Merciless (7 page)

“You live in an unsecured apartment house,” he said, thinking aloud.

“We have locks on the doors and a telephone.”

He glared at her. “Locks keep honest people out. That's all they do.”

She folded her hands in her lap. “Over the years that I've worked here,” she began, “I've heard a lot of people make threats. I don't know of a single one that actually turned into an incident.”

“Yes, well I do,” he said curtly. “I won't take chances with your life, or your son's.”

“It was your life I was thinking about,” she said quietly. “He has a reason for wanting to harm you.”

His eyebrows arched. “Are you actually expressing concern for my welfare, Ms. Perry?” he asked with mock astonishment.

“Yes, sir,” she said calmly. “It's very difficult to train a boss not to expect impossible menial tasks,” she added with a gleam in her blue eyes. “I'm not anxious to break in somebody new.”

He laughed faintly. “Touché.” He glanced at his watch and got to his feet. “I'll talk to a few people and see what sort of arrangements I can make for someone to keep an eye on you after work.”

“On our budget, sir, we can probably afford a ten-year-old boy in a trench coat with one of those Junior Spy kits.”

He really glared at her then. “My brother has all sorts of shadowy contacts that we don't talk about. I'm sure at least one of them owes him a favor. Rourke comes to mind.”

“No,” she said at once. “No, absolutely not. I will not have that one-eyed lunatic anywhere near me!”

His eyebrows arched. She'd rarely been so outspoken about any of the people who came through the office. “He's very good at private security.”

Her jaw set so tightly that it bulged.

“Out with it,” he ordered.

She shifted restlessly. “He said I should be gagged and locked in a closet.”

He had to stifle a laugh. “May I ask what prompted him to make such a remark?”

Her eyes avoided his. “He was making fun of my shoes.”

He looked down. She was wearing the ballet slippers she usually wore to work, bad for the instep but extremely comfortable—and affordable.

“Some of us can't manage Neiman Marcus even on a good government salary,” she said, still ruffled months after the remark was made.

“Rourke pops off and thinks he's being amusing.”

“He'll get popped off if he makes another such remark to me,” she said curtly.

He chuckled. “I'll see if anybody else owes Mac a favor.”

“It sounded like Harold Monroe, but I couldn't prove it. He was probably just fishing, to see if he could frighten me. And he knew I'd tell you what he said,” she added. She hesitated. “Sir, you really could use someone to watch your back. Monroe may be a certifiable idiot, but he has family connections who aren't.”

“I'm aware of that.”

“Don't get insulted,” she added when he looked annoyed. “You FBI types always think you're the biggest, meanest dogs on the block and usually you're right. I don't like funerals,” she added firmly.

“Or breaking in new bosses.”

Her eyes twinkled. “Exactly.”

“I'll do my best to stay alive.” He started out the door and hesitated. “If my brother calls, tell him I want to talk to him. I'll be back after two.”

“I did notice that, sir,” she added pleasantly, “having noted it on your calendar.”

His jaw clenched.

“Won't you be late for court?” she asked. “It's Judge Cummings sitting today, too, isn't it, and he doesn't like the FBI.” She smiled angelically. “Do be polite, sir.”

He muttered something under his breath.

“Sir!” she exclaimed. “This is a government office…!”

He was out the door before she could finish the sentence.

 

Betty Rimes was constantly amused by Joceline's ongoing verbal attacks on her boss.

“He could just fire you,” Betty pointed out.

“He wouldn't dare. There are very few paralegals working outside the judicial system, where would he ever find someone to replace me?” Joceline asked, amused.

“We have a part-time administrative assistant,” she was reminded grimly. “And Phyllis Hicks does offer to make coffee for the boss.”

“I don't do menial chores,” Joceline reiterated. “It isn't in my job description.”

Betty sipped her coffee. “Yes, but, dear, she'd work for half what they pay you,” she added worriedly. “It's a flat economy. So many people are out of work.”

Joceline didn't let her uneasiness show. She just smiled. “Mr. Blackhawk is used to me and he doesn't like strangers.”

