Deep Cover

by Rachel Butler

  Anna gave him a chiding look. “It takes two to argue.”

  Not necessarily. One person could simply tell the other what an idiot she was being. It was her response that determined whether an argument would ensue.

  “Even if it wasn’t your fault, apologize and make up.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you love her.”

  See? A simple statement of fact. He could argue it, but there was no point because it was true.

  Convinced she’d made her point, Anna headed back to the kitchen, and Tony followed. The aroma of fresh-baked cookies filled the air. Her peanut butter–oatmeal–chocolate chip specials were cooling on a rack, and another batch baked in the oven. Joe stood at the sink, gazing out the window and absently munching on one.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “Son. Did you just get off work?”

  “Yeah, a while ago.”

  “Did you see Henry today?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Petulance twisted both Joe’s expression and his voice. “He hasn’t been over in a long time, and when I call, he never calls back. Do you think he’s mad at me? Did I do something?”

  “No, Dad, not at all. I think he’s just probably . . .” Unsure what lie to tell, Tony couldn’t finish, but his mother did.

  “He’s busy, Joe. Remember?”

  “Too busy for his best friend?” Joe shook his head as if he found the idea incomprehensible. How much more so would the whole truth be?

  Taking two cookies from the nearest rack, Joe slipped one to Tony with a wink before he went into the family room. A moment later the sounds of the evening news filtered out.

  “Have you seen Henry at all since . . .?” Anna finished with a shrug. No one in the family liked to finish that sentence.

  Since Selena shot you. Sometimes he could say the words without flinching. Other times they sounded unbelievable. The woman he loved had pointed a gun at him, cold as ice, and pulled the trigger. Logically, he knew she’d probably saved his life. Realistically, he didn’t know how she could have done it—didn’t know, if the situation were reversed, if he could have risked killing her to save her.

  “No,” he answered at last.

  “Do you want to?”

  This time it was Tony who shrugged. “I can’t ask him how he got so greedy, how he managed to fool us all, why he did the things he did. What would be the point?”

  “It’s so hard to understand. And poor Joe . . .”

  Joe wouldn’t have understood even before the Alzheimer’s. He was black-and-white, by the book. Right was right and wrong was wrong, period. He would have been furious and heartbroken, and he never would have understood.

  “We never suspected a thing,” Anna continued, her voice soft with regret.

  “No one did. He hid it well.”

  After a moment of gazing into the distance, she gave herself a shake. “Want to stay for dinner? Then you can take some of these cookies home to Selena. No one can stay mad long with peanut butter–oatmeal–chocolate chip cookies around.”

  A few hours later, Tony steered the Impala onto Princeton Court, a bag of cookies and enough leftovers to feed him through the weekend on the seat beside him. An unfamiliar car was parked at the curb in front of Selena’s house, and the driver was talking to Dina Franklin, who lived in the third of the four houses on the block. Tony parked in his own driveway, then walked over to join them. “Hey, Dina, what’s going on?”

  “This man was asking some questions about our new neighbor.” She handed over a business card. “I told him you know her better than us. I’ve seen her a few times, but we’ve never actually spoken.”

  Tony glanced at the business card—plain white, the Tulsa Police Department seal, the Detective Division’s phone number. That glance was all he needed to know the card was a fake. It looked official enough, but the seal was printed instead of embossed, the paper was lesser quality, and the edges were microperfed. He shifted his gaze from the card to the man claiming to be Detective Jerry Baldwin—six feet tall, rough-edged in spite of his suit, certainly an impostor. The Detective Division wasn’t so large that Tony didn’t have at least a passing acquaintance with everyone in it.

  “What can I help you with?” he asked calmly.

  “We’re just looking for information about Ms. McCaffrey.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “Any kind you have.” The man grinned. “You never know what’s important until you try to put all the pieces together.”

