by JoAnn Ross
“I think the trick is not to get old in the first place.”
“Well, if that’s your plan,” Mike drawled as he unlocked the driver’s door, “from the looks of this latest mess you’ve gotten yourself involved in, you’re going about it in the right way.”
Since Roarke reluctantly decided Mike had a point, he didn’t bother to argue.
They drove back to where Roarke had left his car in the Audubon Park lot. It wasn’t until he was driving back down Saint Charles toward the safe house that he realized he was being tailed.
“Damn.” He cast a look in the rearview mirror, then cut into the other lane. The unmarked white police sedan followed. Not wanting to lead whoever it was to Daria, he turned in the opposite direction, away from the safe house, and drove past Loyola University, north toward Interstate 90. Unsurprisingly, the white car followed.
Roarke considered his options. He could spend the day driving all over the city, but outrunning cops wasn’t all that easy. Especially when you were driving a Porsche 911 that stood out like a sore thumb and you couldn’t tell the bad guys from the good guys.
As he approached Tulane Stadium, he saw cars in the parking lot and realized that although football season was over, something was going on. Deciding that they couldn’t kill him in front of witnesses, Roarke pulled into the lot, drove as close as he could to the stadium and cut the engine.
The cops pulled up behind him, which he’d expected. What he hadn’t expected was the marked police car that came from nowhere to park in front of him, effectively cutting off any escape. Realizing that he’d just made a tactical error, Roarke cursed and rolled down his window.
The two cops from the car behind his could have come from Central Casting. One was short and skinny with a pointed face that reminded Roarke of a weasel. The other was about six foot two, and obviously enjoyed his po’boys, beans and rice. The material of his blue shirt strained across his broad belly, threatening to pop buttons, and as he neared, Roarke noticed Tabasco-sauce stains. Both men were wearing mirrored sunglasses that prevented him from seeing their eyes.
He had no doubt he could take them both. But not the other two, who had remained in their car. Waiting.
He turned the key to roll down the window. When the ignition caught, the skinny cop’s hand went immediately to the holster clipped to the side of his slacks.
“What’s wrong, officers?” He gave them the same harmless, I-want-to-be-your-friend smile he’d given the Serbian guards manning the roadblock on the road leading into Herzegovina. “If I was speeding—”
“Can the small talk and get out of the car.” The large cop’s voice reminded Roarke of the growl of a bear just waking up after hibernation.
Extremely thankful that he’d told Mike the address of the safe house, just in case he ran into trouble, Roarke did as instructed.
“I don’t suppose you’d like to see my license.”
“We heard you were a clever man.” The little cop smirked. “Are you clever enough to pass on a message to your girlfriend?”
“I don’t have any idea who you’re referring to. Officer.” Roarke tacked on the last word slowly and deliberately, his voice thick with scorn. He also refrained, with effort, from punching the bastard right in the mouth.
The two cops exchanged a look. “Guess he isn’t so smart, after all,” the big one said to the skinny one.
“Your mama should have taught you to use better manners when talking to the po-leece,” the cop said as he grabbed Roarke’s arms and with surprising strength for such a beanpole, jerked them behind Roarke’s back in a way that strained his shoulder joints. “Now, the officer is going to ask you a few questions. And you’re going to answer real polite-like. Got that?”
“And the mayor wonders why the police don’t get any respect,” Roarke drawled.
The sarcastic remark instantly earned him a huge fist in the midsection. Biting his lip to keep from moaning, Roarke reminded himself that he’d survived worse. Much, much worse.
“Where’s the woman?”
“I told you—”
The huge fists came crashing down on his head. Roarke felt the asphalt beneath his feet tilt. When he tried to jerk away, he got a bony knee jabbed into his back, reminding him again that he was outnumbered.
“We’re not going to hurt her. She stole something of ours. As soon as she gives it back, everything will be all right.”
“Even if I knew who or what you were talking about, which I don’t,” Roarke lied without a qualm, “I have a personal rule against making deals with dirty cops.”
