Deep Cover

by Rachel Butler

  “You’re cutting the business up into so damn many pieces that there won’t be enough to make anyone happy. You promised me more, you promised Sonny, you’re talking about giving Munroe and Taylor more. Where do you think all that extra’s gonna come from? Not my share.”

  “I didn’t promise Sonny anything. I suggested I might be willing to increase his share. After I see the books, of course. After I decide whether to continue doing business with him at all.”

  “I guess that’s only fair,” Damon said as he rested his head against the seat. “Because right now he’s deciding whether he wants to do business with you . . . or get rid of you like he did that boat’s crew.”

  And Damon didn’t give a shit either way.

  As long as he didn’t get caught in the cross fire.

  “Well, you survived. What’d you think of Yates?”

  Selena glanced up from unbuttoning her dress as Gentry came into the bedroom. She was looking forward to crawling into bed and putting the day behind her, but first she had to get rid of the microphone and wire. “He looks like a mild-mannered accountant.”

  Gentry snorted. “It’s the guys who don’t look dangerous who are the deadliest of all. Like Davis. Handsome, charming, well-bred, respectable . . . and not one shred of remorse for all the lives he took.”

  Hers would have been one of those lives if Tony hadn’t stopped him. Would her death have been different? Would William have regretted killing her? Perhaps. After all, for fourteen years he’d considered her his property, to do with as he would. Then again, perhaps not. Killing her had been his choice to make, just as saving her had been.

  “Robinette wants to talk to you downstairs,” Gentry said as she removed the last piece of tape. She dropped the equipment into a shopping bag, walked to the door, then turned back. “You probably won’t hear it from him, but . . . you’re doing a good job.”

  Surprised by the compliment, Selena paused while sliding back into her dress. “Thank you.”

  With an abrupt nod, as if Gentry regretted that Selena had heard it from her, the woman walked out.

  After she was dressed again, Selena gazed out the window, absently removing her jewelry. In the years he’d lived in Savannah, William had driven the same streets, seen the same sights, had no doubt passed this house at least a time or two. He might have lived in one of the old mansions whose lights shone softly through the trees, or perhaps in one on the next square over, and had likely met the owners of this house at one event or another.

  And he’d done it all while keeping his secrets. His other identity. His drug business. Her. He’d gone to such lengths to keep her out of both parts of his life. He’d refused to acknowledge her when he could, and now that he couldn’t, the best she could do was accept it and move on. It was just so hard when she had so many questions.

  Like why her? Why had he saved, then threatened, her life? Why had he maneuvered to meet her? Why had he chosen her as his heir? For years she’d told herself he’d taken her in out of kindness and generosity, that eventually affection and even love had come into play . . . but William hadn’t been known for his kindness, and his generosity had always had strings attached. In her case, the strings had been the business—he’d rescued her, raised her, educated her, and in return, she would go to work for him, obey him, be controlled by him.

  But why her?

  If she could have the answer to that question, she could live with the rest of it. She could be satisfied.

  Shaking her head as if it would disperse her melancholy, she drew a deep breath, left her belt dangling from the dressing table’s marble countertop, kicked off her shoes, then finally left the room in search of Robinette.

  Long and Gentry were in the living room. The dining room was empty, and so was the kitchen, but the door opening into the utility room was open, the washing machine was running, and the hushed murmur of voices came from there. She stopped in the doorway, smiling faintly at the sight of Jamieson sorting lacy undergarments and briefs, silks and denims and cottons.

  Robinette was the first to notice her. He beckoned her in with a nod. “What do you think?”

  That I’d rather be home. She leaned against a cabinet whose top served as a folding table and clasped her arms across her middle. “Yates is a good businessman. If staying with us is the smart choice, that’s what he’ll do.”

  “And offering him more money can make it the smart choice.”

  She nodded. That was as close as he was going to come to admitting she’d thought well on her feet.