  Tony looked him over again. He wasn’t wearing a badge clipped to his belt, as most detectives did, but odds were, that bit of black leather barely visible inside his coat was a holster. “I know Selena pretty well,” he said at last. “Why don’t we go to my house and talk there? See you, Dina.”

  He kept up a running conversation as they walked— about the weather, what a season the Drillers were having, the arena football team. As soon as they got inside, he invited the guy to have a seat in the living room while he remained standing in the doorway. “What’s your interest in Selena?”

  The man shrugged. “Purely business. How long has she been living here?”

  “Four, maybe six weeks.”

  “What kind of neighbor is she?”

  “Quiet. She keeps to herself. Doesn’t have loud parties or any company at all.” Tony’s description echoed the neighbor’s description of Carl Heinz.

  “What about a boyfriend?”

  You’re talking to him. Tony leaned one shoulder against the jamb. “You know, you didn’t show me a badge. But that’s okay. I’ll be happy to show you mine.” He held his badge up in his left hand and, as the man started to rise from the sofa, drew his gun with his right. “Take your gun out of the holster and toss it into that chair.”

  Looking grim, the guy obeyed.

  “You have any other weapons on you?” When he shook his head, Tony backed into the hall, then gestured for him to stand. “Get your hands up and walk over here slowly, then put your hands against the wall and spread your feet.”

  When the man had done as directed, Tony reached for the handcuff case on the back of his belt. He’d secured the guy’s left wrist when the door suddenly burst open, knocking him off-balance. Stumbling, he hit the floor hard enough to send his gun sliding across the polished wood.

  “Hey, Ton—” His brother Matt’s greeting ended in a grunt as the man shoved away from the wall, plowed through both Matt and Dom, and bolted out the door. Lunging to his feet, Tony grabbed his pistol and dashed after him, taking the steps in one leap. By the time he reached the mailbox, the guy was already in his car, revving the engine. Tires squealing, he turned the wheel hard to the left, bumping over the curb and into the grass, then back onto the street.

  Halfway down the block, Tony skidded to a stop, took aim at the back end of the car, then eased his finger off the trigger as the car fishtailed around the corner and out of sight. For a few seconds the roar of a powerful engine lingered on the air, then faded.

  “Goddammit!” Standing in the middle of the street, he jerked his cell phone from his pocket, dialed 911, and gave a description of the man, the car, and the tag number, then asked the dispatcher to send an officer to pick up the weapon for processing.

  He returned to the house, absently rubbing the ache where his shoulder had hit the hardwood floor. He loved his younger brothers, who were both standing on the stoop watching his approach, but the perpetual delinquents of the Ceola family were more than he could handle at the moment. His shoulder hurt like a son of a bitch, the bastard poking around about Selena was likely gone for good—the car already ditched, his escape from Tulsa well under way—and Tony had lost a good shot at finding out who was after her.

  Dom and Matt each stepped to one side as Tony climbed the steps. He walked through the open door, then blocked their way when they would have followed. “Don’t ever come into my house again without knocking,” he said, pretty calmly considering he’d like to thump them both.
Before he closed and locked the door in their faces, he added, “You owe me a pair of handcuffs.”

  The evening was suffocatingly hot as Kathryn set out for St. John Medical Center. She’d spent most of the morning and afternoon at Henry’s side, and truly, the last thing she needed was more time in that depressing room, where the only signs of life were the beeps and whooshes of the machines, but something drew her back. Worry, perhaps, or anger. Frustration. The bone-deep need for answers that her brother couldn’t give.

  Traffic on Twenty-first Street was fairly light, and the hospital parking spaces that were at a premium during the day were plentiful. She parked her rental, hurried inside to the cool, sterile environment, and took the elevator to Henry’s floor.

  Outside his room, she pasted on a smile—habit, since Henry certainly never noticed. She swept into the dimly lit room and bent to brush a kiss to his cool, dry cheek. “I’m back again,” she announced cheerily. “You just can’t keep me away. You don’t know how lucky you are to be inside. It is unbearably hot out there. I’d forgotten how bad July in Oklahoma can be, and August will be even worse. But maybe we’ll be home before then.”

