Relentless Pursuit (12 page)

“Mom loved her movies and was fascinated by the actresses and all that old Hollywood glamour.  Little sis didn't make out much better than me in the name department.  She's Marilyn Monroe Fagenbaum-Gillingham now.”

Jennifer leaned forward and placed her hand on Ness' shoulder.  “Trust me, I get the whole nickname thing.  In my family, I'm known as Jinx.”  Remy coughed into his fist, fighting the words wanting to spill out.  He desperately wanted to ask why her own family would label her with such a hurtful name.

“What in the world did you do to deserve something so mean?”  Thank goodness, Ness asked the question before he blurted it out.

Jennifer's cheeks turned a lovely shade of embarrassed pink again, and Remy was intrigued by the laughter twinkling in her big blue eyes.

“Well, I'm not really the luckiest person in the world, you know?”  She looked at Remy, her gaze locked onto his, sending a silent message for help.  He shrugged, not opening his mouth but cocking his brow.  He couldn't wait to hear this.  With a huff, she resumed talking.

“Some of my family is a bit—colorful—in their extracurricular activities.  Aw, hell, they run cons.  Confidence schemes.  They're all grifters, and damn good ones most of the time.”

Remy straightened in his seat. 
Wait a minute!  Was this why she hadn't given her real name when she'd shown up at the N.O.P.D.?  Did she have a record?  Or worse, was she wanted by the police?

“My family always works together for the more elaborate grifts.  Single short cons, no brainers we called them, only took one person.  The more complicated the scams, the more people needed to pull it off.  When I was younger they tried to train me, bring me into the family business.  Not their wisest decision.”  She got a hangdog expression, and glanced down at her crossed legs, the yoga pants stretched tight.

“Let's just say I wasn't very good at it.  Every single time they'd get the mark set up, and all I had to do was one little job.  Only, I obviously didn't inherit the family gene that makes a good grifter.  No matter how well planned, or how many times we'd practice, I'd screw things up and the whole job would fall apart.  Every. Single. Time.”

Ness tsk'd, keeping her eyes focused on the long stretch of asphalt.  “Nothing to be ashamed of, hon.  You seem to have a sweet nature, probably wouldn't have bilked people out of their hard earned money even if you'd wanted to.”

“I think that was the heart of the problem.  I didn't want to.  Heck, even when I wasn't part of the con, and had no clue what game they were running, I'd somehow stumble into the middle of things and screw it all up.  They said I jinxed things.  So they started calling me Jinx, and it stuck.  Now, it's a term of affection.  I can't remember the last time my brother called me Jennifer.”

Jennifer slapped her hand across her mouth, realizing at exactly the same time Remy did what she'd said. 
Why had she used her real name?
Dammit, she'd gotten too comfortable talking to Ness,

And now she'd blown everything with one lousy word.  She turned to Remy and mouthed, “Sorry.”

“I thought your name was Joyce?”  Ness turned her steely-eyed stare on Remy.  “Let me guess, your name isn't Randy, either, right?”

She slammed her foot on the brakes, steering the huge eighteen wheeler to the side of the two lane blacktop with a loud squeal of brakes.

“Get out.”

“Ness, I'm sorry, it's all my fault.  Please.  If you'll just take us to the next town, we'll leave and…”

“My own fault.  Should've listened to my first instinct and never picked you up.  I can't abide liars and that's all you’ve done since you opened your mouths at the hotel, ain't it?”

Jennifer looked ready to burst into tears, and Remy knew he had to do something to diffuse the situation before it exploded.  The last thing he needed was two screaming hysterical women ready to start a brawl on the side of the road.  Or worse, two crying ones.  The problem was, how much could he tell Ness without putting her directly into the crosshairs of Dubshenko?

“Ness, if you'll start driving again, I'll tell you the truth.”  Remy had to wing it, think on his feet, but they couldn't afford to be stranded on the side of the road with no transportation and no ID.  They'd left every scrap of identification behind at
maman's
house.  No way could they be caught with any. That would have been an automatic death sentence.  The first rule of flying under the radar—no ID.

