Cat's Paw (Veritas Book 1) (17 page)

Morgan gave him a searching look. “If you do go medieval on this bastard, leave enough for the cops to haul to jail, okay?”

Alex smiled. “I’m really getting to like you, lady. You know that?”

“I figured as much after this morning.”

“No,
that
was about sex.
This
is a statement of respect.”

“You can’t respect a woman when you have sex with her?” she shot back.

Alex counted himself lucky that they reached the house at that point. He knew conversational quicksand when he accidentally stepped in it. In lieu of answering, he pounded on the door. No reply.

He pounded again. “Calloway? We need to talk to you!”

He was about to batter the door a third time when it swung open, revealing a young man with short, curly blond hair, a scraggly goatee, and dark circles under his eyes.

Grieving for his girlfriend?
Like hell.

“You Calloway?” Alex already knew the answer, because he’d seen a picture of Sarah and this loser on her desk.

The man gave them the once-over and shook his head. “No, he’s out. Headed for the airport. Going to Europe, I think.”

Alex grabbed the fool’s collar and shoved him back into the house.

“What the hell are you doing?” Calloway demanded.

Morgan closed the door behind them as Alex maneuvered him down the hall and into what appeared to be the front room. It made a city landfill seem pristine, what with the half-empty pizza boxes and beer bottles on the coffee table, and the cigarette butts and burned-out reefer stubs in the overflowing ashtrays.

Morgan kicked a crumpled McDonald’s bag out of the way. “Could you be any more of a slob? No, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.”

“Who the hell are you guys?”

“The kind of people who really don’t like you,” Alex said, shoving Calloway so hard he landed on the couch. Then he stood over him, crossing his arms over his chest and putting on his “I really want to tear you a new one” expression. Just another thing he’d mastered in Angola.

“We’re here about the girl,” he said.

Calloway’s eyes narrowed. “You’re with them, right?”

Them?

“Yeah, we are,” Morgan said, sharing a look with Alex.

“But how do I know you’re working for the Russians? You could be cops or something.”

“
Vy na samom dele obshchaya chlen, ne tak li
?
” Alex said.
You really are a total dick, aren’t you?

“What does that mean?” Calloway asked, frowning.

“It means I speak Russian.”

“Oh, okay.” The man seemed to relax, as if that was proof enough. “I got the pictures just like you asked. They’re on my phone.” He waved toward a smartphone resting on the cluttered coffee table. “Go ahead, check them out.”

Blackmail?

Pictures of a judge’s daughter snorting coke would be a potent weapon, a clever way to buy Redburn’s judicial opinions on key cases, especially if Vladimir Buryshkin ever came to trial. All it would take was ensuring that the Russian’s case ended up on the judge’s docket.

“But you screwed up,” Alex said, wanting to keep this guy talking. “The girl is in the hospital.”

Calloway shrugged like it was no big deal. “I don’t know what happened. Sarah was just supposed to get high, nothing more. My debt’s all clear, right? That’s what the big Russian dude said. I get you the photos, I’m golden.”

Morgan picked up the phone and accessed the pictures. Then she slowly walked behind the couch, out of Calloway’s line of sight. He whirled around to look at her.

“These are good,” she said. “You got copies of these photos stored away somewhere?”

Calloway shook his head. “You think maybe I should?”

Morgan’s eyes met Alex’s and she raised an eyebrow. “It’d be horrible if anything happened to them.”

The loser nodded. “Okay.”

“Which Russian did you talk to?” Alex asked. “Vasily or Dimitri? We work with so many of them.”

Calloway returned his attention to him. “It was the guy with the broken nose. Boris K-something. Ka . . . misky? I joked about the bandage, and he slapped the shit out of me. How was I supposed to know? You know, it was weird. He didn’t sound Russian at all.”

Well, hell.

It appeared that Miri didn’t have a stalker problem—her attacker at the bar had been one of Buryshkin’s people after all. Alex shot a quick glance at Morgan, and she nodded her understanding. From the focused look on her face, and her quick tapping on the phone’s screen, he suspected she was deleting each of the incriminating photos.