  At least, she would. Henry would go from there to a long-term-care facility, the doctors’ fancy way of saying nursing home, where he would die, quickly if he was lucky. Perhaps she would find a place near Greenhill, so she could visit him regularly. Though what did that matter? He was as dead to her as their mother and father, long in their graves. His body just hadn’t acknowledged it yet.

  “Did I tell you I’m staying at a bed-and-breakfast in what used to be the Rogers estate? You remember Grandmama and Grandpapa taking us over there when they visited Mr. and Mrs. Rogers.” The cheer in her voice was starting to wobble, but she kept up the pretense. She was good at it; she did it every day for Grant. “It was wonderful being back in the family home for those few days. So many memories—the parties, the celebrations, the holidays, the family times. I saw your special memories in your room—all those photographs commemorating the highlights of your career . . .”

  Her voice broke, tears dampened her eyes, and her next words came out rough, accusing. “And her. I saw that picture of her. For God’s sake, Henry, why didn’t you tell me? All these years I thought . . . I believed . . . Do you have any idea how much I hate you for not telling me about her?”

  He lay there, unresponsive, untouched. Even if he were awake and well, he would remain untouched. He wouldn’t care what damage his twenty-eight years of lies had done. If he cared, if he’d ever cared, he never would have kept his little secret.

  “She’s striking. Beautiful, really. At least, in that picture. I imagine she’s even more impressive all grown up. She looks so much like—” A sob choked off the sentence. Even after twenty-eight years, she couldn’t say the name without dredging up old hurts and betrayals.

  “When the FBI told me that you had this—this niece, do you know my first thought was that you were a pervert? That you needed a little girl to find satisfaction. After all, you never acknowledged Jefferson because none of your precious Daniels blood was running through his veins, so it was logical that there was something sick about your relationship with this girl.” She tried to laugh, but it was closer to choking. “Under the circumstances, your being a pervert would be infinitely better than . . . than . . .”

  Spinning away from the bed, she paced to the window and opened the blinds. The sun, low on the horizon, was turning the sky shades of pink and purple. Pressing a tissue to her mouth, she whispered, “I’m going to find Selena McCaffrey, Henry. I’m going to find out everything you’ve done, every lie you’ve told, everything she knows. I’m going to find out just how big a threat she is. And then . . .”

  She didn’t finish the sentence out loud. It was too personal, too frightening. But that didn’t stop it from echoing inside her head with all the rage and betrayal and hatred she was feeling.

  And then you’ll pay.

  Selena followed Damon Long and the maître d’ through the dining room at Pawley’s. The walls were hung with paintings of old Savannah, the tables covered with linen cloths, the subdued lighting enhanced by candles. A row of French doors along the east wall opened onto an enclosed courtyard, made cozy by the splash of a fountain and the riotous colors of flowers spilling down the brick. Every table both inside and out was occupied, and she scanned them, wondering which of the diners were there to keep an eye on her. She couldn’t begin to guess.

  The maître d’ led them through a broad arch into a semi-private room that held two tables. The one on the left was set for three, with two places already occupied. The one on the right held two settings, and the man there waited patiently.

  “Sonny boy.” Long extended his hand as Yates stood, pumped it, then slapped him on the back as if they were old friends.

  “Damon. How was life behind bars?”

  “Let’s say I like it better outside than in. How’s business here?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  “I bet the crew members of that missing boat can’t complain either, can they?”

  Yates grinned. “Hey, fishing is a risky business. Accidents happen. Storms blow in.”

  “Bodies drift out.” Long stepped to one side, giving Selena a better view of the man. “Sonny, this is Selena McCaffrey, William’s niece and our new boss.”

