.”
“I ain’t no transient.”
Hunter hid a smile. This was actually true, since Obie had never lived anywhere else but his tent in the six years Hunter had been with the Santa Fe force.
Obie’s answer ignited Ortega’s volatile temper. “I’ll tell you what you are, Loggerfield. A pain in the b-u-t-tl And one I want out of that room. No one can breathe with you stinking up the place. Calgary, get him out of there!”
Hunter reached for the keys to his Jeep. “Come on, Obie. Let’s go home.”
Three steps toward the door, however, and their way was blocked by a thin man with silvery hair and nervous hands. He clutched a briefcase as if his life depended on it, but his voice was smooth and controlled, “Detective Hunter Calgary?” he asked.
The hair on the back of Hunter’s neck lifted, and for a moment he regarded the man in silence. A lawyer, he’d guess. Somebody’s agent Someone with money, by the cut of the man’s suit and the high polish on his shoes. “That would be me,” he drawled.
Obie regarded this newcomer curiously. The man’s nostrils twitched involuntarily as he took in Obie, and Hunter suppressed a smile. Obie certainly could have that effect.
“I’m Joseph Wessver of Wessver, Moore, Tate, and McNeill. I’m here at the
request of Allen Holloway. Mr. Holloway would like to hire you.”
Once more Hunter viewed the man in silence. There was no need to ask who Allen Holloway was. Holloway—or Holloway’s huge company—owned a chunk of Santa Fe and several other towns and cities across New Mexico, Arizona, and Texas. He’d started with one Tex-Mex restaurant in Dallas, the Rancho del Sol, which had then mushroomed into a very successful chain. There were Rancho del Sols across the Southwest. By all accounts, Holloway had invested his profits in land and the stock market, and made millions. His name appeared regularly in the regional papers for an endless parade of good deeds. Holloway also owned office buildings and retirement homes; and had financed several independent films which had been shot around Santa Fe. It added up to major money, and a social circle Hunter was no part of, and wanted nothing to do with.
The big question: What would a man like Allen Holloway want with him? Though there was a connection between them, Hunter doubted Allen knew of it. And if he did, why was he contacting him now, after all these years?
Wessver frowned, as if contemplating the same question. “I was given to understand that you had left your job. Are you currently working with the police?”
“No.” Hunter considered explaining himself, then decided it wasn’t really anyone’s business but his own.
“I see,” Wessver said, when he clearly didn’t. He glanced again at Obie and coughed lightly. The man’s body odor was overwhelming. Sliding his fingers under the lapels of his raincoat, Wessver wished he could bury his face under the layers of material to keep from smelling it. “Well, could I have a word with you in private?” he asked Hunter on a gasp.
The detective sighed. He always-but always-knew when something bad was about to happen to him. “I’m taking Obie home,” he said wearily. “I’ll be back in about an hour. You can wait, leave a number, or ride along …?”
“I’ll wait,” the thin man said quickly.
Hunter shot him the glimmer of a smile and slapped Obie on the back, which produced a choking cloud of dust. Then they headed out the door.
It was nightfall by the time Hunter returned. Pulling up in front of the station, he cut the ignition, then sat in the Jeep listening to the tick of the cooling engine. The rain had ceased and pinpoint stars pierced the dark sky. Easing his shoulders back, Hunter relaxed against the torn seat.
He liked New Mexico. Its clear, thin air and wide open spaces suited him just fine. He’d lived in Los Angeles most of his life but his tolerance for the city had slowly vanished after Michelle’s death. He hadn’t regretted his decision to get out for good years ago.
His fury with the L.A.P.D. and the district attorney. and everyone else involved in that fiasco had faded over those six mercifully uneventful years, but Hunter’s belief in justice was nearly gone. He’d tried to rekindle his passion for law enforcement in Santa Fe but the damage had been too deep.
He was burned out, and that was that.
With a sigh, he climbed from the Jeep and headed up the steps to the station. He’d quit the Santa Fe force a month earlier to spend time on his isolated ranch and get his head together, but he still stopped in from time to time, more to see Ortega than anything else. Ortega hadn’t forgiven him for leaving. First he’d begged, then ordered, then stomped around in a frustrated tantrum, then finally, grudgingly accepted Hunter’s decision. “You’ll be back,” was his faintly ominous prediction as he handed Hunter his last paycheck. “Sooner than you know.”
Now, Ortega was nowhere in sight as Hunter pushed through the main doors and headed toward the back offices. His own door was closed and probably locked. The place was empty except for Mr. Wessver, who sat primly on the carved wooden hall bench, his briefcase balanced on his lap. He stood up as Hunter strolled toward him.
“My car is outside. Could we continue this meeting at Rancho del Sol, Mr. Holloway’s restaurant?” he asked. “Mr. Holloway would like to buy you dinner, no matter what your decision is.”
Hunter inclined his head in a silent yes and followed the shorter man to his dark green Lexus.
