by Mallory Kane
“Have dinner with me. I miss you.”
She stepped away, tugging her arm away from his grasp. “I’m sorry, Doug, but no. You need to stop calling me. I’m in the middle of final exams and—”
“After exams then.”
“No, that’s not what I meant—”
But he was walking away.
Angela practically ran the rest of the way to her apartment. She locked the door behind her.
“Finally!” she sighed. What a bizarre day. At least it was over now and she was back in her apartment. Safe.
She tossed her things onto the couch.
And froze.
There, on the corner back cushion, was a smudge. A tiny smudge—hardly noticeable, even on the pale beige fabric. But it hadn’t been there last night or this morning.
Dread settled beneath her breastbone and tears prickled behind her eyes. “No,” she muttered. “Not safe.”
She frowned. Could it have been Doug? He had no reason to be in this neighborhood, except to check on her. He’d said he had a delivery in the area, but his office supply store was out in Metairie. She doubted he had many clients down here in the French Quarter.
Before she could decide whether to call the super or storm downstairs and bang on his door, her phone rang.
She looked at the caller ID, and the dread in her chest lifted. “Brad, hi—” Her voice gave out. She cleared her throat. “Calling to make sure I’m studying?” she asked, smiling.
Her brother didn’t call often. He was too overworked. And he never, ever called during the day.
“Studying? Oh. Your exams,” Brad said. “No, I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”
“I’m fine,” she answered automatically, turning her back on the sofa. “You, on the other hand, sound a lot more distracted than usual. How’s Sue? And my two gorgeous nieces?”
“Good. They’re good. So how are you doing?”
She laughed. “You just asked me that. Somebody was talking about you the other day. Let’s see—oh, I know. Hank Percy. He’d heard your name on the national news—some case you were trying. He wanted to do a piece on you for the Chef Voleur Weekly Record. I’m supposed to ask you if you would talk to him.” She paused for dramatic effect. “So, ADA Harcourt, I guess you’ve finally hit the big time. You’re going to have a write-up in Hank Percy’s column.”
There was a pause, barely enough to notice. “I guess.”
“Brad? Is everything all right?” The sinking feeling came back. “Is Sue okay? The girls?”
He sighed. “Seriously, sis. Can’t I call and check on you without you getting paranoid?”
“Interesting choice of words,” she said wryly. “It’s been a weird day. But my last exam is Monday, and I’ll have a whole six weeks before summer classes start.”
Suddenly, she missed her brother. He and Sue and her nieces were her only family since their mother had died. “I was planning to fly up there for a long weekend this summer. Why don’t I come next week, or the week after?”
Another pause. Longer this time. “Now’s not a good time. That big case Hank Percy called you about has put me behind on several others, and—and the girls have a virus.”
Angela felt hurt. Brad was putting her off. She could hear it in his voice. “Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”
She heard him take a breath. “Absolutely. It’s just hectic. Maybe in about a month. How about the Fourth of July?”
“Okay then. Now’s not really a good time for me, either. I’m probably going to sleep for a week after my last test on Monday. Why don’t you give me a call when things settle down—if they ever do?”
“I will. I promise. Things are just crazy right now. Listen, sis. Watch out for yourself. New Orleans can be dangerous.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m tough. See, when I was a kid, my brother and his best friend picked on me all the time. I had to learn to stand up for myself.”
Brad chuckled. “You are tough. There’s no denying that.”
“Speaking of your best friend, guess who I ran into today?”
There was nothing but silence on the other end of the phone.
“Brad? Are you there?”
“Yeah. What—you don’t mean Delancey, there in New Orleans?”
“Who else? How many best friends have you had?”
“So you saw Luke. I thought he was in Dallas.”
“Well, apparently he’s taking a vacation.” She frowned. “It’s funny. He didn’t ask about you.”
“Hang on a second,” Brad said.
She heard him talking to someone.
