Cat's Paw (Veritas Book 1) (18 page)

“Thanks for the warning. I learned my lesson with Anya. I’ll only drop my pants for you, lady.”

She laughed. “Nice one.”

“Did it work?”

“No. Bye, Alex. Stay safe.”

Morgan ended the call, then tapped the phone against her chin. She found herself enjoying their banter more and more. He was funny, and he had a nimble mind to go with that rock-hard body.

His wife was an idiot to leave him behind.

*~*~*

Alex rendezvoused with Natalya on Bourbon Street, just down from one of the strip joints. She was as Morgan had described her, though he noted that his partner had failed to mention that the woman was sex on two legs. Certainly not a back-alley twenty-dollar hooker.

“You Parkin?” Natalya asked, her accent rich and layered with smoky promise.

“Yes. Let’s walk, okay? It’s too noisy around here.”

As they roamed south, toward the river, Alex marveled at how she could keep her balance on the uneven New Orleans streets in four-inch heels.

“Valkyrie said to say hi.”

Natalya gave him a suspicious frown. “You know her well?”

He nodded. More than most, he suspected.

“Valkyrie is good person, though she has never sent man to me before.” She smiled. “You know deal, right?”

“Refresh me,” he replied.

“If you are cop—”

“I’m an ex-con. The cops won’t have anything to do with me.”

Natalya laughed, throaty and full. “The deal is two yards.” The slang sounded funny with her accent.

“Two hundred dollars. What do I get for that?”

“Anything you want,” she purred. “All night is three times that.”

I am in the wrong damned business.

“How’s about seventy-five for some information? No sex needed.”

“Two hundred. Sex first, then I talk,” she replied. “I rarely have men fine as you. I would hate to miss opportunity.”

Alex took the compliment and let it slide. “Seventy-five just for talk. I need information.”

Natalya frowned. “You are gay?”

He shook his head.

They’d reached the river now, and chose a bench that looked out on the water. From behind them there came the excited shouts of children playing in front of the cathedral. The sun and the heat felt different here, not like when he was working on the prison farm.

“Tell me what you need,” Natalya said after refreshing her lipstick. The red on her lips matched the color of her nails. A quick glance at her open-toed heels proved it was a consistent theme. His groin stirred.

To counteract the sensual image of the lady sitting next to him, Alex pulled up the memory of the dead men in the warehouse. It did the trick instantly.

Keeping his voice lowered, he explained what he needed to know—where the dope was—and how it was already killing people. But even before he finished, Natalya shook her head.

“Buryshkin is bad man. I will not help you. His people will hurt me.”

“Even if I offer you enough money to leave New Orleans and start over where he can’t find you?”

He had no idea if he could do that, but suspected that Veritas would make good if it led to Buryshkin’s stash and his eventual arrest. If they refused to cover it, he had cash of his own. He’d cheerfully hand all of it over to Natalya just to find the dope.

She lit a cigarette, going through the motions carefully, giving herself time to think. “Perhaps we can come to an arrangement. But no one must know. Anton would cut my throat.”

“I hear he’s a mean bastard.”

She nodded. “When we are no longer useful to him, we just disappear. Right now I am . . . how you say it . . . at top of game? That will not last.”

“I understand.” Alex leaned over and placed a kiss on her cheek as he pressed the seventy-five bucks into her hand. “If anyone asks, this money was for services rendered.”

“We have deal. I will call you if I hear anything.” Natalya ran a long fingernail down the side of his face, stopping just above the bandage. “How did this happen?”

“Anya Buryshkin took an interest in me.”

Natalya lurched back in shock. “
Dorogoy Bog
!” she said. A flood of Russian came his way, so fast it was hard for him to decipher more than a few words.

She was up, staring at him in horror as if he’d suddenly developed leprosy. After a frantic look around, she hissed. “We have no deal. She has marked you. You already dead, you know? Anya will kill you and anyone near you. I will not be one of those.”

“But—”

Natalya grabbed his hand and slapped the money into his palm. “Never speak to me again.” She spat on the ground in front of him, then stomped away, casting nervous glances over her shoulder every few steps.

What the hell?
The whore was more frightened of the Russian’s daughter, than of Buryshkin himself.

Chapter Eighteen

“Where are you, Parkin?” Morgan murmured, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel in irritation. He’d said he would meet her at Calloway’s house at five, but he was a no-show. When she’d sent him a text, he hadn’t answered.

Natalya.
All tall and blond, her clothes designed to showcase her shapely legs, her large breasts. Had she managed to talk the horny ex-con into a quickie in exchange for information? Were her blood-red nails currently scoring their way down Alex’s sweaty back in some sleazy French Quarter hotel room?

Morgan groaned. Why would she care if he got laid, even if it was with the Russian bombshell? But she did, and that made no sense. Her feelings for Alex should be no different than what she felt for Lars or Neil, or even her boss. None of them got her thinking about sex.

“Why him?” She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter, I’m not going there.” They’d finish the mission and part company. She’d move on.

Morgan took a quick look in her side mirror.
Speak of the devil
. Alex was on the sidewalk headed in her direction, which made her wonder where he’d parked his car.

She exited her vehicle as he drew closer. “You’re late,” she snapped. “Quickie run a little long?”

Amusement danced in his eyes. “Yeah, I opted for the full Platinum Package, which included a deluxe wash, a wax, and an oil change. She even rotated my tires, no extra charge.”

His humor pricked at her. “You actually screwed her?”

“Why would you care?”

She noted that he hadn’t denied it. “I don’t care.”

“Then why did you ask?”

Damn
. “What did she tell you?”

“Later. I want to think it through before I give you and Crispin a report. Let’s just say it got really interesting.”

Morgan eyed him, trying to figure out his game. “Where’s your car?”

“One street over. Figured we should have another way to get out of here if anything goes wrong.”

“You think something will?”

“Call it a sixth sense,” he replied.

Like before, Alex hammered on the front door. Unlike the last time, it swung open the instant his fist touched it.

“Uh oh,” he said. He stepped across the threshold and sniffed. “We got fresh blood. A lot of it.”

Morgan excavated a pair of nitrile gloves from her purse and handed them over.

“We’ve already left prints here.”

“No need to add any more.”

The living room was still a pit, but now it had one other feature: Calloway, tied to a straight-backed chair, his head flopped back, eyes wide. Blood fanned out around his feet like a crimson Christmas tree skirt.

Alex made sure to keep his shoes out of the gore as he did a slow three-sixty around the corpse. It took a while for him to register what he was seeing. Someone had sliced off the man’s genitals and stuffed them in his mouth.

“Oh hell,” he said, swallowing heavily, his gorge rising.

“Is that what I think it is?” Morgan asked.

“Yes. That sound you just heard was me whimpering in sympathy. Poor bastard.”

Morgan issued a low whistle. “Russians? Or do you think the judge went lethal on this guy?”

“My guess is one of Buryshkin’s thugs. Redburn would have just shot his ass, not made him choke to death on his own dick.”

She knelt and picked up something from near the corpse with a discarded napkin. She held up a business card, one from Le Purgatoire. “Look, it’s our favorite bar.”

He snorted. “That’s kinda obvious, isn’t it? I mean, it’s not coated in blood, so someone dropped it after they snuffed the guy.”

Morgan flipped it over, then cursed.

“What?”

She turned it around so he could see it. “Look familiar?”

It was Alex’s turn to swear. His sister’s address was penciled on the back.

“The killer dropped it?”

“Maybe. Or it was left just to point toward you.” She crumpled up the card. “A neighbor across the street saw us enter the place, so we’ll have to call the cops. No way we can disappear this time.”

Before he could argue, she made her way down the hallway. A short time later, the toilet flushed. When she returned, the card wasn’t in her hand.

“Tampering with evidence in a murder investigation?” he said.
Again
.

“Keeping the police headed in the proper direction. Count yourself lucky you didn’t see the bathroom. I may have to scrub my eyeballs with bleach to get rid of that horror.”

“Some guy is cut into pieces, and you’re commenting on the condition of his can?”

“Black humor,” she said, taking one last look at the corpse. “It’s either that, or I start heaving.”

“I’m right there with you.”

After calling the cops, they waited by her car as she informed Crispin of the latest development. She put the phone on speaker so Alex could hear the conversation.