  Yates studied her for a time, his expression mixed. She was accustomed to the male appreciation; she’d been on the receiving end of that, thanks to genetics, most of her life. She was also accustomed to the not-quite-concealed surprise. This Georgia good ol’ boy hadn’t expected her to be half-black. Not William’s niece. Not his new boss.

  Slowly he held out his hand. “Selena. Welcome to Savannah.”

  “Thank you.” Her breathing carefully controlled, she extended her own hand, grateful it didn’t shake, then let go as quickly as she could. When he would have moved around to hold her chair for her, she waved him off and slid into the seat, setting her bag nearby. As Long settled in at the other table, she fixed her gaze on Yates. “We had a little excitement on the way into town. Have you heard about it?”

  “No. What happened?”

  “Someone took a few shots at us before running us off the road and into the river.” She watched him for some fleeting hint of guilt, but his expression remained bland, his manner vaguely concerned.

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  “One of my people got a few bumps. One of theirs got shot. You’re sure you don’t know anything about it?”

  He leaned forward, resting both arms on the table. “I’m not stupid, Selena. I wouldn’t try to kill you in my own hometown.”

  Maybe not. Or maybe that made a good defense. “Then, since it is your hometown, perhaps you can find out who did try.”

  “I’ll put my people on it tonight.” He gestured toward the men seated with Long as the waiter came in to fill their glasses. A second waiter delivered appetizers of crab cakes in a delicate sauce, then disappeared once more.

  Selena took advantage of the food to study Yates. He was probably in his midthirties, auburn-haired and fair-skinned, with a sprinkling of freckles. His eyes were hazel, his smile practiced, and his chin weak. He didn’t look like a drug dealer, but rather an up-and-coming lawyer/banker/stockbroker who drove a BMW, played racquetball, and dated the daughters of genteel Southern families.

  “I’m sorry about William. How the hell did that happen?”

  After ensuring her hand wasn’t trembling, she lifted her glass and sipped the wine, then set it down again before shrugging. “One of his detectives tied him to the business and to a string of murders in Tulsa. Apparently, he got careless.”

  “Arrogant is more like it. He was the damn chief of police. Didn’t he keep track of what his people were doing? Didn’t he realize this detective was a threat to him?”

  “He was aware. He’d made arrangements to deal with him, but . . . they failed.” She gazed at her appetizer a moment before looking at
him. “I failed.”

  Sonny’s brows rose. “You were supposed to take out the cop?”

  She nodded. “I shot him, but . . . he still managed to shoot William.”

  “Christ.” Then a speculative look entered his eyes. “You blew your job, and now you’re in control. Some might think that’s convenient.”

  “I never wanted to hurt William,” she said defensively. It wasn’t a lie. She would have killed him if he’d left her no choice, but she’d never wanted to harm him. “He was my uncle. He was the only father figure I’ve ever had. He taught me everything I know. He was still teaching me, preparing me to take over the business. It wasn’t time.”

  “You would have killed the cop?”

  She hesitated. It was a simple question with a simple answer, but it took more strength than she would have guessed to give it. “That was my intent.” God forgive me.

  “So why weren’t you arrested? Why did everyone go to jail except you?”

  Her smile was so cool, so careless, that it hurt. “I told them a story about how mistreated, manipulated, and abused I’d been. I told them I’d been coerced, blackmailed, but in the end, I risked my life to save Detective Ceola’s. With him supporting my version, the police believed me.”

  “Detective Ceola wouldn’t happen to be young, single, and susceptible to a beautiful woman’s charms, would he?”

  Her smile widened even as her chest went taut. “He would. He believed my claim that I’d merely intended to wound him. Even the best detective can be gullible at times.”

  Yates finished his wine, then refilled the glass. “So what does this gullible detective think of your new job?”

  Her shrug made the knotted muscles in her neck and shoulders protest. “Relationships can be so difficult to sustain, you know, and we had so much more to deal with than most couples. I shot him, he put my uncle in a coma, our jobs don’t exactly mesh . . .”