Defender

by Diana Palmer

  “Where did you get that thing?” the taller bodyguard asked, surprised.

  “I could tell you, but…” she added.

  Everybody knew what the rest of that sentence would be. “Hey, you wouldn’t have to kill me! I’ve got top secret clearance,” the tall one said.

  “Me, too,” the broader one added.

  “I got it from a questionable source,” she finally admitted to them.

  The two men exchanged glances. “The prisoner the Feds picked up,” the taller one guessed.

  “The one who was nabbed for industrial espionage.”

  Isabel gaped at them. “Well, it isn’t as if it was evidence in a case,” she said, defending herself. “And an acquaintance gave it to me, and then taught me how to use it. If Mr. Kemp thought it was illegal, he’d have given it back!”

  “Bribery,” the tall one said.

  “Exactly,” his companion agreed. “Or extortion.”

  They both stared at Isabel.

  “I have not bribed or extorted anyone!”

  “A likely story,” Merrie said with glee. “You tried to bribe me with Lindt chocolates so I wouldn’t tell Mandy what happened to that last piece of chocolate meringue pie!”

  “Aha!” Mandy burst out. “So that’s where it went!”

  “Bribery and petty theft,” the taller one mused.

  “You’d have thefted it, too, if you’d ever tasted it.” Isabel mangled the English language in her own defense. “Thick milk chocolate. Two-inch-high creamy meringue.” Her eyes were closed and she was smiling. “Flaky, perfect crust.” She opened her eyes. “I’d have gladly done time for it. You didn’t need it anyway,” she said to Merrie. “You’ve gained a whole ounce since your last doctor’s visit.” She smiled smugly. “I was saving you.”

  “If you save me again, so help me, you’ll need a good defense,” Merrie told her. “And you blamed it on them!” she added, pointing to the bodyguards.

  They both looked comically shocked.

  “Us?”

  “We’d never…!”

  “Liars,” Isabel said with a haughty smile. “I have it on good authority that a whole plate of chocolate-chip cookies vanished mysteriously while Mandy was at the grocery store last Thursday.”

  Mandy looked sheepish. “Well, actually, I gave them the cookies.”

  “You did?” Merrie exclaimed.

  “Why?” Isabel asked.

  “Go on. Show her. I dare you,” the broader one said, grinning.

  Mandy sighed. She reached into a nearby drawer and brought out a huge knife in a black sheath.

  “What in the world is that?” Merrie exclaimed.

  “It’s a Ka-Bar,” Isabel said before the men could. “A commando knife.”

  “And how in the world would you know that?” Merrie asked.

  “Because I’ve seen one just like it in Sheriff Carson’s evidence room,” Isabel returned.

  “Where did he get it?” Merrie asked.

  “It was sticking out of a drug dealer’s arm when it was recovered.” Isabel chuckled.

  “Yes, and Cy Parks put it there,” the taller man added, smiling. “Hell of an aim he’s got. Of course, that was a while back, before he married.”

  “Marriage tames men,” Merrie teased, glancing at the bodyguards meaningfully.

  “Nobody’s taming me,” the taller one said.

  “I’m not housebroken,” the broader one said in a hushed whisper.

  Isabel broke up. It had been a very eventful day, she thought. Paul had told her things she’d never known about him. She wasn’t sharing that information just yet. She wasn’t sure that they’d ever have a future, but at least he hadn’t meant to get her in trouble with her father.

  Not that it would remove the scars she and Merrie carried. Those were going to be a lot harder to forget.

  ELEVEN

  The next day, there was news. It wasn’t good.

  Paul cursed under his breath as Jon Blackhawk laid it out for the task force working on the money-laundering operation.

  “The Leeds boy went to bury his mother. She’s from Brooklyn.” Jon ground his teeth together. “He won’t have to look far for a cleaner in all of New York City. Especially if his acquaintance from the bar in town here told him where to go.”

  “The CI said he talked to the go-between,” Paul told him. “He said he didn’t know any cleaners locally, but he knew somebody in Brooklyn who might be able to steer him toward a contract man. Works for a guy who runs a bar over near Fifth Street. Bar owner had a father, I think he said, who fought bulls in Spain.”

