Deep Cover

by Rachel Butler

  The office door was unlocked. Pistol held loosely at his side, Tony pushed it open, stepped inside, and watched silently as Stark dug through files in the corner cabinet. Coming up empty-handed, he turned and stopped short when he saw Tony. “Goddamn.”

  Tony let the door swing shut behind him. It was cooler in the office, though not much. “Jerry Baldwin. Kevin Stark. What other names do you use?”

  Stark didn’t appear disturbed that he’d gotten caught. “I have a whole shitload of ’em. A whole shitload of occupations, too—cop, doctor, lawyer, insurance adjuster, reporter. Buy some business card stock at Wal-Mart, print up my own cards . . . You’d be amazed how many people believe that little piece of paper means you are who it says you are.” He moved to the battered desk, opened the center drawer, and removed a set of handcuffs, letting them dangle by one cuff before dropping them with a clatter on the desk. “I believe those belong to you.”

  Tony slid the cuffs into his hip pocket while Stark waited expectantly. When he didn’t say anything, the other man finally did. “Well? Don’t you have something that belongs to me?”

  “I turned your weapon over to the lab guys. You’ll have to talk to someone downtown about getting it back. But don’t hold your breath. You know it’s a crime to impersonate a police officer?” Or doctor or lawyer, and it should be illegal to impersonate a human being.

  “Yeah, well, there’s crimes, and then there’s crimes.” Stark sat down, the chair squeaking under his weight, and leaned back, folding his hands over his stomach. “Besides, how was I to know a real cop lived next door?”

  Maybe by doing his homework. If Tony had been checking out Selena, he damn well would have learned whatever there was to learn about her neighbors. But then, as Stark had just pointed out, Tony was a real cop. “What’s your interest in Selena McCaffrey?”

  “That’s between me and my client. Confidentiality, you know.”

  Tony took a seat in the only other chair in the room, a molded vinyl orange piece. “Aw, Kevin, don’t be difficult. You’re in a world of shit—arrest, possible jail time, losing your license for sure. Don’t piss off the one person who can help you.”

  Stark studied him. “What kind of help you offering?”

  “That depends on what you have to tell me.”

  “Huh-uh. I ain’t telling you nothing without an agreement in place.”

  “You’ve made this kind of deal before, haven’t you?” Tony asked dryly. “Okay. I won’t pursue the personation charge, and you’ll tell me everything you know about Selena McCaffrey, including who hired you and why.”

  Stark took a whole thirty seconds to think about it, then confidentiality flew out the window. “You got a deal.” He pulled a manila folder from the bottom desk drawer and tossed it between them. “That’s all I know.”

  The folder contained handwritten notes—name, address, descriptions of both Selena and her car, along with sketchy information on her art career and her gallery in Key West. There was no mention of him or Henry, of the gym where she worked out or the shooting range where she’d been ambushed, or of her fondness for running along the River Parks trails, or her fondness for him. It was just the basics, enough to get Stark started on the case. “Who hired you?”

  “A lawyer.” After rooting around in the middle drawer again, he held out a business card for a local lawyer. Judging by the address, the guy wasn’t much more successful than Stark. They probably dealt with the same clients.

  What were the odds that the lawyer, or his client, was a law-abiding citizen with a legitimate reason for wanting to investigate Selena? Somewhere between slim and none. For starters, there was no legitimate reason for anyone local to be snooping into her affairs. Secondly, law-abiding citizens tended to stay away from Stark and his kind.

  Running the business card between his fingers, Tony asked, “What kind of information did your client want?”

  “Anything. Routines, habits, friends. Where she goes, who she sees, where she spends the night. What she does, what she’s like.” He shrugged and repeated, “Anything.”

  “And what did he intend to do with it?”

  “I don’t ask questions like that.”

  “Worried you might not be able to live with the answer?” Tony asked.

  “Hey, the guy’s reasons for wanting to know about her aren’t part of my job.”

