Deep Cover

by Rachel Butler

  Selena gave him a dry look. “I’ve earned my money legitimately, and I didn’t pay cash for my house. I have twenty-eight years to go on a thirty-year mortgage.” Then . . . “Do you think she’s part of Yates’s business?”

  “Hard to say. She could be laundering money through the restaurant. It’s certainly profitable enough.” He paused, then met her gaze. “It was Davis’s favorite place when he lived here. He was a regular, three, four times a week.”

  And where William had gone, his friends had followed. Charlize probably owed a good deal of her success to him. Clearly, she’d been aware of him as Henry Daniels. Had she also known him as William Davis?

  “The stuff Yates told you about her great-granddaddy and Pawley’s Island . . . that’s the public version of her past. Whether he believes it like everyone else is hard to say. It’ll take some luck to find out the truth about her. Unless she’s in the system, finding out who she was before she became Ms. Pawley is gonna be tough.”

  “And how do you find out if she’s in the system? Fingerprints?”

  His shrug was jerky, awkward. “That would be a good start. Any smooth surface she handles . . .”

  She envisioned herself trying to sneak a wineglass into her minuscule handbag and smiled faintly. Fortunately, she was more resourceful than that.

  “Jamieson knows everything there is to know about money, offshore accounts, laundering, hiding assets. He can learn a lot just looking at Yates’s records, but he’s gonna need a copy to study in depth. Yates will probably balk at letting you have it.”

  “I’ll deal with it.”

  “Those two guys with him last night—Devlin and LeRoy... They both have a string of felony assaults on their records, and LeRoy’s done time for manslaughter. Likely they’re the ones who do most of Yates’s dirty work for him . . . not that he isn’t fully capable of doing it himself.”

  And enjoying it, Selena thought with a shiver.

  “It’d be interesting to hear what they discuss with Long. To that end . . .” He pulled a compact cell phone from his pocket and laid it on the table between them. “This can pick up conversations at close range, but it’s also fully functional as a phone. We’ll be able to pick up every word he says to anyone, and if he makes a phone call, we’ll pick that up, too, both the number and the conversation. Give it to him before the meeting.”

  With a nod, Selena picked up the phone and pushed away from the table. It would be to their advantage to know who Long would call in his current situation. And Devlin and LeRoy were likelier to talk freely with their old buddy than Yates was with his new boss.

  As she exited the room, she passed Gentry in the doorway, murmured a greeting, and headed down the hall.

  A glimpse of Long in the living room, his hair standing on end, his sleepy gaze on the television, stopped her in her tracks. She couldn’t think of a single believable reason for suddenly giving Long a phone. He knew she didn’t trust him, and, after last night, had even better reasons for keeping him on a short leash. He would know something was up if she gave him a cell phone.

  But if he acquired it on his own . . .

  She flipped the phone open and punched in one of only two numbers she knew by heart—her gallery in Key West. The instant it began to ring, she disconnected, but kept the phone to her ear. One arm folded across her middle, she paced past the living room doorway, and muttered, “Oh, come on. Answer the phone. I know you’re there.”

  She pretended not to notice the lowering of the television volume, or that he watched her until she’d pivoted and retraced her steps. As if she’d abruptly felt his gaze, she scowled at him, slammed the phone shut, and set it with a thud on the hall table next to her. “Don’t say a word,” she warned, then spun around and climbed the stairs in a huff.

  Damon listened to the closing of an upstairs door—even angry, Selena didn’t slam doors—then shifted his gaze to the table, barely visible around the door frame. The cell phone sat there, a marvel of technology—powerful enough to talk around the world, small enough to misplace on a regular basis. He listened, but beyond the distant voices in the kitchen, there were no other sounds. No footsteps, no Selena coming to reclaim the phone.

  He eased from the couch and crossed to the doorway, looked up the stairs and down the hall, then palmed the phone. Flipping it open, he checked the CALLS MADE screen and recognized Selena’s own Key West number. She’d been away from her gallery for weeks. Maybe there was trouble in paradise.