  Jon scowled, deep in thought. “Cash Grier had a contact in Brooklyn, a guy who used to work for Micah Steele, in the days when he was still doing merc jobs. He might have some ideas. You need to go talk to Grier, Paul.”

  “Grier has a lot of contacts,” Paul said with a grin. “Most of them don’t carry badges. And some of them are, shall we say, fugitives from justice.”

  “You can think of my brother as a CI,” Garon Grier said, sticking his head in the door. “He has friends in some really low places,” he added with a grin. “I have to get back to my office. Grace and I have to take Tory for his checkup. I like to go, too.” Garon was the SAC at the Jacobsville satellite office, but he’d worked for the San Antonio branch of the Bureau as ASAC before that.

  “Our little girl, Gwen, has a checkup upcoming, as well.” Jon chuckled. “Markie’s crazy about his baby sister.”

  Garon sighed. “I’m glad Joceline didn’t decide to give up working here completely,” he told Jon. “I mean, who’d threaten to feed my legislative proposals to the paper shredder and water the ficus plant with undrinkable coffee the agents have to make because she’s liberated and she won’t make coffee!” he yelled out toward the hallway.

  Joceline Blackhawk, Jon’s wife, sailed by the open door with a handful of papers. “Oh, SAC Grier, so sorry to tell you that those letters you dictated for those visiting dignitaries are about to meet with an unspeakable act of gratuitous violence,” she called back. “Tough luck that your secretary in Jacobsville got sick and I had to do them for you!”

  “Speak English!” Garon called after her.

  “Shouldn’t insult administrative assistants,” she trolled.

  “Quick, go tell her I’m sorry,” Garon told Jon.

  “Why do I have to go?” Jon wanted to know.

  “Because if I go, she’ll know I’m lying,” he said.

  Jon shook his head. “Let me get these guys out of here and I’ll do my best for you. I only hope it will be enough,” he added with a chuckle.

  Garon threw up his hand and went out the back door.

  Jon turned back to his task force. “Paul, go see Cash. Phillips, talk to the bank’s loan officer and lean on him just a little. Banks.” He stared at Texas Ranger Colter Banks, who was lounging back in his chair with the two front legs off the floor, his big booted feet on the desk.

  “Hmm?” A deep voice emerged from under the broad brim of a white Stetson propped over his eyes.

  “You said you knew one of the Leeds woman’s friends,” Jon continued.

  “I do.” Banks leaned forward, getting to his feet in a graceful motion. He adjusted the tilt of his Stetson. “I’ll see what I can find out about her schedule for the past few weeks.”

  “Good. And, Mack,” he said, glancing at the financial officer.

  “I know,” Mack said good-naturedly, “see how many recent transactions I can trace that have the Leeds woman’s cyber footprints. I’ll enlist some help from other agencies and get back to you.”

  “I hate money laundering.”

  They all looked at the Treasury guy, Al Butrell. He was glaring at the table.

  “We all do, Butr
ell,” Jon began.

  “I hate it more. Every time I have to track down one of these unscrupulous guys, my wife starts feeding me hot dogs. Every night. Hot dogs, with mustard.”

  “Why?” Jon asked.

  “Because I talk in my sleep. She says I’m good for two hours a night about how to follow the money trail. She hates it when I talk in my sleep. And I hate hot dogs. So…”

  “There’s a simple solution,” Paul advised. “Eat out!”

  Jon chuckled. “And that’s my advice, too. Okay. Let’s meet back here in a couple of days, same time. Hopefully, we’ll have more information by then and a plan of action.”

  * * *

  Cash Grier was sitting on Carlie Farwalker’s desk dictating letters. She was typing them at the computer. They both looked up when Paul entered the room.

  “No,” Cash said without preamble.

  Paul’s dark eyebrows went up. “I haven’t asked you for a thing yet,” he protested.

  “Well, the answer’s no, when you do ask for something.”