  “Why did you agree to meet at that bar? Our people checked it out—followed Yates there, in fact. It’s in the middle of nowhere, with no cover. The surveillance team can’t get close.”

  Almost a compliment, followed by criticism—it reminded her of William. Instead of reminding Robinette that he’d told her to make her own decisions, that she’d known nothing about the bar to base that decision on, she maintained a cool, level calm. “What do you want me to do? Tell him I’ve changed my mind? Ask him to meet here?”

  “No, not here. If he doesn’t know where you’re staying, there’s no reason to tell him.”

  “Maybe we could meet at Pawley’s. He’s a regular there, and he has a relationship of some sort with the owner. I don’t think she’d mind letting him in before the place opens.”

  Robinette considered it a moment, then nodded. Pulling a cell phone from his pocket, he called up a number in the phone book, pressed SEND, then handed the phone to her.

  Selena didn’t realize she was holding her breath until Yates’s voice mail picked up. “Mr. Yates, this is Selena McCaffrey. I need to reschedule our appointment for tomorrow morning. Instead of Clancy’s, I’d like to meet at the restaurant. I’m sure Ms. Pawley wouldn’t mind, and of course, I’d be happy to compensate her for any inconvenience. If this is a problem, call me at—” Robinette mouthed the number, and she repeated it. “Otherwise, I’ll see you at Pawley’s at nine o’clock.”

  After handing the phone back, she said, “Long lied to me about the bonuses.”

  “And he tried to escape,” Jamieson put in. “I caught him coming out the front door.”

  “I heard. I saw.” Robinette fixed his gaze on her. “Do you think he bought your threat?”

  “I hope so. He’s walked away the loser every time we’ve faced off.”

  “A concussion, a broken nose, a knife wound . . . you’ve been hard on the guy.”

  “Not hard enough. He’s still breathing,” she said dryly. “How are you going to keep him from disappearing after you’ve gone to sleep tonight?”

  He flashed a rare smile, not an encouraging sight. “Handcuffing him to the bed should work nicely.”

  She would like to think he was serious, but no such luck.

  “I’m a light sleeper. We’ve installed motion sensors at the tops of both staircases, so we’ll be alerted if anyone tries to leave the second floor during the night. All the outside doors and windows are wired into the alarm system, and we’ll have a team outside keeping a close watch on the house.”

  Short of handcuffing Long to the bed or barricading him in a windowless closet, that was the best they could offer, Selena acknowledged. If it was anyone but him, she would have been comfortable with the precautions. But it was Long.

  Changing the course of her thoughts, she said, “I’m assuming Mr. Jamieson will go with me tomorrow.”

  Both men nodded. Selena was quite capable of handling her own finances, but William’s were infinitely more complicated. Everything about William was more complicated, and that made her life more so.

  Delicately she cleared her throat. “There’s something I want to discuss.”

  In the silence that followed, Jamieson looked from Robinette to her, then said, “I, uh, I’ll just go . . .” He left, closing the door behind him.

  “Well?” Robinette prompted.

  “William kept some journals in the vault at his house. It’s part of my agreement with Mr. King that
I can see them.”

  He didn’t even pretend to think about it. “No.”

  She reined in her rising impatience. “This has already been discussed and settled.”

  “If King didn’t tell you they’re evidence in a major case and, as such, are off-limits, he should have.”

  And they could provide evidence of her life. Obviously that wasn’t important to him, but it meant a lot to her. “I don’t care about the evidence. Black it out. I just want to read what he says about me.”

  “What makes you think he says anything about you?”

  “That day . . .” She paused. There had been plenty of momentous days in her life, and she hoped there were plenty still to come. But no matter what happened, that day would always refer to one hot July Sunday when life as she knew it had ended. “I looked at the journal for the year William took me in. There was a photograph of me dated April of that year. I didn’t meet him until November.”

  Robinette made a brush-off gesture. “So he mislabeled the photo. So what? Everybody makes mistakes.”

  “Not William. Not that kind of mistake.”