“That's true. It's just that he doesn't make the major budgetary decisions.”

Joceline stared at her. “What do you know that you're not telling me?”

Betty bit her lip. “It's probably nothing…”

“Tell me.”

“I overheard one of the senior agents discussing something Mr. Grier said at lunch.” Garon Grier was now the Special Agent in Charge for the Jacobsville satellite office, and he frequently showed up at the San Antonio office to have lunch with the San Antonio SAC. “Mr. Grier was disturbed at talk that they were going to reduce his office staff, and our own SAC apparently wondered out loud if we could make do with one administrative assistant for the Violent Crimes Squad here, with a part-time assistant.”

Joceline didn't move. She stared at the other woman with dawning horror. Betty had been with the Bureau for a long time, over ten years, and she had seniority.

“I said it was probably just talk. He might have even been joking. Please don't worry,” Betty said gently. “Probably they'll come up with some other idea for saving money by cutting our travel budget. I just didn't want it to come at you out of the blue. You're a great paralegal. I know Judge Cummings would snap you up in a second for his office, or the assistant D.A. would for hers.”

That was true. But no matter how good the working conditions, or how great the pay, those offices wouldn't contain Jon Blackhawk. While that might be a good thing, in some respects, it was devastating in another.

“Joceline, you're not going to lose your job,” Betty said, her tone reassuring. “The SAC and Mr. Blackhawk would both fight for you.”

They would. She knew that. Despite her insistence on the parameters of her duties, she was good at what she did, and she never slacked or avoided work. There were those unavoidable times when she was late for work…

She looked up at Betty worriedly. “I've been late sometimes.”

The older woman was sympathetic. “Everybody knows why,” she said surprisingly.

“What?”

“We know your son has medical problems,” the older woman replied with a smile.

“But I never told anyone,” she stammered. “I mean, Mr. Blackhawk came by when I had to bring Markie to the hospital,” she began.

“And he told all of us,” she said. “He didn't want anyone assuming that you missed work for some frivolous reason. He's quite fond of you, in his way. Although watching him react to you is funny. You do put his back up, as they say.”

“Keeps him on his toes.” Joceline laughed. “He really does tend to brood.”

“Oh, coffee!” Phyllis said, smiling. “Can I have some, too?”

“Sure, sit down,” Joceline invited. She noted the younger woman's clothing; it looked like the sort of thing Cammy Blackhawk would wear. But Phyllis had said her father
worked as a police detective and Phyllis was in college part-time. Where would she get the money for expensive clothes? Maybe Joceline was just tired and getting irritated over minor matters.

“We were talking about our workload,” Betty commented.

“It's so boring,” Phyllis said. “I wish I could be a detective, like my dad, and get to go to crime scenes.”

“You watch too many crime television shows, Phyllis.” Betty chuckled.

Phyllis gave her a blank stare.

“You know, those forensic programs that deal with trace evidence solving big cases,” Joceline said helpfully. “They call it fiction.”

“So many people don't know the difference.” Betty sighed. “Now juries are so clued up that they argue with attorneys about trace evidence in murder trials. They watch a television show a few times and think they're qualified to rule on pathological evidence.”

“Yes, it's nothing like what they show on television,” Phyllis said. “Bodies are so clean and tidy. In real life, the blood is everywhere. It splashes around like paint…” She stopped because they were staring at her silently. “Oh, my dad lets me look at file photos sometimes,” she said quickly. “To teach me how evidence is really gathered.”

“I see,” Betty said, but she was visibly uncomfortable.

“Some of those shows are just a little too graphic for me, especially when my son might walk in and see something
that would give him nightmares,” Joceline said with a smile.

“I was never squeamish, even when I was little,” Phyllis scoffed. “That murder case we worked on with Mr. Blackhawk was really fascinating, the one that Jay Copper got arrested for,” she added suddenly. “Aren't you working with a file about that Hancock man? Digging out information about his past?”

