The Assassin

by Rachel Butler

  “ ‘A few times,’ and he’s bringing you home to meet his parents.” Anna’s gaze slid from her to the photographs again, this time to wedding portraits of her two oldest sons. Was she imagining how a photo of Tony and Selena would fit in there with his brothers and their fair-skinned brides? Her sigh suggested so.

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Ceola. We’re just dating. There’s still time for Tony to find a nice Italian Catholic girl who will fit in as if she were made for this family.”

  For a moment Anna looked stricken, as if she’d just realized that not only was Selena a different race, but quite possibly a different faith. Though a blush tinged her cheeks, it couldn’t keep the hopefulness from her voice. “Are you Catholic?”

  Selena shrugged. Luisa and Rodrigo had shepherded their brood to mass every Sunday, but she felt no connection to the church. Once, too young to know better, she’d made the mistake of asking the priest to intercede with Rodrigo for her. She wasn’t sure what he’d said to Rodrigo, but she’d gotten the worst beating of her life as a result, and when she’d gone to mass the following Sunday with two black eyes and a broken arm—only the most visible of her injuries—the priest had refused to even look at her.

  “I’m only in town temporarily. Tony knows that. When my business is finished here, I’m going home to Florida.” It surprised her how difficult it was to be so dismissive, to keep her voice in a neutral, polite range. “I probably won’t ever come back.”

  She expected the information to relieve Anna’s concerns, but the woman seemed even more anxious. She took Selena’s hand in her own, clasping it tightly. Her hands were warm, soft, gentle in their grip. Mother’s hands, skilled at comforting, patting, soothing. “My son is a good man, Selena. He’s honorable and decent and kind and fair and loyal and loving. Please . . . don’t break his heart.”

  Don’t break his heart. As if she could, she thought, even as regret surged through her. It was his life that was in danger. William was a powerful man who usually got what he wanted, and what he wanted was Tony dead. If she didn’t kill him, someone else would.

  Unless she stopped them.

  William pulled his car behind the cover of a van parked two houses away from the Ceola house and tugged the ball cap lower over his forehead. A blue sedan was parked in the driveway, with Detective Ceola’s Corvette behind it. The scene in the front yard was about as homey as could be— Anna on her knees weeding the flower bed, Joe sitting on the porch steps with the newspaper open but unread, and a pair of twins racing around the yard with more energy than any ten kids needed. Detective Ceola stood on the top step of a ladder in the driveway, cleaning the gutter. Just another middle-class Saturday.

  Tension he’d hardly been aware of eased from his muscles. He’d known Selena wouldn’t come. After all, he’d told her not to, hadn’t he? And she virtually always did what she was told. That meant she was back on Princeton Court, searching the detective’s house, just as he had instructed her.

  Satisfied that there was no reason to spy from afar, he was reaching to turn the key when the Ceolas’ front door opened and a slender figure stepped out, balancing an armful of water bottles. Selena came down the steps, handing out the drinks, carrying the last two bottles to the ladder in the driveway. Detective Ceola pulled an eighteen-inch cedar from the gutter and dangled it in front of her, making her laugh as she stretched onto her toes to hand him a bottle of water.

  “Goddammit to hell!” He slammed one fist against the steering wheel hard enough to make it throb. “I warned her—I ordered her—‘Yes, Uncle,’ ” he mimicked furiously. “ ‘All right, Uncle. Whatever you say.’ ” And then she’d hung up the phone and done exactly what he’d ordered her not to. She’d lied to him. The ungrateful, deceitful, little—

  Abruptly he became aware of a man who was pushing a mower back and forth across his yard watching him. Gritting his teeth, he drew a calming breath. Though her betrayal was no great surprise, he didn’t want to believe it. Perhaps Detective Ceola hadn’t been so easily put off. Perhaps he had refused to take no for an answer. Wasn’t his doggedness one of his greatest failings?

  He would give her the benefit of the doubt—once, William decided as he swung the car into a tight U-turn. He would assume that Ceola had left her with no choice but to accompany him. But the next doubt, the next betrayal . . .