“Sis, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a meeting in two minutes. Good luck on the rest of your tests.”
“Love you,” she said, but Brad had already hung up.
She realized she was oddly close to tears.
“That was weird,” she whispered. As she swiped her fingers across her cheeks, her gaze lit on the smudge on her sofa.
Her fist tightened around her cell phone and she shivered.
“HOW IN THE HELL DID YOU let Angela see you? I thought you were good at this stuff.”
Lucas cringed at the fury in Brad’s voice. He’d seen Angela on her cell phone a few moments ago. She must have been talking to him.
“Hey, I’m a detective, not a cat burglar. I was bound to run into her sooner or later. I was grabbing a quick café au lait. Who knew she’d finish her exam in just over an hour? Isn’t that record time?”
“You should have known. Have you forgotten how smart she is? What did she do when she saw you?”
“What do you think she did? She got pissed off. Wanted to know what I was doing here. I told her I was taking some time off.” He sniffed. “The years haven’t mellowed her much.”
“So what now? You’re going to have to find me somebody to take your place.”
“Nobody’s taking my place. She just thinks it’s her bad luck that she ran into me. I could see it in her face. Nope. I’ve got cameras set up everywhere—the street in front of her apartment, her hallway and door and her living room and kitchen. Anybody even goes near her building, I’ll see them.”
He paused for a beat and then took a deep breath. “Somebody’s going into her apartment when she’s not there, Brad.”
“Oh, God. You’ve seen him? I knew it. It’s got to be Picone. He’s sent someone down there after her. A hit man.”
“Who? Who would he send?”
Brad grunted in frustration. “That’s the $64,000 question. Picone’s organization is a family business. He’s got four sons and two daughters. Word is Nikki Jr. is being groomed to take over someday. Milo and Paulo have been linked to several suspicious deaths. And the son-in-law, Harold, was convicted of manslaughter about six years ago. The younger daughter isn’t married. She’s in her twenties. I’ve heard she’s a technology whiz.”
Lucas filed the names away in his brain. “What about the fourth son?”
“Tony. The youngest boy. He’s totally clean, from all the information I’ve got. The police have a confidential informant who says he’s Mama’s baby, and not in the business.”
“So which one’s out of town?”
Brad laughed wryly. “I wish it were that easy. None of them have been seen for the last couple of days.”
“Have you got pictures?”
“I’ll have to get my secretary to check the newspaper archives. Why? Have you spotted someone hanging around?”
“Not really. There is this one forgettable type who seems to hang around the building a lot. He’s kind of dumpy and pale as a fish’s belly.”
“Doesn’t sound like any of the family I’ve ever seen.”
“Maybe that’s the point. Forgettable is probably a job requirement for a hit man. I’m keeping an eye on him.”
“Think he’s the one getting into her apartment? Have you talked to the super?”
“Not yet. This guy’s never done anything that I’ve seen. He just hangs around like he’s waiting fo
r somebody. But the next time the intruder goes into her apartment, I’ll be watching. And trust me, I’ll be all over him—”
“The next time?”
“Don’t worry, Brad. I’m going to get Ryker to talk to Chicago P.D. and maybe get a handle on who your big crime boss might have sent.”
“You can’t do that. I don’t want to broadcast that I’ve got a sister, much less where she is.”
“I said don’t worry. Look up the word discreet in the dictionary and you’ll find Ryker’s face.”
“Yeah, but Ryker’s so by-the-book. I’m afraid that’ll trump his discretion. He’ll be concerned with chain of command. And by the time he gets to someone who knows something, he’ll have spread the word about my sister all over the Chicago P.D. Besides, he’s in Chef Voleur, and that means even more links in the chain. Maybe Ethan could get one of the senior detectives in New Orleans to call up here, maybe talk to somebody he knows. Discreetly.”
“That’s not going to happen. My hot-headed younger brother isn’t happy with me right now. Ryker’ll handle it. He’s not such a stickler for chain of command these days.”
