Girls Just Wanna Have Guns (9 page)

Bobbie Faye would have picked the Victorian as having been her aunt’s, in spite of having not seen it before. It was quintessential Marie: pinkish siding with deep fuchsia flowers that overflowed from every inch of the yard and porch. As soon as they came within sight of the house, Trevor stiffened and quit holding her hand. They parked at a side entry, and Trevor moved so quickly she didn’t realize what he was doing until he’d done it: he’d zip-tied her hands.

“What do you people do, buy these in bulk?” She felt the claustrophobic freak-out factor click on. “Get these off.”

He pointed to where he’d notched the plastic tie; the notch was nearly all of the way across the middle of the tie, which meant one good twist of her wrist and she should be free.

“Don’t even
think
about this being a regular habit,” she muttered.

He grabbed her wrists to lead her inside. He bent down to whisper in her ear, a hint of a smile in his voice. “I wouldn’t bet on that.” They stepped inside the house and her really crappy day just went all to hell.

Reggie “Buzz Saw” O’Connor and her cameraman walked toward the police perimeter where Cam stood on the bridge, and his mood worsened with her every step. She was a beautiful woman, though Cam refused to acknowledge that maybe he felt that way because she was a Bobbie Faye type: long, lean, and a little curvy. Unfortunately, the beauty hadn’t made it past her skin. Reggie was extremely manipulative and the kind of reporter who would not only plant a banana peel in someone’s path, but who would be there for the fall and probably have paid a hooker to pile on while she took the photos. She called herself an “investigative” reporter, and if there was no news, then by God, she created it, even if it meant blowing a case detectives had worked more than a year to put together.

“Cam,” she said, when she confronted him. “You look like shit, as usual. Still missing Bobbie Faye, I see.” She looked over to the burnt car. “Literally.”

“How’s the ex doing? Still annoying you by breathing?”

“Hey, at least I know how to get his attention. You got anything for the record?” she asked, shoving a microphone in his face as her colleague aimed his camera at Cam.

He looked at her like she’d lost her mind. Come to think of it, considering how bitter her divorce and well-publicized custody battle had become, she probably
had
lost her mind.

“So,” Reggie said, talking into the mic, “what would you say if I had inside information that says that Bobbie Faye might be working for organized crime, setting up some big heist. I hear she’s in deep trouble.”

“You know I never give a statement, Reg. Whatever game you’re playing, you’re wasting my time.”

Reggie laughed. “I’m not playing, Cameron, but that’s okay, you’ll catch up soon enough.” She turned to walk away and the cameraman followed until she stopped and peered over her shoulder. “You know, it has got to be really debilitating for a girl like Bobbie Faye to be dead broke all of the time. She’s got a niece to raise and no real decent place to live . . . what if she were to suddenly come across a way to be wealthy, even if it’s a little fuzzy, morally? I know”—she stopped him before he could respond—“no comment. But personally, I think she’d be tempted. In fact, I don’t think you know her as well as you think you do. You really don’t know what a woman pushed to the edge is capable of doing. I, however, don’t have any illusions about your Bobbie Faye.”

Cam just stared at her, poker-faced, until she turned around and left.

Sonofabitch. What was that all about? He knew Bobbie Faye had shaved a rule a time or ten when she thought they were dumb or in the way and weren’t really necessary, but Reggie was hinting at something bigger, something that brought out the feral, competitive reporter in her.

So what in the hell was Bobbie Faye up to?

The first thought Bobbie Faye had when entering Marie’s all-pink living room was that she was going to have to bleach her eyes. Every single item in the room was some shade of pink, peach, rose, or blush. Even the plastic casing on the large flat-screen TV had been somehow painted pink, which was an affront to TVs everywhere. She’d barely had time to blink and adjust her eyes from the bright noon sun when three men stepped into the room from the kitchen.

Emile. Great. She’d apparently missed the fact that today was
Rat Bastard
day
.

Bobbie Faye swallowed the distaste that automatically flooded her as her uncle stood flanked by two bodyguards. Clearly, her uncle had a no-neck, “must be the size of a small planet” hiring policy when it came to his goons. Sandwiched between them, Emile seemed almost tiny, though he was nearly as tall as Trevor. His dark, exotic looks were still handsome; only the crinkles around his eyes indicated he was closer to sixty than a first glance would have indicated.

Bobbie Faye could imagine him as he’d been in college when Marie met him: bright, funny, beautiful, and rich. But somewhere along the way, he’d grown into a man who ran a multimillion-dollar Mardi Gras bead business, which, by allegations the federal government had never been able to prove, had also given him access to a wide organized crime network—a network he joined back then and now led.

“What,” he said, grinning, white teeth bright against his darker complexion, his arms spread wide. “No hug for your uncle?”

She tamped down the anger and fear she felt as she held up her zip-tied hands in front of him, blocking his hug; she wasn’t fooled. She hadn’t ever been fooled, not even as a kid, when Emile would bring along sacks of candy and ostentatious presents the few times he ventured into Cajun land when picking up Francesca from her grandmother’s in order to drag her back to New Orleans for the school year. He was the kind of guy who bought a watchdog, then shot it for barking and waking him up. Or so the rumor had gone.

“I don’t think uncles send pit vipers to pick up their nieces, but I could be confused by this whole
family
concept.”

Emile chuckled, glancing at Trevor, who’d taken up a stance on the opposite side of the room from the bodyguards. Trevor folded his arms across his chest. His biceps bulged, the tattoos on his shoulders above them flexed just
a bit, almost imperceptibly. He looked chiseled out of stone and she got distracted for a second there, wondering where he got those tattoos—and if she could forget those, what else did she not know about him? Then his forearm flexed, and she felt the tension radiate off him, in spite of his practiced, calm demeanor. That was the first time Bobbie Faye registered that somewhere along the way, he’d put on a shoulder holster—and his right hand, tucked into the crook of his elbow, was probably resting on the butt of his gun. He wasn’t exactly inspiring her to relax.

“Oh,
chérie
,” Emile said, nodding toward Trevor, whose expression was that of a stone-cold killer, “he’s an insurance policy, nothing more.”

“Somehow, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t work for State Farm.”

“I want my diamonds back, Bobbie Faye.” Emile’s voice had gone soft and deadly. She had to blink away images of poisonous snakes slithering across the floor, but her skin crawled with apprehension, just the same. “So you can stop playing your little game and tell me where they are.”

Game?
Game?
She could see the headline now:
Woman’s head explodes, takes out city
. She gaped at her uncle with complete incredulity, and didn’t even bother to hide her rage.

“You have lost your mind, along with the rest of the idiots from today. I have . . . had . . . a car with duct-taped seats—that are now completely burnt to a crisp, by the way—and a
huge
expanse of a trailer that’s barely big enough to fit two lightbulbs . . . so just what about all of my opulent lifestyle has led you to this stellar conclusion that I know where the hell your stupid diamonds are?”

She may have been shouting. The great big men with the great big guns put their great big meaty palms on the butts of said guns. Maybe shouting at a murderous organized crime king wasn’t such a hot idea. Especially when tied up.

“One of these days, Bobbie Faye, your mouth is going to write a check your ass can’t cash,” Emile said.

“My ass has cashed
plenty
of checks.” Wait.
Damn
.

The gunmen laughed. Even Trevor had to look away to maintain his stony stare.

Emile strolled to the coffee table and snapped open a day planner, thumbed through to whatever he was looking for and tapped it.

“What’s that?”

“Marie’s itinerary. One of the wonderful things I can count on about my dear ex-wife is that she doodles on everything. Even a burled walnut desk which cost me ten grand,” he seethed, getting carried away, then paused, regaining his composure. “Take a look.”

Bobbie Faye eased around the rose-colored leather chairs and bent over the day planner. It was one of the larger weekly calendar versions, with notes scribbled in and around and over the appointment time slots in no orderly fashion. There were annotations for hair, nails, dress fittings, lunches with friends, and business appointments for the textile business she’d started—an outgrowth from her weird art sculptures that had made her famous. She now created purses and shoes out of oddball “found” objects and beads of all types. Her work sold well in galleries and the textile business had rocketed when a couple of skanky-but-popular young starlets had been photographed wearing her belts on the cover of
People
and
InStyle
. Bobbie Faye nudged the book at an angle so she could make better sense of the blocks of time X’d out for shopping, crazy unclear notations of supplies, as well as a couple of recipes. She got dizzy just thinking about how much time it took to write all of that on one day, much less do it. Then the initials caught her eye.
b.f
. She had to turn the book sideways (Marie had filled every margin) and read a hodgepodge ramble of words that wrapped from the outer edge to the top of the page:

d’s safe check copies check b.f. knows where

The tingling sensation started at the back of her skull and raced down to her fingertips, numbing her hands.
b.f. knows
where
seemed to grow larger and larger as she stared, and she closed her eyes, rubbed them, then looked again.

Yep, still there. What the fuck? What in the hell had Marie been thinking?

“Does
b.f
. stand for boyfriend?”

“Quit playing dumb.”

“I have no idea what this is.” Then something occurred to her. “Is this why Francesca thinks I can help find the damned things?”

“I’m sure my daughter has rifled through the entire place, so I imagine so. The more important point is,
I’m
sure you know where they are, and I want them back.”

“Right. You bet. I’ll get right on that.”

She waited for him to threaten her, waited for the obligatory
I’m going to kill your family
that everyone had resorted to so far. But instead, Emile just smiled. Which made her shudder.

“Okay, look, if Aunt Marie had completely lost her mind—and in this family, that’s not a terrible stretch—and she had planned on telling me where they were, she didn’t get around to it before she disappeared. If you want me to find the damned things, you’re going to have to let me search this place for clues.”

Emile seared her with a hateful glare.

“Or we could just stare at each other while someone else finds them first. Totally up to you.” She looked pointedly at the pink decor. “I’m not promising not to throw up if you keep me in this house, though.”

The goons nodded in agreement with her assessment of the pink. Emile thought it over and then said, “Fine. You have one hour to search. You don’t come up with anything, I start tearing apart everything you own and everyone you love until I find the diamonds or you bring them to me.”

“Yeah? You’ll have to take a number on that one; it seems to be the popular flavor of the day.”

“I’ll post my men at the doors, so don’t even think about trying to escape.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I’ll take Tweedledee over there,” she said, smiling and pointing to the biggest of the two guards.

The man actually flinched. And then looked ashamed when Emile cut him a scathing glare. “You’ll get that one,” Emile said, nodding to Trevor.

“The assassin guy?
No fucking way
. How am I supposed to figure out clues if I’m worried he’s going to cut my throat?”

“I’d suggest you move quickly, then. I have calls to make,” Emile answered, stepping toward the front porch. “One hour, Bobbie Faye. And not a minute more.”

From:
Simone

To:
JT

Confirmed that Trevor has her.

From:
JT

To:
Simone

Bureau won’t confirm if he’s off the reservation with permission. Do not trust.

From:
Simone

To:
JT

Think it’s a coincidence he helped her with the tiara which was a map to a fortune . . . and now he’s back when the diamonds are worth a fortune?

From:
JT

To:
Simone

I don’t believe in coincidences.

Benoit worked the bridge accident with Cam, sweat dripping from him in the mounting heat. Cam managed to look cool and collected. Wearing LSU football gear as a star quarterback—high pressure and high heat in the first games of the season—had made him immune to the temperatures now. Benoit, on the other hand, felt like he’d been swimming. It was too hot even to talk, though they’d been friends so long, they didn’t have to do much more than a subtle shake of the head. Cam, a good eight inches taller than Benoit, was still scanning the crowds gathered at the foot of the bridge. If anyone had actually seen Bobbie Faye walk away from the accident, they had one helluva poker face.

Another gorgeous, blonde LSU fan approached Cam for an autograph (he always obliged) and Benoit waited until the woman walked away before quipping, “You need to carry some of them glamour shots,
cher
.”