  Damn her to hell, the next time he would have no choice but to make certain it was the last.

  “What are your plans for today?”

  Damon stretched his arms above his head before glancing at the bedside clock. It was noon, and he’d just spent a nice two hours in bed with Lucia. Much as she enjoyed sex, though, she was also eager to move on to whatever came next. She wasn’t the type to laze around until the mood hit to do it again. Now she wanted lunch. Next she would want to go somewhere, do something.

  “I don’t have any until tonight. Then I have to work.”

  She pouted prettily as she ran her fingers through her thick black hair and matched her voice to her expression. “You always have to work.”

  “ ‘Always’? I got called in once.”

  “And you can’t go out tonight. And you had to work Thursday night.”

  Had to get his ass kicked Thursday night, he silently corrected her, and by a girl, no less. It hadn’t been one of his finer moments.

  She turned onto her side to face him, leaning on one elbow. The position pushed her breasts together into full, rounded mounds, the sheet barely covering her nipples. If she took one good breath, it would slide away, and the question of what they would do next would be answered.

  When his gaze returned to her face, she was smiling smugly. “Tell me what kind of work you do, and I’ll let you see them,” she said in a tempting, sultry voice.

  He turned onto his back and gazed at the ceiling, adopting a careless attitude even though the sheet was tenting over his swelling cock. “I’ve seen ’em before. I’ll see ’em again.”

  “Don’t be so sure of that.” He could tell without looking that she was pouting again, her lower lip stuck out, her eyes cast down. She was quite likely the sexiest woman he’d ever known—innocent and wicked, adorable and wanton, nasty and lusty and sweet. She was the only woman who’d tempted him in a long time. Not to change—he was too old for that. But to stick around. To try a real relationship. To put his plans to take over William’s business on the back burner for a while . . . just long enough to get Lucia out of his system. However long that might take.

  She sat up and stretched, arching her back to show her breasts at their fullest, then slipped into a silk robe that barely covered her ass and went to sit in front of the old-fashioned dressing table against the wall. “I wonder sometimes if you even have a job,” she remarked as she picked up the brush there.

  “You think I get by on good looks alone?” He sat up, too, stuffing the pillows behind his back so he could watch her.

  “I wonder if maybe you aren’t married. If that’s why you’re so secretive.”

  “Nope, no wife.” He had no plans to marry. A wife was just excess baggage, and once he’d taken over the business, he would have no time or space for baggage. Besides, what man wanted to have sex with the same woman year after year? How boring would that be?

  Not that he’d even thought about boredom with Lucia.

  She stopped brushing her hair and met his gaze in the mirror. “Then why all the secrets?”

  “I have no secrets.”

  “Except where you work. What you do. Where you live.” She looked so serious—Lucia, who was never serious about anything except the quality and quantity of her own pleasure.

  Rising from the bed, he went to stand behind her. “I work for a businessman here in town. I do whatever he tells me to. Run errands. Make phone calls.” Take care of a few dope dealers. “I keep odd hours because he keeps odd hours. When you have the kind of money he has, you can do that. And I live . . .” He picked up a tube of fuck-me-red lipstick from the marble tabletop, leaned f
orward, and scrawled his address across the mirror. It didn’t matter if she knew. If necessary, he could pack up and move out in under an hour, and leave nothing behind that anyone could use to find him again.

  Something flashed in her eyes—relief? gratitude?—then she took the tube from him and applied its rich color to her lips, making a kissy face at the mirror, before offering him a catlike smile. “Sounds like a girlie job.”

  “Say what you want. I’m secure in my manhood.” For emphasis he rubbed every inch of his hard-on against her. When her eyes went hazy and the tip of her tongue appeared between her lips, he backed off and returned to the bed. “What are your plans for today?”

  After making an obscene gesture in his direction, she replied, “My mother always fixes a big lunch on Saturday for anyone who wants to drop by.”

  Though her manner was casual, the look in her eyes was anything but. He ignored it, though, while he considered whether there was anything to be gained by meeting Mom and Dad. For one thing, brother Tony would be there. It would be an easy introduction, one that wouldn’t rouse any suspicion in the good detective. He could charm the man as easily as he’d charmed Lucia, could become his newest best buddy and have easy access if Selena failed to carry out her assignment. William would be impressed with how easily and efficiently Damon handled it for him.

