Girls Just Wanna Have Guns (10 page)

“Go to hell.”

They worked the crowd, trying to cull witnesses from media-seekers, and Benoit was amazed all over again at the grace Cam could display in crisis. The man handled the football fans with aplomb, though he was completely focused on the task: finding Bobbie Faye. Lots of people had asked Benoit over the years why Cam hadn’t gotten a job outside of Lake Charles at some fancy corporation—there were many who’d have been willing to put a famous ex-football star on the payroll, especially as a company spokesman. But those people never really understood the man and how much his hometown meant to him. The town was family. There was another reason Cam had stayed, though he’d
never said as much to Benoit: Bobbie Faye would have never left her home, and Cam wasn’t going to leave Bobbie Faye.

Well, until the dumb sonofabitch caused their breakup.

Benoit’s cell phone rang then, and it was Diane in dispatch.

“I’ve got a call to forward to you,” she said, “from someone who says they have something important about the jeweler murder you and Cam been workin’.”

Benoit had her put the caller through, and he heard a man’s voice speaking with the thick Cajun accent, thicker than his own, indigenous to these Acadiana parishes.

“Son,” the man said, “I done worried me about this now, an’ as much as I figure on to likin’ her, I got to call it in.”

“Call what in?” Benoit asked, once he had the man’s name and address.

“Well, now, you got to come see. Me, I don’t want to cause her no grief, an’ if it was just a’blowin’ up somethin’,
cher,
I wouldn’ta minded, her being the Contraband Days Queen an’ all, but this here, well, there’s killin’ when someone needs it, and then there’s just killin’.”

Benoit couldn’t get anything else out of the man except when and where to meet. The PD didn’t normally get calls like this in a Bobbie Faye case; people were usually lining up to be her alibi. He closed his cell phone and watched Cam scowling at the back of another autograph seeker as she walked away.

“What was that?” Cam asked.

“Nothing,
cher
, ’til it’s something, and I’ll let ya know.”

The television on the wall blared the news coverage of the bridge accident and the sound echoed off the rehab hospital’s walls. Every square inch of the rehab’s nasty aqua-green recreation room sprouted some cranky, bitchy, angry, not-quite-dried-out addict of something or other, all glued to the chaos on the screen as if it was some blockbuster film, with her freaking sister the action star. Lori Ann was thankful right about then that she only favored Bobbie
Faye around the eyes and possibly the chin; she curled her petite frame in the corner of the horribly uncomfortable sofa, made purposefully tortuous, she was sure, because every day without drinking was going to be hell and they wanted the inmates—okay, okay,
patients
—to start experiencing hell as soon as possible so they’d learn to cope.

The viewpoint of the footage on the TV screen widened to show multiple news helicopters hovering alongside the helo apparently shooting the footage. On the ground below, there were at least a dozen cop cars, two fire trucks, paramedic units, a crowd of a couple of thousand onlookers, traffic snarled for miles, and reporters like fleas on a dog. One of her fellow patients was passing around a big bag of popcorn, for crying out loud. Lori Ann glanced over at her counselor, an older, conservative social worker who looked like he’d had all of the fun beaten out of him a thousand years ago.

“Another Bobbie Faye day,” he said, acknowledging her glance. “Looks like she’s blowing things up again.”

“Yeah,” Lori Ann said, “and somehow
I’m
the fuck-up of the family.”

Michele pulled her glasses off as she leaned her slender frame against the ornate bedroom door inside the governor’s mansion, her ear pressed to its raised panels. She knocked a few times, then listened again. She’d been at this for an hour.

“Sir? You have appointments.” She tried to control the rising panic in her voice. “And the benefit tomorrow night! It’s going to be televised! Everyone will take it as a personal affront if you don’t show! I can’t just tell them you’ve canceled!”

She listened to the muffled reply and rolled her eyes at Kitty, the governor’s assistant secretary and Michele’s right hand, who approached from the intersecting hallway. Kitty leaned in to the door, listening as well.