  But the days when the stupid gallery was her primary source of support were gone. She had bigger things to worry about. Like Sonny. Like him.

  After a round of fruitless phone calls to cell-phone providers, looking for an account belonging to Carl Heinz, Tony gave up and left his office at the police station. If it was a matter of life and death, he could find out anything anytime, but Saturday mornings were a bad time to make routine requests for information. He’d known that, but figured it couldn’t hurt to try. After all, what else did he have to do?

  One thing he did have access to, no matter the day or time, was property records. He’d tracked down the names, addresses, and phone numbers of Heinz’s landlords, and now that the time had finally crept past eight, he was on his way to talk to them.

  The woman who owned Heinz’s house was about eighty years old, hard of hearing, and knew as little about the man as Tony did. He was a good tenant—nice, quiet, didn’t complain, and paid his rent on time. He’d come with references, but she couldn’t put her hands on them at the moment. She’d taken Tony’s card and promised to call him once she found them, but since her filing system consisted of overflowing piles everywhere, he wasn’t hopeful. She did finally locate the key, though, and gave him permission to check the house.

  He was waiting at the door when Marla Johnson pulled into the driveway behind his Impala. She wasn’t on call— evidenced by her shorts and snug-fitting tank top—but she’d agreed to come in. She liked him and, more importantly, liked Selena, and was happy to do whatever she could to help find the man who’d tried to kill her.

  “You’re lucky I was available on such short notice,” she said as she climbed the steps to stand beside him. She set her case down on the stoop, then removed two pairs of latex gloves and the necessary powders, brushes, tapes, and mounting cards to print the doorknob.

  “I appreciate you coming. How’s Dickless?”

  “Still basking in the posthoneymoon glow.” She’d recently married a captain out of Uniform Division Southwest. Tony hoped they were happy. He wanted the best for her even though he hadn’t been able to give it to her. “How’s Selena?”

  He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Frankie was the only one who knew the whole story about Selena and Long and the damned FBI. Much as he trusted Marla, he couldn’t confide in her. “She’s fine. Still a bit shaken up.”

  “I imagine someone trying to kill you will do that.”

  Actually, he’d been referring to their last argument, but the murder attempt made for just as good an explanation.

  Once she’d printed the door, they went inside. The house was small—living room, eat-in kitchen, two bedrooms, one bath—and looked as if nothing had been changed since it had been built some sixty years ago. The paint was faded, the wallpaper peeling, and the linoleum in the kitchen had worn through to black in places. The appliances were bona fide antiques, the curtains bleached of color. Had Heinz noticed the dreariness of the place? Had he cared?

  While Marla lifted prints from the surfaces Heinz likely would have touched, Tony looked around. The house had been rented furnished, according to the landlady, with a mismatched collection of castoffs all that was left. There were no magazines, books, or photos, no mail forgotten in a drawer. There wasn’t even any trash to sort through.

  “He’s had experience at clearing out in a hurry,” Marla remarked.

  “Yeah.” People in Selena’s world did seem to have that expertise. Even she, at one time, had been packed up and ready to go on
a moment’s notice, with fake ID and cash to make a new life. He wouldn’t even have a clue where to start. He was too rooted.

  “I got prints from the faucets, the refrigerator, the switch plates, the knobs, and the medicine cabinet door in the bathroom. What’s next?”

  He peeled off the gloves. “His office. His landlord’s going to meet us there.”

  It was a short drive to the run-down strip center. Tony had asked the man to wait outside the office, and he’d obeyed, leaning against a planter filled with the dried carcasses of what had once been flowers. After the man handed the keys to Marla, Tony asked, “What do you know about Carl Heinz?”

  “His references checked out.” The landlord handed over a copy of a rental application. “He paid his rent six months in advance. He didn’t tear things up. He was here almost two years and never called me once.”

  “No notice that he was leaving?”