  But on the down side, Selena would likely be there, as well. And William would be watching. It wasn’t yet time to let William know that he’d hooked up with Detective Ceola’s baby sister.

  After his phone conversation with Selena that morning, the old man had acted so damn confident that she would do exactly what he said. When he had suddenly dismissed Damon for the rest of the day without explanation, though, Damon had known the truth: William wanted to check up on her. Damon never would have believed her capable of it, but maybe this time the old man had pushed her too far. Hadn’t he finally pushed Damon too far?

  “I take it by your silence that you’re not interested in dining at Chez Ceola.”

  “Sorry, babe,” he said without a hint of remorse.

  “Okay, scratch lunch at Mom’s.” Her tone was so accepting that he knew she hadn’t thought for a moment he would agree. “How about lunch at Abuelo’s, then a movie? I’ll even let you choose some mucho-macho bang-bang-shoot-’em-up.”

  If staying in bed wasn’t in the running, a dark movie theater on a hot afternoon seemed the best alternative. “Sounds good. Just let me jump in the shower.”

  The phone call James Tranh had been waiting three days for—and hoping wouldn’t come—came Saturday evening as he walked into the restaurant. Weekends meant busy nights, with a crowd waiting in the lobby for tables to come available. He hadn’t even had the chance to say hello to his sister, who was too busy juggling reservations and walk-ins to do more than nod when he passed.

  Once again caller ID displayed a pay-phone number. He let it go to voice mail, but knew from the knot in his gut that instead of leaving a message, the bastard would call right back, and keep calling until James answered.

  Sure enough, the phone began ringing again as he cut through the kitchen. Most of his staff was Vietnamese, and that was the language they spoke while working. Between the sounds and the aromas of the traditional dishes, he could almost believe he was home again. And he was. Home these days—for the rest of his days—was the restaurant and Tulsa and his family, and damned if he was going to let anyone take that away from him.

  Once he was in his office with the door closed, he answered the cell phone. For a moment, there was annoyed silence, then the voice. “You need to do something about this habit of not answering your phone, Mr. Tranh. It’s very rude.”

  “I was busy. This was the first chance I got.”

  “Likely story.”

  “Saturday night is our busiest night,” James retorted. “If you’ve ever been here, you would know.”

  “I’ve been to your restaurant a number of times,” the man said. “Enough to know that Saturday nights are indeed busy. Enough to know, as well, that your sister shoulders most of the restaurant’s responsibilities.”

  The last time they’d talked, the guy had made James sweat. This time a chill spread down his spine. This man who called himself the solution to James’s problems might be another dealer wanting to go into business together . . . or could just as easily be the vigilante.

  “I want to meet with you tonight.”

  “I just told you, Saturday night’s our busiest—”

  “You can come to me, or I can come to the restaurant . . . unless you prefer we meet at your house after the restaurant closes tonight. That might prove upsetting to Nancy and the children, but it’s your choice.”

  “I really can’t—”

  “Afford to piss me off.” Just like the last time the guy had slipped into vulgarity, his voice remained cool and composed as he said again, “It’s your choice, James.”

  “Okay.” He dragged his fingers through his hair. “Where do you want to meet?” No way was he inviting the bastard into his house, and he didn’t want him at the restaurant, either. He did his best to keep his two businesses as separate as possible. The restaurant provided basic support to his family, his sister, and their grandmother. Cops would bend over backward to make the case that one was part of the other, so they could seize everything in an asset hearing, and what would happen to his family then?

  “There’s a warehouse downtown just off 244 and Denver with a mural of a horse painted on the side. You can’t miss it. Be there in two hours—alone. And Mr. Tranh? Don’t try to warn your family. One of my men is watching your house. He knows Nancy’s routine. If she does anything out of the ordinary, he’ll have no choice but to take action.”