The answering blow brought a monstrous bolt of pain to his rib cage.
“You can spare yourself all this. Just give her to us. She can’t mean that much to you. No woman’s worth dying for.”
There had been a time after the car bombing, when he’d been furious at Natasha for having set him up, at the mobsters who’d rigged the bomb, and most of all, furious with himself for being such a chump, that Roarke might have agreed.
But his relationship with Natasha had been about sex. And although he didn’t have the foggiest idea what was happening between him and Daria, he suspected that like it or not, they had already moved beyond that.
It wasn’t that Roarke was afraid of death; he’d faced it down and won on numerous occasions in his life. He just damn well didn’t want to die right now. But neither would he give them Daria.
He was held helpless as the Neanderthal cop hammered at him with huge, mallet-like fists.
“Dammit, just tell us where she is!”
A grunt escaped from between Roarke’s clenched teeth. He shook his head, experiencing a blinding shaft of pain behind his eyes.
“You know we’ll find her. And what’s happening to you now will seem like a picnic,” the voice rasped in his ear. “Mere are several people who’ll enjoy watching the ice-maiden bitch crack.”
Ice maiden? If he hadn’t been concentrating on not throwing up all over his shoes, Roarke would have laughed at that description.
“You see my partner has this unfortunate little quirk. He likes to inflict pain,” the man standing behind him said. “Especially on women. And although her actions the other night suggest that she’ll put up a fight, that will only add to the fun.”
The thought of either of these men putting so much as a finger on Daria caused Roarke to explode with fury. Beyond caring that his enraged counterattack could only prove futile, he jerked free and shot an incautious fist toward his attacker, connecting with the wide bridge of his nose.
“Dammit!” the giant roared.
The other cop didn’t say anything. But the gun crashing down on the back of Roarke’s skull spoke volumes. It also brought stars. Roarke reached out blindly, grabbing at the car for support, refusing to allow his body to crumple to the ground.
The big cop, proving that it wasn’t just fat bulging beneath that stained shirt, literally picked Roarke up off his feet and threw him to the ground. Although he tried to roll out of harm’s way, a well-placed kick crunched heavily into his rib cage and he lay on his back, his mouth open and his eyes shut, gasping for breath like a grounded carp.
He felt cold metal against his temple and realized with a detached pragmatism that this time he was probably going to die. He also found it interesting that his last thoughts were going to be of Daria. She was so lovely. So warm. And soft.
Roarke thought about the perfumed scent of her hair, her silky skin, her sweet, sweet taste, the way she’d trembled in his arms, and he decided that his last regret would be not having made love to Daria Shea when he’d had the chance.
So lost was he in his mental escape, Roarke failed to notice the woman approaching.
“What the hell are you men doing?” she demanded in a voice loud enough to awaken the dead in Saint Louis cemetery No. 1.
Roarke opened one eye and saw a woman in her mid-sixties moving toward them like a tall ship at full sail, a scowl like a Gulf Coast squall on her wide dark face.
“Police,” the skinny cop said, flashing a badge. When he saw Roarke trying to focus on it, he immediately closed the vinyl folder and jammed it back into his pocket The other police car slowly slid away, Roarke noticed with interest. And relief.
“You think I don’t know that?” The woman displayed not an ounce of trepidation. Nor respect. “You’re the kinda police who give the city a bad name.” She looked down at Roarke. “What did you do to get that pretty face all bashed in?”
“Ran a stop sign?”
She shook her head in ill-concealed disgust. “Attitude like that can get you beat up on general principle.” She looked back at the cops. “I’m Hattie Long.” A smile spread across her face as she watched recognition dawn on the two cops’ faces. “That’s right. Head of the joint police/citizens’ council on police reform. We’re having ourselves a little rally here and the police chief himself just finished talking to the crowd. In fact, if you two officers want to wait just a sec, I’ll go get him and—”
The skinny cop’s answer was harsh, rude and anatomically impossible. It also made her laugh, a bold rich laugh that reminded Roarke of friendly thunder moving over the bayou.