  Paul glanced at Carlie, who was trying to choke back laughter.

  Cash glared at her. “That’s right, give me away! Honestly, why do I even keep you around here?”

  “Because I laugh at your jokes and I’m the only person in town who can read your handwriting,” she said smugly.

  Cash just shook his head and grinned. He turned his attention to Paul. “All right. You want me to tell you where to find somebody in a case you’re dealing with.”

  “Are you psychic?” Paul asked, fascinated.

  “My wife is, but that’s another story,” Cash said. The grin got bigger. “Jon called me. Come on in. Carlie, coffee please?”

  “Coming right up, Chief.”

  “You make him coffee?” Paul asked, stunned. “We have to make our own in San Antonio.”

  “You could always replace Joceline with a coffeemaker,” Cash suggested. “Of course, you’d have to find one who could type and deal with unpleasant visitors.”

  “We’ve pretty much given up having drinkable coffee, unless we can find somebody to do away with Special Agent Murdock, who makes it,” Paul confessed. He shrugged. “On a happier note, the ficus tree seems to thrive on caffeine, except that it shakes all the time now.” He scowled. “I wonder if a ficus tree can have a nervous breakdown?”

  Cash chuckled. “Come in and have a seat,” he said, motioning him into the office. He closed the door.

  “Who do you want to find?” Cash asked when they were seated.

  “A guy who works in a bar in Brooklyn,” Paul said. “The bar’s owner had a father who fought bulls in Spain…”

  “Viejo,” Cash said at once. His dark eyes narrowed with angry memories. “That’s what we called him. His son helped kidnap my wife and almost got her killed. The boy’s doing twenty years for kidnapping and assault and battery.”

  Paul let out a breath. “I didn’t think you’d know which bar I was talking about. Heavy stuff.”

  “Very.” He stared at Paul. “Why do you want to talk to Viejo?”

  “I know you’re aware of the Grayling case.”

  “Isabel could get you for kidnapping, while we’re on the subject,” Cash chided. “And you an officer of the law, too,” he added with twinkling dark eyes.

  “Don’t start,” Paul muttered. “She wouldn’t talk to me and she had information I needed. I just carried her out to my car to talk to her about her father…” He stopped, averted his eyes and fought down rage. “I didn’t know he was hurting those girls. I swear to God, I never saw him lift a hand to them!”

  “Nobody knew, except a local physician,” Cash replied coldly. “He talked to Hayes Carson, but they couldn’t prove anything. Grayling had some damned good lawyers. The upshot was a threatened lawsuit that the county wouldn’t risk if they pushed it. Isabel swore it was an accident.”

  “I guess she’d learned to be afraid of him. She and Merrie both,” Paul replied. He shook his head. “Mandy wanted to tell me, but she said she’d land her brother in prison if she opened her mouth. Grayling can buy just about anybody.”

  “Not in here, he can’t,” Cash replied. He leaned back with his boots propped on his desk. “Not in Hayes Carson’s office now, either, since he’s the sheriff and not just a deputy.” He pursed his lips. “Besides that, my cousin Simon Hart just got reelected.”

  “State attorney general, wasn’t it?” the other man asked.

  Cash nodded. “And if that isn’t enough, my family owns half of El Paso.”

  Paul sighed. “It’s always about money, isn’t it?” he asked with more rancor than he realized.

  Cash saw a lot. He knew about Paul’s sudden exodus from Jacobsville three years before, and he had a pretty good idea why Isabel hadn’t wanted to talk to the FBI agent.

  “Money shouldn’t stop people from going after things they want.”

  Paul laughed coldly. “Sure.” He met Cash’s eyes. “Suppose your gorgeous wife was worth two hundred million and you had to live on a police chief’s salary, before you married her.”

  Cash didn’t speak. He winced.

  “See?” Paul replied.

  “It’s a shame.”

  Paul averted his eyes. “Life is a series of tragedies, followed by death. I just do my job and go home to complete control of the TV remote. There are people worse off.”