“Okay, if you’re sure. But do it today. That hit man’s on a deadline. I’m doing closing arguments on Monday. The case should go to the jury no later than Tuesday. I doubt it will take them a day to convict. Until then, Angela’s in danger.”
“Brad, you trust me, right? I’m on it. Nothing’s going to happen to Ange. Not on my watch.”
“Thanks, Luke. How are the accommodations?”
“Well, at least this place has a working toilet. I bought a portable refrigerator. Dawson found me a cot, and there’s a market three doors down.”
“Anything you need, just ask.”
“I could use an air conditioner, but other than that, I’m fine. There’s nothing I’d rather be doing right now than spying on Angela—okay wait. That didn’t come out right.”
Brad chuckled. “Don’t worry, Luke. I know what you meant, and I know I can trust you with my sister. I can trust you with my sister, can’t I?”
“Hey, she’s practically my sister, too.” Liar. That might have been true when he and Brad were eleven, but now—
As Angela had told him, she was all grown up now. And so was he. And there had been nothing brotherly about his reaction to her.
“Thanks, Luke. I knew I could count on you.”
Lucas hung up with a frustrated sigh and dialed Ryker’s number.
Yeah, Brad could trust him completely. He’d watch her every move and be on alert in case anything happened.
He’d keep her safe. Even if it meant taking a lot of cold showers.
Chapter Three
It was after ten when Lucas tossed half a sandwich into the trash. He made a mental note to take the bag out in the morning before it started to smell. He was going to get real tired of ham sandwiches before this bodyguard detail was over.
And right now he’d sell his vintage Mustang Cobra for a café au lait. At least he had the refrigerator, so his bottled water wasn’t the temperature of his unairconditioned room.
As he drained the last of the water, his eye caught a movement on Angela’s living room monitor. She’d finally gotten up from the table, where she’d been hunched over her books for the past three hours.
He yawned. That was dedication. And determination. Those qualities were more appealing in grown-up Angela than they had been in bratty kid Angela.
They weren’t the only qualities that had gotten better with time, either. She had on shorts and a T-shirt that read Laissez les bon temps roulez, with bon temps—good times—stretched across her breasts.
Lucas swallowed. Those would be good times.
Her long legs, which had made her as awkward as a newborn colt when she was a kid, now made his mouth water. That dark brown hair that was always getting in her eyes now fell in soft waves to curve inward at her neck. And her pugnacious chin and too-short nose were now part of a face that had turned out just about perfect.
She walked into the kitchen, giving Lucas a unique stereo view of her front and back through the two monitors.
That did it. She officially looked hot from every angle.
As she poured herself a half glass of wine, Lucas grabbed another cold plastic bottle from the refrigerator, quelling the urge to splash some of it on his face—not to mention other parts of his body.
Back in the living room, she stopped in front of her shelf of DVDs and perused them as she sipped her wine.
Lucas’s pulse sped up. She was looking for a movie to watch. Just don’t pick Charade. He’d chosen the 1963 Audrey Hepburn/Cary Grant movie because it wouldn’t stand out on her shelf of old movies, but he hadn’t stopped to see if she had another copy of it. Still, out of her hundred or so titles, the chances were slim that she’d pick that very one.
Watch the one you rented, Ange. It’s right there on the couch.
But she didn’t pick up on his telepathic plea. Her fingers slid across the cases’ spines, until she was dangerously close to his mini-spy cam, so close that the shadow of her hand obscured the lens.
Holding his breath, he reached for his cell phone. As a last resort, he’d call her. He could say he got her number from Brad—and it would be true. He wasn’t going to tell her when he’d gotten it. He started dialing.
A sharp knock sounded on her door.
She jumped—and so did he. Her head snapped around and her hand went to her throat. Then she set her wine glass down directly in front of the camera lens.