Hattie watched with satisfaction as the cops climbed back into the unmarked car and drove away. “Guess that took care of them,” she said, looking down at Roarke.
He managed, with effort, to ignore his roiling stomach and sit up. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“No thanks necessary. Us good folks got to stick together. That’s what the rally’s all about.” She jerked her head toward the stadium from where, now that he concentrated on it and his heart was no longer pounding in his ears, Roarke could hear cheering.
“How did you know I wasn’t one of the bad guys?”
“Honey, you might be. In fact, I’ll bet there’s a lot of women who can attest that you can be real bad. But I know you from the television. And I know them from the streets.”
“I owe you.”
“Maybe you can do a report about the commission. Get some more people to join us.”
“You’ve got it. As soon as I look presentable enough to go on the air without frightening little children.”
She folded her arms across her abundant breasts. “Seems to me if you’re going to go on the air with a story about police brutality, you look just about right.”
“Good point.” Needlelike bursts of pain shot through Roarke’s head as he struggled to his feet, causing a dizzy, spinning nausea in his stomach. “You ever think of going into broadcast news?”
“And give up my job?”
He leaned against the Porsche. “What do you do?” He wasn’t really in the mood for small talk, but felt obligated to her for having saved his life.
Her next words reminded Roarke of the dangers of stereotyping. “I’m a criminal-law professor at Loyola.” She laughed at the surprise on his face. “Yeah, everyone reacts that way.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t usually—”
“Don’t worry about it, handsome. It’s one of my small pleasures in life.”
Her good humor was contagious. Roarke found himself smiling back.
Her next words proved even more surprising. “Want me to call your brother?”
“You know Mike?”
Stupid question. Everyone in the city probably knew his big brother. Especially after all the press he’d gotten when he’d apprehended the serial rapist who’d been terrorizing the city. He’d shot the guy in Désirée’s house, Roarke remembered belatedly, wondering if Daria knew of her home’s history. For such a pretty little house, it had definitely been the scene of a surprising amount of violence.
“He just happens to be cochair of the committee.” She linked their arms, effectively steadying him. “He was scheduled to speak after the mayor.”
“Small world,” Roarke muttered.
“Ain’t it just,” Dr. Hattie Long said with a chuckle.
8
HATTIE SENT WORD for Mike to meet them in the stadium office.
“Lord Almighty.” He dragged his hand down his face and shook his head. “You look like you’ve been run over by a parade float.”
“I feel like it was the entire damn parade.”
“Do you know who beat you up?”
“No. But it’d be my educated guess that it wasn’t a welcoming committee.”
Mike looked thoughtful. “If they were actually going to kill you—”
“They weren’t. They just wanted me to give them Daria.”
“Which, of course, you refused to do.”
“Of course.” The eye that wasn’t rapidly swelling shut gave Michael a challenging look.
“Good for you.” Mike gave him another longer, more critical look. “We need to get you to the hospital.”
“Naw. I’ll be fine. Really,” he insisted, watching the dubious expression move across his brother’s face. A face that resembled the one he looked at each morning in the mirror while shaving, but was more harshly hewn. “Nothing’s broken. I’m just going to be sore for a few days. They were cops, Mike. If I go to the hospital, they’ll find me. And believe me, that isn’t something I’m real eager to have happen.”
Mike exhaled a frustrated breath, but his expression revealed he’d expected no other answer. “You and Daria need to get out of the city for a few days. Let her regain her memory. Then, at least we’ll know who the bad guys are. And why they’re after her. In the meantime, I’ll E-mail you some employment records. You can see if you recognize any of the cops.”
Roarke lifted a brow. “Isn’t it against the law to break into police-department computer files?”