“I'm trying to run down stuff. I got some rap sheets from San Antonio P.D. this morning. They're on my desk. I haven't had time to input the information. I may have to sign them out and do it at home.”

“I guess it's a long rap sheet,” Phyllis said.

“Very.”

“Such a sad case, the Kilraven murders,” Betty said. “Imagine, someone killing a child like that.”

“Kids, adults, a life is a life.” Phyllis shrugged. “They all die the same.”

“You have a different outlook when you have a child,” Joceline said tautly.

Phyllis assumed a smile. “Well, of course you do.”

Betty sipped more coffee. “I worry about Monroe's threats,” she said somberly. “Mr. Blackhawk seems to think it's a joke, but the man is dangerous. His wife's uncle taught him how to be a monster, and his brother-in-law is a terror.”

Joceline nodded. “Jay Copper is going to do some very hard time, if he manages to avoid the needle,” she added
meaningfully. “Imagine ordering the death of a woman and a small child!”

“And I'm sure that he did order it, despite all his denials,” Betty said grimly. “Dan Jones may have done the actual killing, but Jay Copper was behind it. If they can just convict him, is the thing. I hope they do.”

“Mr. Blackhawk is supposed to meet an informant tonight at seven,” Joceline said heavily. “He refuses to have a bodyguard. He doesn't think Monroe is a threat.”

“That's foolhardy,” Betty said. “Look what happened to Detective Marquez when he went to meet some shadowy informant.”

Marquez had been blindsided and hospitalized. Joceline was uneasy about the meeting tonight. “Mr. Blackhawk takes chances.”

“Oh, I'm sure he'll be all right,” Phyllis said airily. She glanced at her watch—a very expensive one. “Gosh, I have to get back to work. Thanks for the coffee.”

She left without putting change in the kitty that helped pay for renewing the canteen supplies. Without a word, Betty took a bill out of her pocket and placed it in the container.

“Young people.” She sighed.

Joceline smiled. “You're nice.”

“Thanks. So are you.”

“I do hope they can convict Jay Copper of little Melly Kilraven's murder,” Joceline said quietly. “Kilraven still isn't over it,” she added gently, “although he and his wife, Winnie, are expecting around the new year.” She smiled.
“What a Christmas present they're going to have this year if she goes into labor early!”

“Christmas!” Betty exclaimed. “I haven't even started shopping!”

“It isn't even Thanksgiving yet,” she was reminded.

“Yes, but I usually have everything bought by August.” She laughed. “I'm efficient on the job. I wish I could be that efficient off it.”

Joceline laughed, too. “Well, we all do what we can.”

The phone rang. Joceline got to her feet. “Back to work. Thanks for the heads-up,” she added in a soft tone. “At least if I get the ax, I'll be somewhat prepared. Perhaps I should start working up a résumé.”

“Wait,” Betty advised. “A lot of this is all talk. I don't think the office can operate with just me taking a workload from the squad, and only a part-timer for Mr. Blackhawk all at once. I'd have a nervous breakdown. And I can't persuade people to talk to me like you can. You're marvelous at digging out information.”

Joceline pursed her lips. “I can do that,” she agreed. “Maybe there's work for a skip tracer,” she added, indicating a line of work that involved digging out information for detectives. “I might look good in a trench coat.”

Betty laughed again.

 

Just before quitting time, the phone rang as Joceline was gathering things into her bag to take home, including the long file on Bart Hancock.

Joceline picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“My love! It's been so long!”

She knew that voice. Its South African accent was unmistakable. She pictured a rugged, tanned face with an eye patch and blond hair in a long ponytail. “Rourke,” she muttered.

“You know you're happy to have me around again,” he drawled. “Guess what? I'm going to be your shadow for a few weeks. Until the would-be perp stops making threats, at least.”

“I can't wait,” she replied. “Do you have body armor?”

He hesitated. “Excuse me?”

“Body armor,” she emphasized. “Riot gear.”

“No. But I can borrow some. Why will I need it?”

“If you attempt to shadow me, I'll rub bear grease all over you and open the lion cage at the zoo,” she said sweetly.