“We’ll have a lawyer waiting for you at the police station,” the boss informed him, his words clipped. “We’ll get you two out, but it’ll take a while. Dammit, this whole thing is off the rails.”

Morgan winced, no doubt taking it as a rebuke. “Sir, maybe someone else should be lead on this mission.”

Alex shook his head the moment the words cleared her mouth. “I disagree,” he cut in. “Morgan’s been doing everything I would have done. Checking sources, interviewing witnesses. We’ve just got too many scared people, and no one is willing to risk getting what Calloway got.”

Crispin didn’t hesitate. “I agree. We need to find someone who isn’t afraid of the Russians.”

Maybe God and his archangels?

“Call me when you’re free from the cops,” their boss said. “We’ll meet here and discuss strategy.”

Somewhere, Alex could hear the Russians applauding this decision. Now he would get a chance to scope out Wilder’s security arrangements, even if he’d had no plans to do so.

“When we meet up, I have a theory I’d like to run past you,” Alex said.

“I look forward to hearing it.”

Two cop cars pulled up, one from each direction.

“The uniforms are here,” Morgan reported.

“We’ll talk later,” Crispin replied, ending the call.

“Showtime,” Alex said, straightening up. “Don’t let them rattle you.”

“Funny, I was going to say the same thing to you.”

*~*~*

Alex managed to keep his cool—then he was informed that, as an ex-con, he would have to remain in custody until the cops got everything ironed out to their satisfaction. When he protested, he was told to shut up and deal with it. Instead of being tossed in with other recent detainees—that he could have handled—he was rewarded with a cell of his very own. As if they knew that it would conjure up his demons. And it had.

He paced back and forth, though his jailers would see that on the security cameras and know they were getting to him. His mind reeled, verging on the edge of panic. What if Veritas couldn’t get him out of here? What if there was more planted evidence at the crime scene, something he and Morgan had overlooked? He could end up back in Angola for life, or for a date with the needle.

Alex stopped in the middle of the cell, pissed that they’d been able to rattle him so easily. He was tougher than this, wasn’t he? Morgan sure as hell wouldn’t be freaking out. She’d be demanding to be set free. Just the thought of her brought a smile to his face and heat to his loins. Yeah, he wasn’t going back to prison. Not today, not ever. Not with her on his side.

“Parkin?” a voice called out.

He stepped away from the cell door out of habit. “Yeah?”

The door unlocked, and to his relief, he was escorted through a series of halls to an interview room. His initial freak-out behind him, he dug deep to find the steel that had helped him survive for all those brutal years. As his panic receded, he adopted a bored expression and waited. And waited. When the door opened and Dennis, his ex-partner, entered, he forced himself to remain calm, not to turn his hands into fists.

Keep it cool. Don’t throttle the asshole. Not yet.

“Hey, there you are.” Alex gestured across the table. “Pull up a chair. Sorry I don’t have any coffee. These guys aren’t doing their jobs right.”

Dennis remained standing, as if he was afraid to sit across from him. “That’s one hell of a grin you’ve got on your face for being under suspicion for murder.”

“I’m grinning because I didn’t kill that assclown, though I’m pleased someone did.”

Dennis ground his teeth. “That assclown was my CI.”

Alex hadn’t expected that. “Well, he stiffed the Russians, and that almost always gets you dead. Except for you. You seem to have all the luck. How is that?”

“He didn’t work for Buryshkin,” Simms replied, avoiding the bait. “He was giving me the names of dealers who work on campus.”

“He also had a side deal going on, one that involved a loan that was going to be paid off if he took pictures of Judge Redburn’s daughter doing a line of coke. You know anything about that?”

“What?” Simms blurted.

“Judge Redburn. You should remember him from my trial.” Alex let that sink in. “The plan went south when Calloway gave the girl some bad dope and she nearly died. You know, from that load of coke cut with strychnine that the Russians are spreading all over the city?”

His ex-partner had gone pale, his mouth hanging open.

“Since Calloway screwed the pooch, Buryshkin sent whoever is doing their wet work to tidy up the problem. I’m betting it’s a big guy with a busted nose named Boris. The one who beat the hell out of my sister when he tried to kidnap her. Did you hear about that?”

Simms shook his head, reeling like a prizefighter who’d taken too many hits to the head. “When did that happen?”