“It’s against the law for cops to go beating up lawabiding civilians,” Mike countered. “And that’s just for starters. If the trail leads from that body in the Whitfield Palace to the cop shop, this city’s going to blow sky-high.”
“You’ve had dirty cops before.”
“True. Even some killers. But blowing away federal attorneys is beyond the pale. Even for New Orleans.” He rubbed his square jaw again. “They’ll probably be watching for me. Let me get someone else to drive you back to the house.”
Even more worried about Daria than he’d been earlier, Roarke agreed. Ten minutes later, a huge, bald African-American wearing a white leather trench coat arrived at the stadium office.
“Roarke, this is Sugar. Sugar, my famous TV-star brother, Roarke O’Malley.”
“Sugar?”
The giant’s glower could have cut the steel girders on the Huey P. Long Bridge. “You got a problem with my name?”
Having already had his face used as a punching bag, Roarke was in no mood to repeat the experience. “Not at all.”
“Didn’t think so.” Sugar glanced over at Mike, who was trying his best to hold back a grin and failing badly. “Baby brother catches on real fast.”
“He always was a quick study.”
“Too bad he never learned not to stick his nose where it don’t belong.”
“We all have flaws,” Mike reminded him. “Except you, of course.”
“Oh, I got me a flaw, all right,” Sugar grumbled. “Whatever it was that made me decide to leave WSLU and come work for you.”
“If you’d rather go back to spending your days filming new lion cubs born at the zoo, you’re free to leave.”
Sugar flashed a long black middle finger, then turned and walked back out the door, ducking to avoid hitting his head on the frame.
Roarke watched him leave, then glanced over at his brother. “I take it I’m supposed to follow him?”
“That’d be my suggestion. Unless you want to walk home. Sugar’s not one for standing around shooting the breeze. But what he lacks in conversational skills, he definitely makes up in loyalty.”
“And size,” Roarke murmured.
“Doesn’t hurt when the bad guys are after you.”
“Especially when they’re packing police pistols.” Roarke gave his brother a quick salute. “Thanks again.�
� He turned to his rescuer. “I’ll tape the initial stuff today, before the bruises fade. Then, when I break this other story I’m working on, I’ll work on the angle of cops beating up civilians.”
Hattie Long nodded her pewter-gray head. “I’d appreciate that.”
“Hey, I owe you. Big time.” He wiped his mouth to make certain it wasn’t still bleeding, and kissed her cheek. Then followed Sugar out to a red van with Tricou’s Cajun Fish Market painted on the side in green letters. The interior of the van smelled of boiled crayfish.
Mike was definitely right about Sugar’s not being a dazzling conversationalist. A wave of his huge arm told Roarke he was expected to lie down in the back of the van, which wasn’t that much of a sacrifice, since his head had begun to spin again and he decided he would rather die on the spot than show weakness by fainting in front of this man. They stopped at the Porsche and Sugar retrieved his and Daria’s luggage.
“Your friends be waiting for you,” Sugar said as they drove out of the stadium parking lot.
Roarke wasn’t surprised. “How many?”
“A squad car. And an unmarked.” Sugar glanced in the rearview mirror. “They not moving. Looks like we ditched them.”
Roarke suspected the Shaft street vernacular was put-on, but wasn’t about to challenge Sugar on if, “You look familiar,” he said instead.
“You know what they say about us all looking alike.”
“Cute,” Roarke muttered. He wasn’t feeling up to playing Twenty Questions. But it had been nagging at him since Sugar had first strolled in the door.
Sugar’s only response was a shrug of his massive shoulders.
It was the shoulders that rang the bell. Roarke knew he’d seen them before, but looking even wider in football pads.
“You played defensive line for Louisiana State,” he remembered suddenly.
There was no answer from the front seat.
“I played for Vanderbilt. You beat us four years in a row.”
“Everybody beat Vanderbilt,” Sugar drawled. “And yeah, I remember whupping your skinny ass. You thought you wanted to be a running back. But you were a step slow.”