If he could ever fall in love with a woman again, she’d be the one.

He refocused on the loser, leaning down to hold Calloway’s attention. “The coke was laced with strychnine. If the judge’s daughter dies, guess who he’s going to be gunning for?”

Calloway’s eyes went as big as dinner plates. “I didn’t know! They just said to buy some blow and get pictures when she snorted it. How was I supposed to know the stuff was bad?”

“Where’d you get it?” Morgan asked, moving back around the couch.

“From some guy on the street.”

“Name?”

The man shrugged his shoulders. Alex yanked him off the couch, sank a fist into his gut, and then dropped him back on the couch. Calloway bent over coughing, a step away from throwing up. As he struggled for air, Morgan set his phone back on the coffee table.

All gone?
Alex mouthed. She nodded.

“Where’s the rest of the coke?” he asked.

“There isn’t any,” Casey wheezed, still clutching his stomach. “I didn’t have that much money, so I only bought enough for her.”

“What a truly thoughtful boyfriend you are,” Morgan said.

The conversation had run its course, and despite Alex’s sincere desire to beat the hell out of this little prick, Calloway wasn’t worth the jail time.

Morgan read his thoughts. She picked up a fast food napkin and scribbled something on it, then tossed the napkin onto the loser’s lap.

“That’s the local DEA phone number. Ask for Special Agent Fredd. She’ll want to hear what you have to say.”

Calloway’s expression shifted to terrified. “Wait, you said you worked for the Russians. You lied to me!” Then his future dawned on him. “They’ll kill me if they know I’ve talked to you.”

“Call the feds or update your will, because the photos are history now,” Morgan said, her voice cold. “It’s your choice. We don’t give a damn either way.”

“What?” Calloway cried out.

As Alex shut the front door behind them, they could hear him storming around the house, spewing obscenities, none of them the least bit inventive.

“What does it say about America’s educational system that he can’t even use the F-word properly?” Alex asked. Morgan chuckled. He grabbed her arm, pulled her back toward him, and planted a kiss on her lips.

“What was that for?” she asked.

“For saving Sarah’s future.”

She rewarded him with a shy smile. “Score one for us. Now that we’re done with this scum, we need to talk to the other victims’ families.”

Which was the last thing he wanted to do. “I’d rather check with some of my sources, see if they’ve heard anything about where the dope is stored.”

Morgan hesitated, then nodded her approval. “Let’s get you a rental car, then we can meet later and compare notes.”

He looked back toward the house. “Buryshkin wanted that piece of shit to set up Redburn’s daughter, but somehow the moron buys the Russian’s poisoned cocaine. Is that rich, or what?”

“That’s the truth. I’ll give my contact at the DEA a heads-up on this guy. Maybe they can talk him into testifying against Buryshkin.”

“
Ko-shack-ya lapa
,” Alex murmured.

“What?”

“It’s Russian for cat’s paw. It’s what they’re doing—co-opting people. Making us their puppets.”

“Except you cut your strings,” she said.

“Have I? From where I stand, it looks like I’m still as much of a pawn as ever.”

Morgan appeared to ponder on that as they drove away from the house.

“How long, do you think, before they make their move against Calloway?” she asked.

“I give him one day, tops. Frankly, I’m surprised he isn’t dead already. They must be getting sloppy.”

“Like leaving the corpses at the warehouse. Maybe Buryshkin’s losing his touch.”

“As long as he doesn’t slip through our fingers, I’ll take him, sloppy or not,” Alex said.

Chapter Seventeen

Once he had wheels, a sedate, brown sedan that did nothing for his macho image, Alex made the rounds and came up empty. Hunting down some of his old confidential informants proved to be an exercise in aggravation. Three were dead, one had found Jesus and owned a used-car lot, and another refused to talk to him, unsure of where his loyalties lay.

So much for bringing anything to the table.
Recently that had begun to matter; it was no longer just a game of trying to stay ahead of the Russians. He felt needed again, and that meant everything.