Lucas pocketed his phone and reached for his Sig Sauer. He seated it in the paddle holster at the small of his back. He scrutinized the monitors and cursed as only a Delancey could. He’d been so intensely concentrated on her that he hadn’t noticed someone coming into the building.
The hall spy cam picked up on a dark figure, barely visible in the wan light of the inadequate 40-watt bulbs that lined the corridors. The camera aimed at her door showed the back of a man’s bald head.
Lucas shoved his arms into his long-sleeved shirt and fastened a couple of buttons. He couldn’t see a damn thing through the living room monitor. The stem of the wine glass was blocking it. He had to rely on sound and what little he could see through her French doors.
ANGELA’S HEART BEAT a staccato rhythm as her fingers closed around the glass door knob.
“Who is it?” she said sharply.
“Electrician,” came the terse reply.
She jerked her hand away as if the knob were hot. A repairman this time of night? That didn’t feel right.
Billy must have told Bouvier what she’d said about her kitchen light. But why would Bouvier send the guy up here at night? He normally went around the world to avoid paying overtime.
“I’m sorry, but it’s late. Please come back tomorrow,” she called through the door.
“Look, lady, I get here when I get here. Now do you want your light fixed or not?”
“It—it’s working now. It was probably just a burned-out bulb.”
“Awright,” the electrician growled. “No skin off my nose. I’m billing Bouvier anyhow.”
She listened as his heavy footsteps echoed down the hall. Once she could no longer hear them, she slumped and hugged herself, her hands shaking.
“What’s wrong with me?” she muttered. She was becoming too paranoid. She pressed her palms against her hot cheeks. Overreacting to every little thing.
Was it the pressure of exams causing her to make mountains out of mole hills? Sure, a few odd things had happened in the past few days, but every single one of them had a reasonable explanation, didn’t they?
Her gaze lit on the smudge on her sofa. No. Not all of them. In the eight months she’d lived here, Bouvier had never sent a repairman during the evening, and he’d never gone into her apartment when she wasn’t there.
At least not to her knowledge.
She sucked in a deep, shaky breath. First thing tomorrow, she was going to march down there and demand he change h
er locks and install deadbolts.
But what about tonight? She twirled slowly, looking around the room.
“I know,” she whispered. She grabbed a dining chair and dragged it over to the door. She braced it under the knob. Then she fetched her broom and slid it through the dual handles of the French doors.
For a few seconds she stood in the middle of the room, feeling appalled by her makeshift locks.
She’d always prided herself on her fearlessness. And now look at her.
She sighed. At least if anyone tried to get in, she’d hear them. She grabbed her cell phone and headed into her bedroom.
Then she stopped. What had she done with her wine glass? A quick glance around and she spotted it on the shelf of DVDs. Retrieving it, she headed into the bathroom to take a shower.
By the time she got out of the shower and dried her hair, she was yawning. It wasn’t that late. Barely eleven. But she couldn’t study any more tonight. Not only was she really tired, but she wouldn’t be able to concentrate. That meant she’d have to study all weekend if she wanted to do well on Monday’s exam. So maybe getting to sleep early tonight was a good idea.
After she finished brushing her hair, she put on her red pajamas and climbed into bed. Just as she reached to turn her light out her phone rang.
It was Doug. She was tempted not to answer, but she was afraid if she didn’t he might show up at her door, just to check on her. He’d done it before.
She answered.
“Angela, I’m sorry. I meant to call earlier. Now you’re in bed.”
“Oh, I just—” She stopped. Why had he said that? “I’m studying, Doug. What did you want?”
“Studying? Really? It was nice seeing you today. It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other face-to-face, much less had a good talk.”
“I just saw you today. Have you been drinking?” He always tended to ramble, but tonight he wasn’t making any sense.
“Oh, I’ve had a little wine. Just sitting here thinking about you.”
She grimaced and rubbed her temples. “This isn’t a good idea, Doug. You need to move on. Go out with someone else.”