“Is he . . . crying?” Kitty asked.

“He says he’s not leaving this room until ‘that woman’ is found and hog-tied.”

“He’s hiding from—”

“Shhhhh,” Michele stopped her. “Ever since she accidentally blew up his limo, he gets real twitchy when he hears her name.”

“Geez, if the Senators only knew.”

Trevor closed the door to the neon pink master bedroom—he suppressed a shudder—as Bobbie Faye paced. Frustration billowed from her as her long legs made short work of
the wide space by the bed. He’d cut the wrist-binding as soon as he sent the two guards to their posts, and she pumped her arms with each step as if she’d like to strike something. Hell, who was he kidding? She’d like to strike
someone
, probably
him
.

“If your head spins off your shoulders,” he teased, “I’m going to be
completely
grossed out.”

She stared at the opposite wall, but he could tell she fought against a smile.

Her phone rang, jarring her and she jumped, knocking over the crystal lamp, which shattered on the wood floor. She snatched her phone open after checking the caller ID with, “Hello, Frannie. No.
No
. Bite me,” and hung up. She glared at the opposite wall, not quite facing him. “I have a ride home. And an appointment to get a facial and highlights, should I live.”

She paused, a ragged breath shuddering through her. “Why would Emile hire you?”

“Suffice it to say he thinks he’s got the most cutthroat, successful mercenary available for the job in me.”

“Emile’s not easily fooled.” She eyed him, and he could see she was trying to calculate just how much of his cover was real, and how much was for show.

“There’s enough verifiable truth there for him to be a believer.” He watched her. He knew how easy it would be to lie. He could pretend his cover had been completely fabricated, that he’d simply played a role. But he wouldn’t—she’d had enough of lies in her lifetime.

“Oh, well, that’s just
great
. First I date a guy who turns out to be a gunrunner, then I date a guy who’s a cop who would prefer to arrest my sister and destroy my family, and now I like a guy who could probably give lessons in one-hundred-and-one ways to dispose of pesky corpses. I swear, the next guy I am remotely interested in, I am getting a resumé with full references.”

“I think you have seriously underestimated me if you think there’s going to be a
next
guy.”

She frowned at him, her energy crackling the air in the
room, and he waited, his arms crossed. She was a little dangerous when she was on edge. He liked dangerous, so that worked. In fact, it worked a lot, as did her curves in the killer t-shirt now tied beneath her breasts, the thought of which reminded him of the welt the asshole Irish guy had apparently created. Trevor had to smooth out a scowl. No need to remind her of that event; she was already wired and deadly as it was.

“So I don’t suppose,” she asked, still staring at that wall as if the pink rose wallpaper was the most fascinating view on earth, “that it was a complete accident that
you
—the guy I’d been talking to on the phone, the guy I had all of those hot conversations with, who didn’t hint at all about going undercover—just happened to be assigned to this case about the same time I had my ass dragged into this mess?”

His first thought was that
hot
didn’t even begin to describe those conversations, but she’d have tried to deck him if he pointed that out right now.

“No,” he said, watching her tense, “it was not a coincidence.”

Bobbie Faye hated the way Trevor stood there, watching her, emotionless, his arms crossed, leaning his hip against the dresser as if they were having a casual conversation about the weather. He was so damned unreadable, it drove her crazy, although she was beginning to think if someone Googled the word “crazy,” there’d be a star over her trailer, so maybe she’d already arrived there. She also hated, just for the record, the fact that there was a low hum to her body whenever he was nearby, that simply being aware that he stood not five feet away made her body ache.

Somehow, the dresser drawer broke. Possibly slamming it was a bad idea. She didn’t even remember opening it. Then he did the thing she hadn’t realized she’d been wanting: he stepped into her space and pulled her into his arms.

“I don’t think the dresser ever did anything to you.”

“Bastard.” The word didn’t have as much force muffled the way it was into his chest. Geez, he felt good.

“I had to move fast, once your name popped up. I couldn’t contact you, Sundance. Your cell and work phones were tapped, and you were being watched.”