Rancho del Sol, Santa Fe, was a low, rambling building with vigas—dark rounded beams that protruded through the stucco to the outside—and distressed, redbrick arches. It was known for its authentic southwestern cuisine and also was a steak house, one of the best around. Hunter usually ordered their rib-eye and had never been disappointed. Tonight, as always, the first bite melted in his mouth. He would never understand vegetarians.
Joseph Wessver chose the wine. Not a wine connoisseur, Hunter tasted the merlot: like the beef, it was good. Midway through his second glass he realized Wessver was only pretending to drink his own, and Hunter decided it was time to get to the point.
“What does Mr. Holloway want?” he asked, sinking into his chair a bit. His long legs were cramped and he wanted more than anything to get up and walk around. He wore black jeans and a gray shirt, open at the throat. If he was underdressed by Wessver’s standards, he didn’t give a damn. No one cared about things like that in Santa Fe.
“He wants you to protect his daughter.”
“His daughter?” Hunter frowned, stretching one leg as far as he could without kicking the nervous Mr. Wessver. “From what?”
“Her ex-husband.” He paused, eyeing Hunter warily.
The detective froze. He knew where this was going.
Wessver continued, “His daughter Geneva-known as Jenny to her friends-was married briefly to a man whose only interest in her was her fortune, or more accurately, the fortune she would eventually inherit. Jenny’s father helped ease her through her divorce, and he’s made certain the man has stayed away from her all these years.”
“How many years?” he asked slowly. “Fifteen.”
Hunter swallowed more merlot, his gaze fastened on the other man’s serious face. “And he’s reappeared?”
“Yes.” Wessver took a deep breath and indulged himself in a dramatic pause.
“Why do you want me?” Hunter asked at last.
“You’re acquainted with the man in question.”
The hairs on the back of his neck rose to full attention. Gooseflesh broke out on his forearms. Hunter again waited in silence until Wessver said quietly, “Troy Russell.”
Not a muscle moved in Hunter’s face. Wessver almost smirked. It was exactly what he’d expected. “Shall I go on?”
Hunter nodded curtly. His heart began to beat in a slow, deep rhythm. Troy Russell was the man responsible for his sister Michelle’s death.
CHAPTER ONE
“That man at table fourteen is watching you.”
Jenny Holloway glanced up from the produce bill in her hands, trying to keep up with her friend Carolyn Roberts, who was carrying an armload of steaming pasta dishes and weaving through the tables with the artistry of a ballet dancer. “What?”
“That man. Table fourteen.” Carolyn nodded toward the back of Riccardo’s L-shaped dining room. There, an arched, stone doorway led to a smaller room filled with square tables draped in white damask cloths. But the table in question was around the corner. All Jenny saw were the soft, glimmering shadows thrown against the stone walls by the crystal votive candles on the tables.
“I’ll take your word for it. I can’t see table fourteen,” Jenny said, heading for Riccardo’s kitchen and back offices. A frisson of unwelcome fear slid along her spine. Someone watching her? She’d had that strange sensation for the past few weeks but she’d chalked it up to nerves. She was anxious—excited, really—about the decisions she’d made concerning the money she was about to inherit.
Remembering her mother’s promise still brought tears to her eyes. “I’ve saved something for you, Geneva,” Iris Holloway had whispered to her as she lay in the hospital bed. “But it won’t be yours until you turn thirty-five. Just know it’s there and it comes from love.” But teenaged Jenny, plagued with self-doubt and sick with fear over her mother’s imminent death from pancreatic cancer, had been unable to think about anything but her o
wn misery. She’d cried furious tears, angry at her mother for dying too soon, and her father, whose affair with a woman closer to Jenny’s age—and subsequent marriage—had estranged father and daughter forever.
But now, so many years later, Jenny could see how wise her mother had been, and how farsighted. If Jenny had come into all of her inheritance when she was young, she might have frittered it all away. Now, with a teenager of her own and some hard-won experience to guide her, she was ready to invest the money in the business her family knew best: restaurants.
She had more than one reason to be edgy. So what? She wasn’t being paranoid or anything. Just cautious.
“I know table fourteen’s around the corner,” Carolyn said, catching up to her outside her office door. “Just go look! He’s a hottie with a capital H!”
Jenny snorted and laughed. This sounded a lot less sinister than she’d thought. Carolyn described any guy with a decent face and powerful physique as a “hottie.” During her last five years with Riccardo, Jenny had learned to discount anything the petite blond waitress had to say about men. Carolyn was actively looking for Mr. Right, a search Jenny had given up years earlier.
“I think I’ll pass,” she said.
“You’ll be sorry. He’ll be gone in a few minutes and you’ll miss a date with destiny.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
Carolyn shook her head dolefully at Jenny’s unwillingness. But she knew that Jenny had suffered at the hands of a self-absorbed, abusive husband, and it had put her off men in general.
Spying her boss, Jenny waved to Alberto Molini, owner of Riccardo’s. Carolyn groaned. “Don’t make Alberto the only man in your life.”
In Too Deep Page 1