  There was a knock and the door opened. Carlie came in with two mugs of coffee. “I hope you don’t want cream,” she told Paul. “One of the patrol officers used the last of it and I haven’t had time to go shopping for more.”

  “I’m no sissy,” Paul scoffed. “I like my coffee straight up.”

  Cash chuckled. She grinned at him, left the coffee and closed the door behind her.

  “Why are you looking for Viejo?” Cash repeated.

  “Not him, just a guy who works for him,” Paul replied, sipping coffee. “His bar is where the Leeds woman’s son was sent to look for local talent. He’s after a cleaner.”

  “Oh, my God,” Cash ground out. “For Grayling?”

  “Nobody knows. He was pretty drunk when he approached a local hood in San Antonio about the name of a cleaner for a job. But he mentioned something about taking out Grayling’s daughters first. He thinks the man loves his daughters because he’s so protective of them. Loves them, the devil,” he said harshly. “He wanted to marry Isabel off to a Middle Eastern prince so he could keep the money in the family, and get even more.” His face tautened. “He even told me once to watch her around one of the local cops here who was flirting with her. He didn’t want his daughter to get mixed up with, as he put it, ‘a grubby little lawman.’”

  Cash grimaced. He could see the pain in the other man’s face. He wondered if Isabel Grayling even knew the man was crazy for her. Probably not, if Paul had to carry her out of the courthouse just to get her to talk to him.

  “I never cared about how much the job paid,” Paul said quietly. “I loved my job. I loved it too much, once.”

  Cash leaned forward. “Any job that requires guns brings scars with it.”

  Paul looked up. “I guess my past is an open secret around here,” he said when he noted the compassion in the dark eyes that met his.

  “Just in law enforcement circles.”

  “I was going to clean up Trenton,” Paul said with a sad smile.

  “You got one major killer off the streets,” Cash replied quietly.

  “I did. But the cost was almost unbearable.”

  “For what it’s worth, life gets a little easier down the road.”

  “You don’t know what it’s like to lose a child!”

  “The hell I don’t!” Cash shot back.

  The men exchanged long glances. Paul grimaced. “Sorry. I didn’t know
.”

  “It was a long time ago. I have a gorgeous wife and a little girl and a brand-new son,” Cash said. “I moved on, because I had to. I still have nightmares about some of the things I’ve done in my life. But not as many.”

  Paul cocked his head. “I’ve heard some stuff about you. Not sure I believed it.”

  Cash just smiled. “Whatever it was, these days I’m just a small-town police chief.”

  “Yeah. Like Putin was just a cop.”

  Cash got the reference and burst out laughing. “I know where that smart remark came from. Where the hell did you see Marc Brannon? He used to work with me when I was a Texas Ranger,” Cash replied. “I worked with him again when I was with the DA’s office in San Antonio a few years ago, doing cybercrime.”

  “He told Colter Banks what he said, and Colter told us.” Paul chuckled. “He’s part of the task force we put together to track down Grayling’s associates.”

  “Colter. He’s my cousin.”

  “So he said.”

  “I haven’t seen Marc for a while. He and Josette sold their ranch and moved to Wyoming with the kids. Marc said Jacobs County was getting too crowded to suit him. He’s running purebred Black Angus now, and he says he doesn’t miss law enforcement,” Cash recalled.

  “I don’t like cattle. I like horses,” Paul replied. “I didn’t know much about them, but I had to learn. When the girls went riding, I had to go along. One of the Thoroughbred trainers felt sorry for me and taught me how.”

  “Shame about Grayling,” Cash said. “If he gets convicted, he’ll lose everything.”

  “The girls will still have the house and what’s in it,” Paul said. His eyes narrowed. “After what he did to Isabel and Merrie, I’ll be at every damned parole hearing he gets for the rest of my life.”

  “So will they, I imagine,” Cash said. “The difference is that he won’t have money to buy high-powered attorneys.”

  “Poetic justice.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Jon Blackhawk said he thought you also knew a guy who does merc work in Brooklyn, and that he might talk to us if you asked him. I don’t want to spook a potential hit man by walking into a bar and asking questions.”