He was just about to pull into traffic when his phone lit up. A number he didn’t recognize.

“Hello?”

“Alex Parkin? This is Sanjay at Veritas. Morgan asked me to call you.”

His heart skipped a beat. “Is she okay? Or is there something wrong with my sister?”

“Both are fine. We just verified that Miguel de Francisco, the head of Los Impíos, sent those gunmen to your sister’s house. It had nothing to do with the Russians.”

“Huh. What about the weapon Morgan found at my sister’s place? Any connection to Los Impíos?”

“In a roundabout way. It’s tied to the death of one of their dealers. The cops haven’t figured out who pulled the trigger on that hit yet.”

“Great. As if it isn’t bad enough having Buryshkin on my ass.”

“You’re a very popular fellow right now. Oh, and Jesus Martinez is no more. Apparently he had a nasty accident while showering. Our contact in Angola dropped us a call on that one.”

Mikhail had been right: Alex’s assailant’s days had been numbered.

“Thanks. I’m glad to hear that. No one will miss the little prick.”

“Morgan said to keep an eye out. She’s worried the gang might make another run at you, since your sister is safely tucked away. We’ve notified the Iceman, as well.”

“Good. I appreciate that.”

“Happy to help out. Call if you need anything.”

Alex stared at the phone after the call ended. Apparently he’d moved a little higher up on the “we trust you” scale, because now they were directly sharing intel. Which brought him right back to Morgan. The more he saw her in action, the more he respected her. She was smart, savvy, and sexier than hell. God, he had it bad. No matter how he tried to focus on other things, she was always on his mind, playing hell with the bulge behind his zipper.

While he thought through Sanjay’s news, Alex drove to his friend’s tattoo parlor. It was a long shot that Tucker James would know something, but you never learned anything if you didn’t ask. Once again, he found himself in the Garden District, a sign that Tucker knew his market: hipsters eager to get inked.

Their unlikely friendship had begun when the artist had identified a dead drug dealer by his distinctive tats. Out of all his friends, Tucker had never backed away when Alex went upstate for a fiver. He’d even sent Alex money from time to time, because Alex’s own aunt and uncle sure as hell hadn’t.

Now he found himself hesitating at the shop’s entrance. Would he still be welcome?

“Only one way to find out,” he muttered, pushing open the door. A guy sat behind the counter reading a thick book about economics, his brown hair closely cropped and his arms covered in intricate ink. Alex didn’t recognize him, but it was a good bet that the help had changed over the years.

“Hi. Can I help you?” he asked.

“Yeah. I’d like to talk to Tucker. Is he here?”

“Should be back in about ten minutes or so. Can you wait?”

“Sure. I’ll just park it over here,” Alex said, gesturing toward a line of chairs near the door.

While he waited, he examined the interior of the shop, which was essentially one big room. A couple of artists were inking away, one doing a delicate angel on a young lady’s arm and another working the outline of a dragon into a guy’s muscled back. That tattoo was huge, and Alex wondered how long it would take to finish.

He’d never had the guts to get inked before he went into prison, so he expected Tucker to give him grief about the one on his thigh, if his friend ever saw it. The phoenix had been a lesson in teeth-gritting pain, begun a couple months before he got out. He’d been lucky it hadn’t become infected, given the unsanitary way it’d been created.

The buzz of tattoo machines kept him company while he checked his messages; nothing from Morgan yet. He didn’t envy her—it was a special kind of hell interviewing people who’d just lost family members.

When the back door shut and a man walked into the shop, toting two fast-food bags, Alex couldn’t help but smile. Tucker James was one of a kind, a big dude with a solid, muscled body, the kind of guy you wanted watching your back in a fight. His totally bald head, moustache, and goatee, along with neck and full-sleeve tattoos, always made people judge him on the far end of the badass scale. He had to be a drug dealer, or belong to a biker gang. What else would a guy like that be?

Alex hadn’t been any different. He’d taken one look at Tucker and figured he had a rap sheet as long as the Mississippi River. When he’d started in on him, trying to rattle the man, Tucker had given him a long look, as if trying to decide how best to break Alex in half.