  “Maybe not, but they could damn well be your problem. Someone tried to kill Selena a few nights ago.”

  There was a brief flash of something in Stark’s eyes— panic, maybe—then he shook his head. “That’s got nothing to do with me.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I just got the case Friday, and I haven’t talked to my client since then. Hell, I haven’t even seen the girl yet. If somebody’s after her, that’s too bad, but it ain’t connected to me.”

  Tony opened the folder again and scanned the notes. The first entry on the top page was, presumably, the date and time of the meeting or phone call with the lawyer. Friday, 10:40 A.M.

  Who was most likely to show this kind of interest in Selena? Not Carl Heinz. He’d known enough about her without a private detective’s help to make an attempt on her life last week, and he’d cleared out of town. Another of Henry’s local people who’d escaped arrest? Maybe someone on his Savannah crew, who’d gotten curious when the new boss had come to town? Or someone on his Philadelphia or Boston crews who wanted to learn all they could about the new boss before deciding whether they wanted her dead?

  Closing the folder once more, he rolled it into a tight tube as he stood. “String this guy along. Don’t tell him you’ve been talking to me, and don’t tell him anything about Selena. See if you can find out if his interest is personal or if he’s asking on a client’s behalf. I’ll be in touch soon.” He was halfway to the door when Stark spoke.

  “Hey, what about my pistol? They’d be more likely to give it back with your say-so.”

  Tony gave him a warning look, then walked out, tapping the folder against his thigh.

  Ten minutes later, he turned onto Princeton Court. The Franklin house was the only one with lights on. The Watson house was unoccupied, as usual; the retired couple spent most of their time on the road in their luxury RV. Selena’s house was empty, as well. He wondered where she was staying in Savannah, how things were going, if she missed him.

  He pulled into his driveway, checked the mail, then went inside, flipping on lights. The black cat hissed, and the calico darted up the stairs. At the back door, the coonhound was baying for entry and a shot at sniffing Tony all over. At least someone was happy to see him.

  He let the dog in, gave him a good scratch, then grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and went into the dining room that served as his office. As he signed online, he cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder, dialed, and leaned his head back, closing his eyes. He was tired and would like nothing more than to forget everything for a few hours’ deep sleep. But he had just a few things to check, and plenty of time to sleep. Alone.

  The modem stopped its squawk about the same time the phone’s ringing ended. “Records, this is Carole,” a crisp voice answered.

  “Hey, Carole, it’s Tony Ceola. How are you?” He paused for her usual Everything’s great response, then said, “I need some information.”

  “Of course you do. You know, they only pay you for forty hours a week, and I bet you had those in by Wednesday. Repeat after me: The weekend is for rest and relaxation.”

  “Yeah, so I’ve been told.” He’d just never been told how to rest and relax when someone was trying to kill the woman he loved.

  “You’re a lost cause, Chee. Give me the name and I’ll see what I can find.”

  “It’s Dan Johnson, common spelling. First name might be Daniel or Danny. He’s a lawyer.”

  “Oh, well, obviously he’s scum. Hold on and let me see what I find.”

  Since Oklahoma State Bar information wasn’t available online except to members and
he didn’t want to drive downtown to check the directory in the Detective Division, Tony logged onto the lawyer locator on the Martindale Web site while he waited. Dan Johnson had graduated from North-eastern State University thirty years ago, received his law degree from the University of Oklahoma six years later, and was admitted to the bar soon after. He was fifty-two years old, practiced alone, and did a little bit of everything—criminal law, civil law, estate planning.

  “You still there, Chee?” Carole asked.

  “Yep.” No place else to be, nothing else to do.

  “I ran the name, and there’s nothing in file and no wants locally.”

  “Thanks, Carole.”

  “Quit working. Have some fun.”

  “Yeah, sure.” He hung up, then Googled Johnson’s name. So the guy might not be much of a lawyer, but at least he didn’t have a criminal record. That didn’t mean he wasn’t dirty, but it gave some hope.