  The man shook his head. “He dropped the key off next door on Wednesday and said to keep the rent he’s already paid in lieu of notice. For three months’ rent, I don’t care about notice.”

  “So you didn’t talk to him often—didn’t get to know him?”

  “Nah. I doubt I’d recognize him if he walked up right now.”

  “You have any idea how good business was?”

  The man shook his head. “You can ask next door. They’d’ve seen whether people were coming and going. But like I said, he paid his rent six months at a time. He must’ve been doing all right.”

  No doubt Heinz had made good money, Tony acknowledged. Apparently, Henry had paid everyone well.

  “Listen, my kid’s got a T-ball game in twenty minutes. Do I need to stick around?”

  “No, go ahead. Thanks for your help.”

  “Just lock up and leave the key next door,” the man called as he climbed into his pickup, then backed out.

  The office was about as shabby as the house had been, and the only thing useful Tony learned next door was that Heinz’s walk-in business had been virtually nonexistent. No doubt, his official books suggested otherwise, but the bottom line was the business was a front for his real job as the accountant for Henry’s illegal drug operation.

  Christ, no one in this business was what he appeared to be.

  Including Selena.

  Jamieson pulled up in front of Pawley’s a few minutes before nine. The nearest empty parking space was half a block away. He let Selena and Damon out, and they waited at the restaurant door while he parked, then walked back.

  The door was unlocked, the foyer and hallway into the dining room cool and dimly lit. Near the bar, Selena stopped and called into the empty room. “Hello?”

  Almost immediately footsteps tip-tapped in their direction, and a moment later, Charlize Pawley appeared around a corner, elegantly dressed even so early. “Hello. Mr. Yates is waiting for you in one of our private dining rooms. If you’ll come this way . . .”

  They followed her past the arched room where they’d eaten the night before and through a doorway. The room was small, dominated by a gleaming mahogany table that seated twelve and a matching buffet at one end. The chandelier overhead reflected in the wood and off the silver that lined the buffet, and the smell of lemon-scented polish drifted on the air, faint beneath the fragrance of fresh flowers on demilune tables against one wall.

  Private was the key word. The walls were thick, there were no windows, and the wood door was solid. Power was the next word that came to Selena’s mind. No doubt, plenty of powerful people had met in this room in the past, negotiating agreements, brokering deals, determining the courses of people’s lives. If she’d asked Ms. Pawley whether Police Chief Daniels had sat at that very table during his reign in Savannah, she was sure the answer would have been yes, numerous times.

  Sonny Yates was seated at the near end, his trousers starched and pressed, his shirt looking as if it had come straight from the tailor. The shirt was tucked in, leaving no place on his person to conceal a weapon, but she had no doubt he had one somewhere, perhaps in the briefcase that leaned against his chair leg. Certainly on his two felon pals, Devlin and LeRoy, seated at the far end of the table.

  A fourth man—slender, bespectacled, furtive—sat in front of a notebook computer in the middle. Yates’s accountant, looking every bit the part.

  “There’s coffee here on the buffet,” Charlize said, as comfortably as if she played hostess to secretive business meetings on a regular basis. Who knew? With William as a onetime steady customer, maybe she did. “I also have bottled water on ice and a selection of pastries. I’ll be in the kitchen preparing for opening, so if you need anything at all, just call.”

  She closed the door on her way out, and Selena moved farther into the room. “Gentlemen. This is Brian Jamieson. He’ll be examining the records for me.”

  Yates acknowledged him with a nod, then eyed the notebook Jamieson was removing from its carrying case next to the accountant. “What’s with the computer?”

  “We just need copies of the accounts,” Jamieson said, his manner easy.

  “I don’t—”

  “—think it’ll be a problem at all, will it?” Selena finished for him as she pulled a bottle of water from the bucket and dried it with a napkin. “After all, an in-depth accounting could take days, and I’m sure you and I have better things to do with our time. And besides . . . it is my business.”