  The line went dead, leaving only the heavy rush of James’s own breath echoing in his ears. Slowly he set the phone down, unlocked the bottom desk drawer, and removed the Glock from underneath the folders at the back. He added an extra clip, hesitated, then picked up the phone again and dialed 911.

  His fingertip hovered over the SEND button. Calling the police just might be the stupidest move he’d ever made. Why didn’t he just walk into 600 Civic Center with his hands in the air and say, “Arrest me, I’m a drug dealer”? The result would be the same—the end of life as he knew it.

  But not calling the police could be the end of life, period. Regardless of who the bastard was or what his goal was, one thing didn’t change—he’d threatened James’s family. Nobody did that and walked away.

  Resolutely he pressed the SEND button, listened to it ring, heard the operator pick up, then swallowed hard. “I need—I need to talk to one of the detectives working those drug murders. I think the vigilante’s planning to kill me.”

  12

  USually when Tony got called in on his time off, he wasn’t doing anything important—watching television, reading, already working, or sleeping. This time it didn’t look as if he were doing anything important—sitting on the back steps scratching Mutt and watching Selena grill lobster tails and shrimp—but it was something he would really rather keep doing.

  Regretfully, he went inside to grab the phone that hung next to the kitchen door. It was Simmons at the other end. “Today’s our lucky day, Chee. You ever hear of James Tranh? Owns a restaurant out by Woodland Hills that serves pretty good food—I’ve been there a few times—and also represents the Vietnamese in our local drug network?”

  “The name sounds familiar,” Tony replied, though it had been a long time since he’d worked Narcotics. “What about him? He dead?”

  “Not yet, and he’s hoping to stay that way. He got a call he thinks is the vigilante. Guy calls him from a pay phone, tells him he’s the solution to his problems, throws in a threat or two against Tranh’s family, and sets up a meet for tonight. Tells him to come alone to an empty warehouse downtown. Tranh likes being among the living, so he calls us.” Simmons snorted. “Damn drug dealers. Any other time, they’d shoot us in the back without blinking an eye, bu
t someone tries to shoot them, and we’re the first people they call.”

  “You talk to the guy?”

  “Yep. Just got off.”

  “And he sounds legit?” It didn’t escape Tony’s notice that the vigilante might find a certain satisfaction in setting up and taking out the detectives trying to stop him in the same way he’d killed eight of his ten victims. Tony loved his job, but damned if he wanted to die for it.

  “What he sounds is scared. My gut says yeah, he’s legit. He wants to meet with you and me at that pool hall over on Memorial—you know the one. Says he can’t go to the station. The guy says he’s watching Tranh’s family. He’s afraid they might be watching him, too.”

  “You said the guy called from a pay phone. Did you get the number for CSU?”

  “Yeah. It’s at River Parks. Someone’s on their way over now to print it. I also called the ADA to get an okay to wire Tranh if we need to.”

  “Jeez, Frankie, you really can do your job. And here you’ve hidden it so well all this time.”

  “Fuck you, Chee. Kiss your little island girl and haul your ass out here, and come loaded for bear.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  After hanging up, he went outside to the grill, sliding his arms around Selena’s waist from behind. “I have to go.”

  “Your vigilante strike again?”

  “Not yet, but he might. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  She smiled dryly. “Mutt and I will try to leave some dinner for you.”

  He nuzzled her neck before releasing her and going inside. After changing into jeans and running shoes, he grabbed his badge and weapon and headed for the driveway. There he transferred his Second Chance bulletproof vest and raid jacket, along with his handheld radio and shotgun, from the Impala’s trunk to the ’Vette. He’d rather take the Impala, but if the vigilante did have someone watching Tranh, it would be better not to advertise police presence with a vehicle that was clearly an unmarked cop car.

  Simmons was just getting out of his car when Tony pulled up and parked in front of the pool hall. The place didn’t fit the smoky, dingy hole-in-the-basement image summoned by the name. It was spacious, well-lit, and sold seven-buck drinks to a white-collar clientele. James Tranh fit right in, except for the fact that he was nervous as hell. He had a table to himself in the corner farthest from the door, but he was far more interested in what was going on around him than what was on the table.