  Google listed nearly a hundred thousand hits. After taking a swig of water, Tony began scanning the entries for any that might refer to his Dan Johnson. Ten down, ninety-nine-thousand-plus to go. It would take a while, but so what?

  It wasn’t as if he had anything else to do with his time.

  When Selena went downstairs Sunday morning, she found Long, Gentry, and Jamieson in the living room and Robinette alone in the kitchen, wearing his usual scowl. She took a banana from the basket on the counter, chose water instead of coffee, and sat down across from him. On a cast-off section of newspaper, Charlize Pawley’s name was scribbled into the margin, with a circle drawn over it and a line slashed through it.

  “Charlize’s fingerprints aren’t in the system?” she asked.

  He shook his head, clearly disappointed.

  “Not everyone who changes names to start a new life is a criminal. Sometimes they’re hiding from things other than the law.” None of her own name changes had come about to escape the law. Even the last time, when she’d thought she had killed Damon Long, she hadn’t become Selena McCaffrey to hide from the authorities.

  No, she’d needed to become a woman unlikely to be any man’s victim, to become strong and capable, to erase Gabriela Sanchez’s weaknesses from her mind. She had quit her job, moved to Key West, bought a house, started the art gallery, and begun self-defense training in tae kwon do and fighting with knives. She’d gotten stronger physically, but more importantly, she’d become stronger mentally—had learned to take a punch without giving in, to ignore pain, to fight back no matter what.

  Selena McCaffrey was tough, and Gabriela Sanchez became only a reminder of who she would never be again.

  “So what now?”

  “The Coast Guard’s done periodic searches since the boat went down. They’re going to broaden the area to include the creek behind Clancy’s. They’re also going to study the tides and currents there and refocus their search for the crew’s bodies. The local police don’t have any knowledge of anyone named J.T. Of course, he may not be local. A hitter can live anywhere. We’ve got people checking out the shooting of any police officer anywhere in this region in the last ten years to see if we can tie Yates to it.”

  Selena recalled the casual way Yates had discussed killing a police officer, and her blood ran cold—although in an entirely different way than his did.

  “The van used in yesterday’s assault was stolen from a shopping center up the coast in Beaufort,” Robinette continued. “The police didn’t find any prints inside besides the owner’s and his employees’. There were three dozen witnesses, and three dozen versions of what happened. By the way, a tourist got his pocket picked a block and a half away from where we picked up Long. He says he lost about $500. You have any idea where Damon was headed?”

  “To ground,” Selena said dryly. She popped a bite of sweet fruit into her mouth and chewed, then shrugged. “I didn’t know he existed until two years ago. William didn’t want me to have contact with any of his people until he was ready. In Damon’s case, he told me his name was Greg Marland when we met. He asked me out, charmed me all through dinner, then tried to rape me. I thought I’d killed him.” That was the leverage William had used to get her to Tulsa, to lure her into this mess.

  “Any chance you can get him to give up his real name?”

  “I doubt he even remembers his real name.” She snorted. “He’s planned ahead. I’m sure he has money and new ID stashed away someplace under some name that no one would ever connect with him.”

  “You had money and a new ID stashed away, too.”

  She smiled thinly. “Yes, but you found mine. Not that I made an effort to hide it.” One day a few weeks ago, she’d planned to use it—had packed a bag and made arrangements to escape the FBI’s surveillance—but she’d dallied too long and Tony had stopped her. For the first time since he’d learned the truth about what William had brought her to Tulsa to do, he’d spoken to her, touched her. For the first time ever, he’d told her he loved her, and for that, for him, she’d stayed.

  “What about your backup?” Robinette asked.

  “I didn’t have any backup.”

  “One escape plan that you made no effort to hide? Right.”

  He could distrust her all he wanted, but she was telling the truth. A backup plan hadn’t been necessary. She knew where to go, how to disappear. Doing it without money or documentation was an added challenge, but it certainly wasn’t impossible.