  There was more, though she intended to keep it to herself for the moment. That same day William had said, I should have left you in Jamaica to die. If I hadn’t returned for you when I did . . . Not If I hadn’t saved you or If I hadn’t taken you with me, but If I hadn’t returned for you. Their November meeting hadn’t been as innocent as it seemed. He’d been watching her—a forty-some-year-old man stalking a fourteen-year-old girl. Why?

  And there was the man she’d robbed in Ocho Rios. He wasn’t a local, but he’d known better than to wander around in that part of town flashing that kind of money. Even American tourists knew better. And if he’d been as drunk as he’d pretended, he never would have realized she’d lifted his money, much less been able to catch her and threaten her.

  William had happened along at just the right moment to save her. Had he set up the whole incident to gain her trust? Had he been cold enough—sick enough—to pay a man to attack a child just so he could rescue her, then ensure his accomplice’s silence by killing him?

  Absolutely, yes.

  Robinette started toward the door. “Take this up with King when we get back to Tulsa.”

  She sidestepped to block his path. “I’ve already taken it up with him. I expect that journal to be waiting when we get back, or my role in this game is over.”

  Color flared in his cheeks, but belying the apparent heat, his manner turned colder. “Let me remind you, Ms. McCaffrey, you’re not in a position to be making threats.”

  “I’m not making threats, Mr. Robinette. I’m stating the facts. That journal will be waiting for me when we get back to Tulsa. Understand?” She waited a moment, not expecting a response, then turned on her heel and walked out of the room.

  Jamieson was standing near the island, looking awkward, as if he’d eavesdropped or was afraid she would think he had. She gave him a cool nod. “I’ll be ready to leave in the morning at a quarter of nine.”

  “Yeah. Sure. So will I. Good night.”

  Not from her point of view, but she quietly repeated the words all the same. “Good night.”

  Growing up an only child with a father he’d never known and a mother who was gone more often than not, Vernell Munroe had always wanted a large family. It had taken two wives and thirty years, but he’d gotten it—six children and seventeen grandchildren, with three more on the way, and every one of them living close enough to visit their old man every weekend and in between.

  On this beautiful Saturday morning, he was sitting on the patio behind his house, a cup of coffee and a platter of fruit on the table in front of him. The coffee was decaf, the fruit low-calorie, low-sodium, low-cholesterol, low-everything. Since his second wife had passed three years ago, his oldest daughter had taken to fussing over him. She’d taken away his cigarettes cold turkey, he hadn’t had a piece of bacon or a biscuit drowning in gravy in longer than he could remember, and she had him walking the yippy little dog she’d bought him for companionship three times a day. He couldn’t complain, though. He was healthier than he’d been in years.

  When the cell phone rang, he looked at the caller ID and gave a sigh. Private call. He’d received only one call lately that had come in as private, and it was someone he didn’t want to talk to that morning, not with his grandkids playing nearby.

  “Want me to take it?” DeShaun offered.

  Vernell shook his head. DeShaun was a good boy— practically family, except that no one in Vernell’s family was allowed anywhere near his business. He’d promised that to his first wife before the cancer took her all those years ago, and he’d never wavered.

  He picked up the phone and said “Hello,” and the immediate response was a chuckle. “If yesterday is an example of the best you can do, it’s a wonder you could hold on to your territory for a month, much less twenty years.”

  His new best friend. The man had called out of the blue, offering information, wanting money. Vernell had heard him out, had even made a first installment, but he didn’t like the whole setup for fear that was exactly what it was—a setup. Anonymous strangers calling on the phone, suggesting a hit . . . the whole thing stunk. But there was a lot about this business that stunk.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. Deny everything and admit nothing. That was the first piece of advice he’d gotten from the old man who’d given him his start in the business, and it had proven good for nearly forty years.

  “Yeah, right, so it’s just coincidence that after I gave you the information on Selena McCaffrey’s trip to Savannah, someone tried to kill her as soon as she got there.”