“You done running your mouth?” he’d asked. “Because I don’t do drugs, and last time I checked, I’m here to help you folks. So drop the bullshit, and let’s get this done.”

Alex had apologized, which wasn’t his usual style. To his credit, Tucker had graciously accepted the apology, and they’d moved forward. In truth, the man was a gentle and well-mannered soul, unless you threatened his family or friends. Then the grizzly bear came out, and there wasn’t a place on this earth you could hide.

The instant Tucker saw Alex, a huge smile bloomed. He placed the food bags on a table and strode toward him, beaming the entire way.

“About damned time, Parkin,” he said, and they fist-bumped. Then Alex found himself in a stout bear hug, followed by a couple bone-rattling thumps on his back.

“You look good, dude,” his friend said, studying him. “You’ve bulked up. Lifting weights?”

“Yeah. I worked at The Farm. Not much else to do inside.”

Tucker nodded. “I’m really glad to see you. I was hoping you’d stop by.” He looked over his shoulder at the front desk. “I’ve fed my people. I don’t have another appointment for a couple of hours. Let’s get a drink. I know it’s early, but we need to catch up.”

“I’d like that.”
More than I can ever admit.

They went to one of their favorite spots, the Roosevelt Bar on University Place, picking a table in the back. The place was empty, just having opened for the day. The strange, blue lighting always reminded Alex of a jazz club, though there was no music to be found. Tucker opted for whisky, and Alex went for bottled beer because the bar didn’t serve anything on tap.

“I owe you,” he said. “You stayed in touch. Almost no one else did.”

“Least I could do. Your sister okay? I tried to check in with her while you were inside, but Miri told me to back off. She’s a special kind of independent, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah. I know.” Before he could stop himself, Alex unloaded about her current situation, the attempted kidnapping and the foiled Los Impíos hit.

Tucker’s large fingers tightened on his glass. “Jesus. She okay?”

“Yeah. She’s healing, and she’s got someone badass watching her back now.”

“Not you?”

“Only because I got something else going on.” Alex looked around the bar, pleased to see they were still the only two drinkers at this point. Too early for the regular drunks, apparently.

He laid out the whole tale, beginning with meeting Morgan on a backwoods Louisiana highway. How he’d signed on with both Buryshkin and Veritas
,
and was now walking a fine line that would probably lead to a slab at the local morgue.

Tucker cracked a smile. “Same shit, different day, right?”

Alex laughed. “Yeah.” Then he told Tucker about the poisoned dope and how he had to find the shipment or more people were going to die.

His friend let out a long sigh, shaking his head. “I was hoping things would be good for you from now on.”

“Not until I get this damned Russian monkey off my back.”

Tucker took another belt of whiskey. “I know I’m going to regret this, but how can I help?”

“I don’t want you involved, at least not directly. These people are evil. They’ll kill you just for fun.”

“Figured that out all by myself. What do you need?”

“If you hear any rumor of where that load might be hidden, or someone who wants to talk to me about it, let me know.” He slid his phone across with his number displayed. “Call me anytime, but do not put yourself at risk. I don’t have that many friends in my world, and I don’t want to lose you. You mean too much to me.”

Tucker frowned a warning. “Hey, you start singing ‘
Kumbaya
,’ I’m out of here.”

Alex laughed, remembering how much he liked this guy.

“No chance.” He noticed his friend’s whiskey was empty. “Another?”

“Yeah. More Macallan 12 works for me.”

By the time Alex returned to the table, his phone was back by his nearly empty beer and there was a note scribbled on a cocktail napkin just underneath the bottle. It had a name and a phone number. He scooped it up and dropped it in a pocket without a word.

He gave a nod of appreciation. “Sometimes you scare the living hell out of me, dude.”

Tucker gave him a toothy grin. “It’s all in who insists on running their mouth while I’m doing their ink. They always think I’m not paying attention.” He raised his glass. “
L’chaim
!
”

“To life!” They tapped drinks. Alex settled back as his friend told him what he’d missed over the last six years. In truth, he already knew what he’d missed the most: the opportunity to have a normal life, to spend time with his sister and good friends like Tucker.