“The night before you showed up at Miri’s house without the warrant.”

“Shit. I didn’t know. Is she going to be okay?”

Alex hadn’t expected compassion from this bastard, but there it was. At least when it came to Miri.

“She’s okay. She got lucky—someone stepped in and saved her. If you find Boris, send him my way. We have unfinished business.”

“Why would I see this guy?”

Alex smirked. “Don’t play stupid. There are only a few people who could have planted the drugs in my house—one of them was you.”

“Or you could have been skimming off the busts all along.”

“You know I was too straight-arrow for that crap. You saw Calloway’s place, right?”

“Yeah. It was a goddamn butcher shop.”

Alex leaned his elbows on the interview table, working hard to keep his tone conversational. “I bet you’re thinking, ‘How long before they do that to me?’ Because that’s where my head would be if I were you.”

Simms opened his mouth, then closed it.

“As much as I hate to say it, we’re on the same page, Dennis. We’re both dead men walking, at least if the Russians win this round. Me? I’ve got plans that don’t involve a grave. How about you?”

Before his ex-partner could respond, the door to the interview room opened.

“You done?” a gangly detective asked.

“Yeah, we’re finished,” Dennis said, then made himself scarce.

Alex smiled to himself as he settled back in his chair. He’d planted a seed in Dennis’s brain. Maybe it would take root.

A young man in a tailored suit entered the room right after the detective. He gave Alex a reassuring nod; his lawyer had arrived.

Round Two was about to begin.

Bring it on.

*~*~*

Veritas’s lawyer had earned his retainer, ensuring that Alex and Morgan were released at the same time, though apparently she hadn’t rated a cell like him. Now, as they exited the hotel elevator on the way to her boss’s suite, he caught her up on his “chat” with Dennis Simms.

“I had a ‘come to Jesus’ moment with him,” Alex said. “Don’t know if it did any good, but it spooked the hell out of him.”

Morgan’s pace faltered. “Why mess with him?”

“Because it felt good, and he’s a weak link we might be able to exploit.” He looked over at her. “He set me up, didn’t he?”

“It looks that way, but we have no direct proof.”

It was then that he noticed how her eyes lacked their usual sparkle and her skin was paler than usual. “You look exhausted.”

“Not sleeping well.” She cut him a sharp look. “Please don’t tell me you can fix that with a little sex.”

“Okay, but it wouldn’t be a ‘little’ sex. Not if I’m involved.”

“You got it on with Natalya. You should be in good shape.”

He shook his head, catching her arm. “I told you, I’ll only drop my pants for you.”

She huffed. “You’re just being silly now.”

“No, I know what I want, and it’s you, Morgan. No one else is going to do it for me.”

“Why me?” she sputtered.

“Because you’re a beautiful, fiery, and intelligent woman. I’ve had the other kind. Oh God, have I. It’s fun while you’re at it, but it feels like nothing when you’re done.” He leaned closer. “You know we’d be good together, or you wouldn’t be checking me out whenever you think I’m not watching.”

“Once,” she said. “Okay, maybe twice. You’ve got a nice ass.”

He laughed. “No. It’s like . . . every. Damned. Time.”

He saw the faint crimson on Morgan’s cheeks as she pulled away and hurried down the hall to the suite, no doubt trying to escape the truth. After a quick knock, the door opened, and she slipped inside. Words were exchanged and Lars stuck his head out. He smiled when he saw Alex.

“I wondered who set Valkyrie’s tail on fire,” he said. “I should have known it was you.”

When Alex joined him at the door, the man didn’t let him enter.

“You need to be patted down. No offense, but you’re new to the team.”

And I work for the Russians
. “Don’t blame you. But if you take the touching too far, we’ll have words, okay?”

“Fair enough.”

Alex leaned against the wall as Lars efficiently patted him down, being thorough, but not a jerk.

“He’s clear,” the man announced, and then gestured for Alex to enter the suite.

Crispin Wilder, the man Alex now thought of as The Boss, sat in a chair near the fireplace, a cup of tea at his elbow. In a dark navy shirt and slacks, he looked like a cross between a modern-day pirate and Victorian-era duke. His eyes said he’d seen some bad shit and done his fair share of it in return.