  “Must have been someone else you gave that information to.” If he’d tried to take out the new boss, he wouldn’t tell this guy, and if he hadn’t tried, he wouldn’t tell him. Theirs was a very narrow deal—the man gave him facts, and Vernell paid him for them. What he did after that was his business.

  “Lucky for you, you get another chance,” the man went on. “She’s meeting with Yates this morning. You want the details?”

  Vernell gazed across the lawn, where three of his grand-daughters were fiddling with each other’s hair. Four-year-old Anjanae was pushing that yappy dog in a baby carriage, ignoring the boys’ shouts when she strolled across their makeshift baseball field. Did he want the details? Not particularly. He’d rather be playing pitcher to his grandsons’ All-Stars. Would he take them? Of course, because business was business, and Vernell always gave it the attention it deserved. That was how he’d risen to the top, and that was how he stayed there.

  Gesturing to DeShaun for a pen, he said, “Go ahead.” He wrote down the time and location of the meeting, handed the note to DeShaun, then watched him leave the table before he asked, “How did you come by this information?”

  “What does it matter as long as it’s good?”

  “People in this business don’t just pass their schedules around to strangers. Either you work for Yates, or you work for her.”

  “Like I said, what does it matter? It’s good, I’m getting paid for it, and you’ll be rewarded, too, if you use it— hopefully a little more efficiently than yesterday.” There was another chuckle. “It’s nice doing business with you, Mr. Munroe. You’ll hear from me again.”

  Vernell didn’t doubt that for a minute. Trouble always kept coming back around. Did Yates or McCaffrey have a clue that one of them had a traitor working for them? Hard to guess. There was a time when loyalty counted for a lot. But it was a different world today. Everything was for sale—loyalty, honor, a woman’s life. It wasn’t a world he particularly liked . . . but one he had to live in.

  “DeShaun,” he called. “Let’s talk.”

  9

  The Smell of fresh-brewed coffee lured Selena downstairs Saturday morning. She found Robinette sitting at the kitchen table, a newspaper and a half-eaten doughnut in front of him. With a grunt in greeting, he pushed a bakery box toward he
r. She chose a bagel, popped it in the toaster while she fixed her coffee, then sat down opposite him.

  Her clothes had been waiting, cleaned and folded, in a basket just inside the bedroom door when she’d finished her shower. She’d chosen the outfit that offered the most concealability for the wire—a sleeveless top and capris in ivory linen—removed the dry cleaners’ tag, and quickly dressed, all the while concentrating on the appointment ahead. Not home. Not Tony. Not the lazy Saturday mornings she’d become accustomed to.

  It was astonishing how important Tony had become to her, and how quickly. Six weeks ago, she hadn’t even known he existed. Now she couldn’t imagine living without him. If she had to, if William cost her the most important person in her life . . .

  She let the thought trail off. If the worst happened, there was nothing she could do but accept it. Just as she’d always done.

  She was tired of accepting.

  She turned to Robinette. “What did you find out about Charlize Pawley?” She had no doubt he’d begun checking out the woman, probably within moments of her stopping by their table the night before. In the ten hours or so since, he’d likely learned everything there was to know about her.

  “She’s thirty-five. Has owned the restaurant for twelve years. Owns a hundred-fifty-year-old house on waterfront property, also for twelve years. Paid cash for both, with money from an inheritance, supposedly. She’s never been arrested, never gotten a traffic citation. She votes in every election, donates money to the right charities, socializes with the right people. She drives a nice car, wears nice clothes, has some nice jewelry, but she also invests prudently—has a tidy little sum in a retirement account.”

  He left the table to refill his coffee, stirred in an extraordinary amount of sugar and cream, then sat down again. “Funny thing about her, though—her driver’s license only goes back twelve years, too. Ditto for her social security number, her credit record, and her name. As far as we can tell, she sprang to life full-grown, with a lot of money and no history. Sound like anyone you know?”