The further he waded into this mission, the more his enemies were trying to take that happiness away from him.

This time, I’m not going down easy
.

*~*~*

After they returned to the shop, Alex made his way to the rental car. Stuck under the windshield was a note with a phone number. Glancing around didn’t reveal anyone watching him, but now his hackles were up. He dialed, and a voice he recognized answered.

“Ah, there you are, Sasha Parkin,” Vasily said. “I was hoping you would call.”

“Hard to ignore the note on my car. What do you want?”

“I am glad you had the time to talk to your old friend, Mr. James. Friendships are important.”

You SOB.
He hated that he’d put Tucker in danger. “What do you want?” Alex repeated.

“We want you to pay very close attention to the security detail around Mr. Wilder. How many people guard him at any given moment, what sort of weapons they carry.”

“I haven’t met the guy yet.”

“Oh, in time you will. When you know the details, call me for further orders.”

“And if I refuse to do this?”

“Then we will have to pay a visit to your sister in the safe house on Canal Street.”

Canal Street?
Vasily was wrong. Very wrong.

Alex went for outrage so as not to tip his hand. “How the hell did you find that out?”

“We have our sources.”

Which are lying to you
. Now that was interesting. “You touch her, and I’ll take you out.”

“As long as you do as we ask, all will be well.”

Alex frowned. “Then you need to do something for me. The hit on my sister’s house the other night? It was courtesy of Los Impíos. Get them off my ass, so I can do my job.”

Silence.

“If I’m dead, you don’t get Wilder.”

“We will see what we can do.”

Alex found himself sweating in the hot sun, a slight tremor in the hand holding the phone. He’d just sent one major drug organization after another. If this went wrong, it could be a bloodbath.

*~*~*

The other victims’ families had ranged from so distraught that they could hardly speak, to a mother who went off on Morgan and threatened to break open her skull. None of them had a clue where the victims had obtained their drugs, though one had thought it had something to do with a bar in the French Quarter. Morgan was willing to bet it was Le Purgatoire.

As she sat in her car, her text to Alex unanswered, her worry level edged up a notch. When she called him, he answered on the first ring.

“Hey. How’s it going?” he said, sounding downright cheery.

“Zip. Big fat zero. Except the woman who threatened to mate my head with her cast-iron frying pan because I dared suggest her son was doing drugs. The fact that he’s a coked-up corpse notwithstanding.”

“I love those kinds of folks. I once had a lady insist the needle in her husband’s arm was for his diabetes. Refused to accept that he’d just mainlined himself into a coffin.”

“Ignorance is bliss. How about you?” she asked.

“I have a lead. A lady named Natalya, and—”

“Natalya? What does she look like?”

“Don’t know. Haven’t met her yet. I only have her name and phone number. My . . . source suggested I talk to her. Not sure if it’ll pan out.”

“If it’s the woman I know, she’s five-six, streaked blond hair, has a thick Russian accent and an ornate cross tattoo on her right wrist.”

“The tattoo sounds right. Is she a prostitute?”

“Yup. Been in the U.S. for about a year. Her pimp isn’t one of Buryshkin’s boys. If it’s the right girl, tell her Valkyrie sent you.”

“I can do that.”

“If her pimp is with her, back off. Anton is a mean SOB. He’ll just take it out on her.”

“Got it. Where are you headed?”

“I need to check in with Crispin, give him a full report.” She paused. “I’ll need to tell him about Anya and what she did to you last night, but I won’t mention why it bothered you so much.”

There was a short silence. “Thank you, I appreciate that.”

“How’s about we meet at Calloway’s place at about five? We’ll work him over again, now that he’s had a chance to think about his future.”

“Good idea.”

“Oh, by the way, Natalya’s a very smooth operator. If you’re not careful, you’ll find yourself with your pants down around your ankles right before your wallet goes missing.”