  Robinette let the subject drop. He wasn’t going to believe her, and she wasn’t going to lie to make him happy. “Anyway, see if you can learn anything from Long. Now . . . Jamieson needs some time for a thorough examination of the books. We want the share you’ll offer Yates to be generous, but not enough to rouse his suspicions.”

  Too late for that. Like William—like Robinette—Yates had apparently been born with his suspicions roused.

  “To figure that out, we have to have a full understanding of—”

  Footsteps sounded in the hallway, then Jamieson appeared in the doorway. “Yates just pulled up out front.”

  “Speak of the devil...”Robinette crumpled the newspaper he’d written on, then tossed it in the trash under the sink. “Invite him in, offer him coffee, then come back and get us.”

  With a nod, Jamieson left. The doorbell pealed once, the sound fading as it traveled through the old house. There were voices, greetings, the scuff of feet on wood, then Jamieson returned. At Robinette’s gesture, Selena walked down the hall between the two men and into the living room.

  LeRoy and Devlin waited near the doorway, out of place in the elegant room. Yates and a fourth man stood in front of the fireplace. The stranger—short, wiry, his face battered, and his right arm cradled to his chest—looked scared, while Yates’s expression was nothing less than pure satisfaction.

  She chose to lean against a delicate table, one ankle crossed over the other, her hands loosely clasped. Robinette and Jamieson stood to her left, Long a few yards to her right, and Gentry remained seated. “What can I do for you, Mr. Yates?”

  “I told you I would find whoever was responsible for yesterday’s ambush.”

  Her gaze flicked to the smaller man again. “Am I to assume this is he?” He didn’t look capable of organizing a trip to the grocery store, but appearances were often deceiving.

  “No. But he knows something about it.” Yates gave the man a nudge. “Tell her.”

  The man looked as if he would bolt, given the chance. “Th—this guy I knew from up north, he asked me to help him find someone to—to do a job with him, carrying out a hit on this woman in town from Oklahoma. I—I told him I couldn’t recommend anyone—I ain’t into that stuff no more—and he said he’d find someone on his own.”

  “What stuff?” Selena asked.

  “You know...” His gesture encompassed everyone in the room. “I come down here to retire. I’m outta the business. I got family here. I ain’t bringin’ this kind of trouble around them.”

  He certainly looked old enough to retire, though she suspected
the quality of life he’d lived had more to do with the age on his face than the number of years.

  “This guy,” she repeated thoughtfully. “Does he have a name?”

  “Tarver. I don’t know his first name. W-we just call ’im Buddy.”

  “Where up north was he from?”

  “Philadelphia. I used to live there, and me and him, sometimes we did jobs for the same guy.”

  Barnard Taylor’s share of the business was headquartered in Philadelphia, and odds were, he was no happier about her sudden rise in the business than Yates was. Was he unhappy enough to try to kill her on his competitor’s turf? Probably. Was Sonny devious enough to try to blame him regardless of guilt? Definitely.

  “When did he ask you to do this?” Robinette asked.

  “Uh, must’ve been Friday morning. Yeah. I’d just opened up the shop—I have a little bait shop and station down on the river—and he come by.”

  So it had taken fifteen, maybe eighteen, hours after they’d decided to visit Savannah for someone to order her death. Yates was the only one she’d told she was coming, but she had no doubt that news got around in this business just as in any other.

  When Robinette didn’t ask any further questions, Selena gestured toward the man’s injured arm. “What happened?”

  His gaze darted to Yates. “Oh, uh, nothin’. J-just a misunderstanding.”

  “Ms. Gentry, would you please take him to the kitchen and get some ice for that arm?” She turned her attention back to the man. “When we’re done here, Mr. Yates will take you to the hospital and pick up the tab for your care.”

  “Th-thank you,” he said, but there was more fear than gratitude in his expression as he followed Gentry from the room. Did he expect a bullet in the brain as payment for his information? Probably. And because that was a very real possibility, she decided, on second thought, to send Yates away when they were done and let one of Robinette’s people transport the man to the hospital.