  His smile tight, Yates exchanged looks with his accountant, then shrugged.

  Business is business, William had often told her when trying to persuade her to join him. Looking over Jamieson’s shoulder at the data on the computer screen brought that home. Regardless of the fact that Yates’s was a criminal enterprise, it required the same extensive bookkeeping as any other multimillion-dollar business. There were many of the same expenses . . . and many that were totally different.

  It didn’t take long for Selena’s mind to glaze over. Numbers weren’t her strong suit; she’d rather be painting, running, fighting . . . or kicking back with Tony, Mutt, and the cats. Jamieson, though, was like a kid at Christmas. His eyes had lit up at the sight of the first spreadsheet, and he was still engrossed well into the second hour.

  After a time, Selena moved to sit at the end of the table. Yates joined her. “What do you think?”

  “Everything appears to be in order.” She waited, watched for the faint signs of relief, then added, “So far.”

  “Everything is in order,” he said testily. “I take my business seriously. So . . . I can expect the profit-sharing balance to tip in my favor.”

  “Unless Jamieson uncovers something untoward on closer inspection.”

  Apparently confident that wouldn’t happen, Yates relaxed in his chair. “Why would you do that—pay me more money?”

  “Because you’re valuable to me.”

  “I was valuable to William, too, but he didn’t offer me a raise.”

  “Uncle William built the business from scratch. He wasn’t doing all the work, by any means, but it was his, and he felt that entitled him to the bulk of the profits. I don’t have twenty years invested in this enterprise. I don’t have his attachment to it, or his need for the money. I’d rather be partners with you and the others, make less money, and have more peace of mind than be the top boss who always has to watch her back.”

  For a time he studied her. Trying to understand that sentiment? She would bet he did have William’s attachment to the business, as well as William’s need for money—not financial need, but an emotional one, to gather as much of it as he could, because it was a tangible symbol of his power, his success.

  She didn’t care if he understood her. As long as he was willing to take more money for doing the same work . . .

  “What will happen to him?”

  The question caught her off guard. “To William? I suppose eventually he’ll be moved to some sort of long-term-care facility, where he’ll . . .”

  “Eventually die,” Yates supplied.

  William dead.
Selena closed her eyes briefly. She had been prepared to kill him that day at the estate, but she’d never really thought that through to its logical conclusion. If she killed him, he would be dead. Gone forever. No longer there to advise her, control her, pressure her . . . or make her feel as if she belonged somewhere and to someone. He’d given her that—that sense of belonging. Not always in a good way, but there had been times. Her own mother hadn’t wanted her, her father had never bothered even to meet her, the surrogate parents who’d taken her in had cared so little that they’d sold or traded her away. But William had wanted her. He’d been her family. When he died, a part of her life would end, too. A part of her would die.

  “When you told me he was a cop . . . Jesus.” Yates shook his head.

  “Would you have worked for him if you’d known?”

  “I don’t know. There’s something more than a little ugly about a dirty cop.”

  “You steal, lie, cheat, deal drugs, kill. But William’s worse for doing the same things because he was a police officer?”

  “Hey, I never swore to uphold the law. I didn’t take a salary or wear a badge or arrest other people for doing the same things I’m doing.”

  “But you have no problem paying people like William to make your job easier.” She gestured toward Jamieson and the accountant. “Your ‘public relations’ expenditures.”

  “Yeah, some of that money goes to cops. A DA or two. A judge here or there. People on the take are going to help somebody. It might as well be us. After all, I don’t have to like them to do business with them. If that was a requirement, we’d all be in trouble, wouldn’t we?”

  The ominous little comment made Selena’s blood run cold. She hid it, though, as she toyed with her bottle of water. “What happens if they suffer an attack of conscience?”

  He gave her a chastising look. “Did William?”

  “Not once in his life.” Not about using her. Not about ordering his godson’s death. Not about intending to order her death. How cold had he been, that he could invest so much time and money in her, and so many years of affection in Tony, then have them killed?