“Because of that crazy note in Marie’s day planner.”

“Right. The Bureau has been surveilling Emile for over a year now—we’d suspected he was behind the original theft of the diamonds, but they never resurfaced until Marie took them from him.”

“Why in the hell would all of you people be so fired up over diamonds? I mean, sure, a million is a lot, but really—”

“They’re not exactly your typical diamonds,” he interrupted, “and they’re worth millions. Many millions.”

She stood completely still, stupefied. “I think you just broke my brain.”

Reggie mulled over her plan as she sat in her car while her cameraman, DJ, grabbed a few minutes of B-roll of the crowd and the burned-out car. She had already found two people to confirm that Bobbie Faye was alive after the explosion, though there were too many variations of how she’d left the scene, and with whom, to know which story was correct. It was amazing what people were willing to do to be a “star” on TV—they’d tell her stuff they’d never mention to the police. Reggie was glad Bobbie Faye was alive—the nutcase was worth more alive to her than dead right now.

She gazed at a small photo she had of her four-year-old son, Nathan, pinned to the back of her visor: he was laughing as he reeled in his very first fish, a bream half the size of a Twinkie. She’d have sworn it was a ten-pounder from the sheer joy in his eyes. His dad stood off in the background on his cell phone, completely oblivious to his son’s elation.

It felt like acid eating away at her heart to know that her asshole ex only fought for custody of Nathan because he
knew she wanted him. He’d traded in his aggressive, active wife and her regular investigative beats—which conflicted with his intense desire to hide his clients’ illegal activities—for wife number three, a far more passive model whose great ambition was to make sure her highlights were kept up consistently. Harold used custody of Nathan as a way to hold Reggie in check. She couldn’t reveal his little detours beyond the law (particularly when he was skimming off his partner’s accounts) for fear he’d sail off to some island with her son, forever. He had the money and the bastard gene to do it, which is why she simply
had
to even the playing field.

A playing field that was going to change with this story. Reggie could smell victory. Usually, Reggie, like the rest of the media, was on the sidelines, a little behind the Bobbie Faye action curve, and not quite fast enough to get exclusives, which were the currency of rising in the business. Anyone who could get an exclusive on Bobbie Faye, who could catch her on camera in the midst of one of her exploits, would be on national TV. No one had gotten Bobbie Faye making a statement, midcarnage. And if the reporter who got Bobbie Faye on camera also happened to catch her in the middle of a crime? Well, national news desk, look out, because Reggie had a plan to get both of those things.

She watched DJ saunter back to her car, which meant he’d probably gotten a few shots of some skimpily clad hot twenty-somethings that he knew would make it on the air. He winked and shot her his wicked smile. She wished she’d taken him up on his offer to off her ex when it would have helped. Instead, she’d waited too long, thinking she’d spring the evidence of her husband’s affair on him and that would break his pre-nup, but she should have known a sneaky bastard like Harold would have a judge on the payroll and she’d end up with nothing.

DJ climbed inside the car and gave her a big sloppy kiss. They headed back to the station so he could upload his tape while she did a little recon to finish their plan.

Aiden watched Sean roll dice through his knuckles, a sure sign he was agitated. Robbie’s face flushed with concentration over his computer as he typed in commands, listened on a headset, and then frantically typed in more.

“Still no’ gettin’ anythin’?” he asked.

“Not a fuckin’ thing,” Robbie answered. “Not even residual sound, like it fell off.”

“Probably in the explosion,” Mollie offered, and Robbie threw her a grateful glance.

Sean had spent a great deal of money tracking the diamonds when they’d disappeared on him a couple of years ago when Emile stole them out from under him. At least, Sean believed it to be Emile, but had never known for sure. Until now. Sean wasn’t going to be very happy. Sean didn’t take failure very well, which usually meant the employee in question got a bullet. In fact, he was humming the “Dear Liza” song, and Aiden couldn’t help but think of the way he’d altered the lyrics, ending with: