Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle: Hot Blooded, Cold Blooded, Shiver, Absolute Fear, Lost Souls, Malice, & an Exclusive Extended Excerpt From Devious (143 page)

“Glad to meet ya,” Cole said, extending his hand.

“Hi.” She hiked her bag to her shoulder and shot out her arm.

His calloused fingers folded over hers, and he gave her palm a swift, quick shake before he let go.

“Cole is my attorney,” her father added, sitting down again. She noticed the small glass on the table, ice cubes melting in the heat while overhead a wasp worked diligently on a small mud nest tucked under the eaves.

“Your attorney?” she repeated, taken aback. “A lawyer?” She tried not to stare at the disreputable state of his clothes—the worn jeans, rumpled, sweat-stained shirt, and battered running shoes that looked ready for a dumpster. Nor did she turn her attention back to the gravel lot in front of the garage and the unfamiliar, dented, and dusty pickup that was parked beneath the leafy branches of a pecan tree.

A slow smile spread across Cole’s jaw, as if he were reading her thoughts. “That’s right, ma’am,” he drawled, and there was that Southern deference she’d expected, along with a tiny glint of amusement in eyes that hovered somewhere between blue and gray.

“What kind of lawyer?”

“Defense,” her father said, settling into his chair heavily. “I’m being sued. Malpractice.” He made a wave with the fingers of his right hand as if to dismiss a bothersome fly as he picked up his drink with his other. “It’s…a headache. It’ll go away.” But the bits of melting ice cubes in his glass clinked, and she noticed that his right hand shook a bit. And the beads of sweat clustered in the thinning strands of his straight hair were unusual for him, even on a hot day.

“So everything’s okay. Or gonna be?”

“Of course.” Her father smiled tightly. Falsely.

She glanced back at Cole. All signs of amusement had faded from his angular features and deep-set eyes, and in an instant he seemed to transform from a laid-back ranch hand to something else, something keener and sharp edged, something honed. She didn’t ask the question, but it hung there.

“Your father’s innocent,” he assured her. “Don’t worry.”

“Innocent of what?”

“It’s just a little malpractice thing,” Terrence Renner muttered again, taking a sip from his glass.

“I don’t understand.”

The two men exchanged swift glances. Her father gave a quick nod to Cole and then, carrying his now-empty glass, walked to a glass-topped cart where a bottle of Crown Royal Whiskey sat near an ice bucket.

“Civil suit. Wrongful death,” Cole explained.

Enlightenment followed. “This is about Tracy Aliota again, isn’t it? I thought the police said you weren’t responsible, that you couldn’t have predicted her suicide, that releasing her from the hospital was normal procedure.” She stared at her father’s back, watching his shoulders slump beneath the fine silk of his shirt as he added a “splash” of amber liquor to his glass.

Cole cut in. “This is different. It’s a lawsuit instigated by the family. It’s not about homicide or—”

“I
know
the difference!” she rounded on him. Her face was hot, flushed. The anger and fear she’d been dealing with ever since first hearing that one of her father’s patients had swallowed so many pills that no amount of stomach pumping and resuscitation had been able to save her life, came back full force. Tracy Aliota had been under Dr. Terrence Renner’s care ever since her first attempt at suicide at thirteen.

“But how…I mean, can
they
do this? Legally?”

“If they find a lawyer willing to take the case…then they’re in business,” Cole said.

Eve closed her eyes, hearing the mosquitoes buzzing over the sounds of a tractor chugging in a nearby field. The trill of a whippoorwill sounded. Everything seemed so perfect, so easy and somnolent. She wanted it to be that way, but it wasn’t. “Damn it,” she whispered.

Finally she opened her eyes again, only to find Cole staring at her.

“You okay?”

Of course I’m not okay!
“Just dandy,” she responded tightly.

“It’ll be all right.” Her father was swirling his drink, ice cubes dancing in the late afternoon sunlight. His voice lacked enthusiasm. And conviction.

“Is that true?” Eve asked Cole, who had rested a hip against the porch railing as Terrence lifted the bottle of Crown Royal, his glance a silent offering to his guest.

Cole shook his head. “No, thanks.”

“I asked if everything will be all right,” Eve reminded.

“I’ll do my best.” Again that hint of Texas flavored Cole’s words.

“And you’re good?”

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Beneath the worn Levis, ratty T-shirt, and “Aw-shucks, ma’am” attitude, he was a cocky son of a bitch.

“He’s the best money can buy,” her father said.

She stared straight at Cole. “Is that right?”

“I’d like to think so.” Was there just the suggestion of a twinkle in those deep-set eyes? Almost as if he were flirting with her…or even baiting her.

Whistling to the dog, she picked up her duffel bag and opened the screen door. “I guess we’ll find out.”

And she had. Inside a dark-paneled Louisiana courtroom where ceiling fans battled the heat and Judge Remmy Mathias, a huge African-American man with a slick, balding head and glasses perched on the end of his nose, fought a summer cold, the trial had played out. Cole Dennis, the scruffy would-be attorney, had morphed into a slick, sharp lawyer. Dressed in tailored suits, crisp shirts, expensive ties, and a serious countenance that often showed just a glimmer of humor, Cole was charming enough to woo even the most reticent jurors into believing that Dr. Terrence Renner had done everything in his power to preserve and keep Tracy Aliota’s sanity and well-being. Cole Dennis indeed proved himself to be worth every shiny penny of his fee.

And over that summer, Eve had fallen hopelessly in love with Cole, a man as comfortable astride a stubborn quarter horse as he was while pleading a case in a courtroom. A private, guarded individual who, when called upon, could play to judge and jury as well as to the cameras.

He’d been amused that Eve initially thought him unworthy in his disreputable jeans and running shoes, and it was weeks before he explained to Eve that her father had called him and told him to “drop everything” to meet with him at the old man’s house. Cole had been helping a friend move at the time and on the way home had stopped by the old farm to do Renner’s bidding.

In the end, after days of testimony in that small hundred-year-old courtroom, her father had been acquitted of any wrongdoing.

And Eve, watching from the back of the room, had grown to wonder if justice truly had been served.

CHAPTER 3

S
am Deeds nosed his BMW to the cracked curb of the street surrounding Cole’s new home—a hundred-and-fifty-year-old bungalow that was the kind of place described as a “handyman’s dream” in a real estate ad. The front porch sagged, the gutters were rusted, the roof had been patched with a faded rainbow of shingles, and several of the original wood-encased windows had been replaced sometime in the past half century with aluminum frames. Cars were parked on both sides of the narrow, bumpy concrete of the street, crowding each other.

“Home, sweet home,” Cole muttered under his breath as he climbed out of the passenger side of Deeds’s BMW 760.

“Hey, I said you could crash with me for a while.”

“You mean with you and Lynne and your two kids. And Lynne’s pregnant again, right? Thanks, but I think I’ll pass.”

Deeds had the good grace not to look too relieved that his friend hadn’t taken him up on his offer. No doubt Lynne and Sam’s daughters might not have been so eager to have a near-miss felon sharing their roof.

“Fine. But if you change your mind, the offer stands.”

“I’ll be okay here.” He noticed a faded red Jeep parked before a sagging garage. “Is that mine?”

“Not until you fill out the paperwork, but, yeah, essentially it’s yours. I bought it from a cousin. Runs great, drinks a bit of oil, and has a little over two hundred thousand on the engine.”

“Just broken in.”

“That’s what I thought. The tires are decent, and I figured you might want a set of wheels.”

“Seein’ how you had to sell the Jag.”

“Seein’ how.”

Cole eyed the beaten Jeep and gave a quick nod of approval. “I like it.”

“Fill out the papers. The title’s in the glove box, locked with a second set of keys, a copy of the bill of sale, and the registration.”

Deeds popped the trunk of his 760, and Cole pulled out a slim black briefcase and fatter laptop bag. Deeds had managed to retrieve the two small cases from the police. No doubt the hard drive on the computer had been compromised and all of the information on Cole’s cell phone, Palm Pilot, and personal files was no longer private. After all, he’d been considered a criminal. Probably still was, in some circles. At least Deeds had gotten his stuff back; that was all that really mattered.

He grabbed his things and glanced again at his new home, if you could call it that. The ramshackle cottage was a far cry from his last house, an Italianate two-story manor whose exterior still boasted its original cast-iron grillwork and wide porticos cooled by slow-turning ceiling fans and shaded by centuries-old live oaks. The interior had been renovated to its original charm with gleaming hardwood and marble floors, smooth granite and marble countertops, shiny white baseboards and doors, built-in pine and glass bookcases in the library, and a wrought-iron and wooden staircase that swept from the grand foyer to the library and bedrooms located above. Outside, behind thickets of crepe myrtle hedges, cut into the smooth stones of the backyard, was a lap pool that he used each morning before the sun had come up, before he drove his Jaguar into the private parking lot of the offices of O’Black, Sullivan and Kravitz, Attorneys at Law.

What was it his pa had said not long before he’d taken off? “The higher they climb, the harder they fall.” His old man had been a bastard, a part-time preacher, part-time grifter, and full-time loser, but he’d left his only son with a dog-eared Bible and a few pearls of wisdom.

Maybe old Isaac Dennis had been right. Cole certainly had experienced his own personal tumble. Nearly to hell. This pathetic little cottage only served to remind him of that.

As if reading his thoughts, Deeds said, “It was the best I could do.”

“This place is just my style,” Cole lied, managing the kind of conspiratorial smile he’d been known to flash a jury when cross-examining a witness and closing in for the kill. He’d never looked smug or self-righteous, just not surprised when the prosecution’s star witness was led down the garden path, trapped into admitting things he or she had tried to hide.

“Give me a break,” Deeds said. “Think of it as temporary.”

“Now you give
me
a break.” He and Deeds both knew that not only his credit but his reputation had been destroyed in the past quarter of a year. His once-sizable bank account had withered to a few thousand bucks. His house, Jaguar, and job had disappeared. But he was still good with his hands, able to fix about anything broken, so Deeds had somehow convinced the owner of this shack to rent to him despite his current lack of employment.

“I need a job.” Cole rubbed a hand around the back of his neck. Jesus, he hated asking for anything from anyone.

“We’re working on that.”

By “we,” Deeds meant the partners at the law firm, where Cole had once been their brightest star. Now his license to practice law had been suspended and was currently “under review.”

“You can still clerk at the firm.”

Cole nodded. He’d swallow his pride if it meant getting a paycheck, but it still stuck in his craw that the very interns and law students he’d mentored would now be higher on the food chain than he’d be. Well, so be it. He’d been in tight spots before and had always landed on his feet.

He’d do it again.

Besides, he had a plan. One he couldn’t tell Deeds about. A plan that was his personal secret.

A gust of wind swept down the street, trailing after a rumbling, converted bus spewing exhaust. The driver ground the gears as he reached the intersection, and somewhere, a few houses down, a dog barked. Lights began to glow in some of the neighboring windows though night was still far off. A few kids played on skateboards and bikes, and rap music blared from a beat-up garage two doors down, where a couple of twenty-something men were working on the engine of an older Pontiac.

“I had a moving company put your stuff inside. Still in boxes, I’m afraid.” Deeds handed him a small ring with two keys, one for the house, the other for the Jeep.

Cole managed another wry smile. “It’s not as if I don’t have some time on my hands.”

Deeds snorted. It was almost a laugh. Almost. “So, I’ll be talkin’ to ya.”

“Yeah.” Cole stuck out his hand. “Thanks, Sam.”

Deeds grabbed Cole’s palm. Squeezed hard. “Stay out of trouble.”

“I will.”

“I mean it.” Deeds didn’t let go of Cole’s hand. “And for God’s sake, don’t go looking up Eve or anyone associated with Roy’s death, okay? It’s a closed chapter.”

“Of course it is,” he said, forcing conviction into his tone as Deeds finally dropped his hand. He had to play this carefully. No one could suspect what he intended to do.

Deeds’s eyes narrowed as if he weren’t buying Cole’s new attitude. Thin lines of frustration were etched on the lawyer’s high forehead. “Just so we’re on the same page. Whoever killed Kajak has either left the vicinity or is laying low.”

“Or is dead.”

Deeds held up a hand, silently warning Cole not to say anything else. “Maybe. Doesn’t matter. You keep your nose clean. You and I both know that you’re not the New Orleans PD’s favorite son, so don’t give them anything to work with. We’ve still got that small charge to deal with.”

Cole’s jaw tightened when he thought about the misdemeanor that was still smudging his record. “I was set up,” he muttered through lips that didn’t move. “I haven’t smoked dope since I was an under-grad.”

“Even if I believe you, the weed was found in your glove box while you were out on bail.”

The muscles in Cole’s jaw tightened even more, and his fingers were clenched so tightly over the handle of his briefcase that he knew his knuckles had blanched. “Someone yanked the taillight fuse of my Jag to make certain I’d be pulled over. When I reached for my registration, the bag of marijuana fell out. If the stuff was mine, would I have been so stupid? So careless?”

“Hey, you don’t have to convince me. But I still have to clean it up. Get it off your record.”

Cole swore under his breath.

Deeds touched him on the arm. “So the pot wasn’t yours. So someone set you up. Okay. I believe you. But you’re the one who broke bail. You knew the terms, that you weren’t supposed to talk to anyone involved in the case, and you couldn’t help yourself.”

Cole couldn’t argue that one. He’d tried to contact Eve and had paid the price.

“Stay away from her, man,” Deeds advised, lowering his voice as if the kid jumping the curb on his skateboard could hear or care about their conversation. “She’s bad news.” Deeds’s cell phone rang, and he slipped it out of the clip on his belt. “Deeds.” A pause. “Oh hell…Look, I’m on my way.” He checked his watch, mouthed, “I’ve got to go,” and when Cole nodded, he sketched a wave, folded himself into his BMW, found his earbud, and switched to the hands-free mode of his cell as he turned the ignition.

As the sleek car roared away from the curb, Cole headed inside, but he knew he wasn’t going to take Deeds’s advice. One of his first acts as a free man would be to confront Eve.

Hang the consequences.

She had to keep moving.

Couldn’t waste time.

Eve headed to the cash register, pulling out bills. She didn’t want to think about her father’s culpability or innocence or anything else about the trial. It was all water under the bridge, and the fact that she’d wondered if Roy Kajak’s reference to “evidence” had something to do with Tracy Aliota’s death was just her own way of admitting she didn’t completely trust the father she’d thought she loved.

She finished paying her bill and walked outside to a day that was even gloomier than before. Purple clouds scraped the tops of the spindly pines in the perimeter of the lot. Raindrops pounded and splashed on the cracked asphalt, forcing Eve to make a mad dash to her car.

Samson howled in his cage, and as she shushed him she spied water on the passenger seat. Swearing under her breath, she grabbed the towel she kept in the car for just such emergencies. In the past few weeks the window had begun to slip a bit, refusing to seal. Kyle had looked at it a couple of times but hadn’t been able to repair the damned thing. She mopped up the small puddle then leaned across the bucket seat, pressed on the button to raise the window, and heard the electric motor whine to no avail. The glass didn’t budge. She’d just have to live with it and call a mechanic once she got home.

If she ever made it.

Her headache had dulled, the edges softening, and she wasn’t going to let something as inconsequential as the broken window bother her. She could even put up with Samson’s now-intermittent mewling.

She drove out of the lot and onto a side street before locating the ramp to the freeway again. Nosing her Toyota into the flow of traffic heading toward the gulf, she tried to relax. So Cole was a free man. So what? She wondered if he would return to New Orleans. Her sister-in-law was right about one thing: it was damned ironic that he had regained his freedom on the very day she decided to take the reins of her life again.

Fate?

Coincidence?

Or just bad luck?

Not that it mattered.

Because she wanted to see him again. Intended to face the bastard.

She had a hell of a lot of questions for him.

Within a few miles, the rain let up then stopped completely. Her wipers were suddenly scraping and screeching against the glass, and sunlight, so long filtered by the clouds, bounced off the pavement in bright, blinding shafts. Maybe things were getting better. Even the cat had stopped crying. Eve switched off the wipers just as her cell phone jangled. With one eye on the road, she pulled the phone from a side pocket of her purse and flipped it open.

She put the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

“
He’s free
,” a raspy voice hissed.

“Excuse me?”

The phone went instantly dead.

“Hello…?”

A tingle of fear plucked at her spine.

She wanted to think that someone had dialed her incorrectly, that the call had been a mistake, but she knew differently. The message was meant for her, to tell her that Cole had been released from prison.

“No shit, Sherlock,” she muttered, scowling as she tried to read the display on the small screen. Caller ID failed her:
Unknown Number
was all she learned for her efforts.

She dropped the phone into the pocket of her purse again and fought a tiny drip of panic. So some idiot had called to…what? Inform her? Warn her? Scare her? So what?

It was no big deal.

Then why did whoever called hang up?

Why not finish the conversation?

The gravelly, almost hissing timbre of the voice in those two small words,
He’s free
, caused latent goose bumps to rise on her forearms.

She glanced in the rearview mirror and felt the spit dry in her mouth. A dark pickup was following her. Surely it wasn’t the same shadowy truck she’d seen in the parking lot of the restaurant nearly an hour before? The one with tinted windows where a man had been smoking…?

Don’t go there, Eve. Don’t panic. You, of all people, know how dangerous that can be.

But her heart rate jumped and her palms began to sweat.

Don’t do this…. It was nothing. NOTHING! A phone call. Nothing more.

Her gaze flicked to the rearview mirror. Had the pickup closed the gap? Was he hanging on her bumper? She knew all about incidents where someone would intentionally rear-end a victim on the pretense of an accident, but when the victim pulled over, the assailant would get the upper hand, pull a gun or a knife or…

Her heart was pounding crazily now.

She stepped on the accelerator and switched lanes, speeding past an eighteen-wheeler carrying gasoline. The pickup followed, and her heart thumped even more wildly, and she considered calling 911.

Get a grip,
she told herself.
The guy’s just passing the semi. It happens all the time.

She was breathing shallowly again, and the cat, damn the cat, as if he were infected with her own fear, started yowling again. She checked the mirror as she shot past a minivan and two cars, the needle of her speedometer twenty miles over the speed limit. Fine. Let her get a ticket. Be pulled over by the police. That would solve the problem!