While the engine idling, and the scratchy static from the radio filling up the otherwise silent truck, Ness tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, deep in thought.  With a jerky nod, she threw the truck into gear and eased back onto the roadway.  Remy heaved a sigh.  One crisis averted.

“Part of what we said at the hotel was true.  We really were stranded.  Sometime during the night somebody stole my Ducati out of the parking lot.  I didn't hear a damn thing.”  Which still irritated the heck out of him.  He was a trained professional and he'd slept right through a grand theft auto.  Didn't that make him feel all warm and fuzzy?  If the guys at the station ever found out, his ass was grass.

“My real name is Remy and this is Jennifer.  I'm a cop from New Orleans.”

“A cop?  That explains a lot.”  Ness grimaced, the corners of her mouth turning down.

“You have something against cops?”

“Nothing personal, dude, but from my experience I haven't met any that were all honest and forthright, if you catch my drift?”  Ness gave a distinctly unladylike snort.  “Driving a truck doesn't endear me to the local yahoos who patrol the back roads, much less the highway cops.”

Remy nodded, sympathizing, but still, he was a good cop.  Always dealt with his perps fairly and solely within the limits of the law.  Well, except for that stunt he pulled with Mickey Trejo—but that had been for a good cause.  Trejo was a confessed serial killer who preyed on the homeless men throughout the state of Louisiana and had even ventured into the surroundings states of Arkansas and Mississippi.  Getting information to aid in his confession and help in capturing his sadistic partner, while rescuing a kidnap victim—he'd not only tiptoed into the shades of gray area, he was damn lucky Captain Hilliard hadn't fired his ass.

“I get it, Ness, I really do.  But I'm a detective not a street cop looking to fill his ticket quota—and you didn't hear that from me.  There's no such thing as a quota.”  Everyone laughed, knowing that for the B. S. it was.

“Jennifer is a witness in an ongoing investigation into illegal activity going on in New Orleans.  And, no, I can't go into details, but I've taken her out of the city to keep her safe until she can testify.”  Remy watched Ness closely reading her body language, and knew the bare facts he'd given her had piqued her interested.  Bait the hook and drop it in the bayou.  Now to be patient, and watch the fish take the bait.

“So, she's in witness protection—like on the television shows?”  Awe filled Ness' voice and it was all Remy could do not to roll his eyes.  TV shows had ruined good police work.  People expected everything to happen exactly like their favorite shows.  Most of the time, actually ninety-nine percent of the time, it was nothing like television.  It was a lot of hard, boring, tedious work, slogging through mountains of paperwork. Sitting on your backside waiting, just to have the district attorney show up and say there wasn't enough evidence to get an indictment.

“Yep, just like on the TV.  I had to get her out of town fast.  We stopped to rest for a couple hours, and bam, my bike's gone.  That's when we ran into you this morning.”  Remy put on his hangdog face and batted puppy dog eyes at her.

Man, she's eating this up.

“Sorry for not telling you the truth, but I'm outside my comfort zone, and can't trust anybody.  You get that, right?”  Remy heard a stifled laugh coming from behind his seat.  He didn't dare turn around.  If he looked at Jinx right now he'd bust his gut laughing, and they'd be out on the side of the road with their thumbs in the air, praying that the next car wasn't Dubshenko's.

And when did I start calling her Jinx?

“Sure, I mean, I guess so.  But exactly where do I fit in this witness protection thingy? Are they gonna come after me, since I helped you?”

“Oh, no, Ness, Remy would never let that happen.”  Jinx piped up, reaching forward and placing her hand on Ness' shoulder.  “I haven't known him long, but he's been nothing but trustworthy.  His captain told me he'd trust Remy with his life, and that I could trust him with mine.”  She paused and looked over, meeting Remy's gaze, her blue eyes shiny with tears.  “I do trust him.  You can, too.”

Ness looked over her shoulder at Jinx before turning her gaze back to the road.  Without a glance at Remy, she asked, “So all that fancy talk about proposing, that wasn't real?  You're not in love with each other?”  She shook her head slowly from side to side, tutting.  “Seems a real shame.  You ask me, you two are perfect for each other.”

Remy blanched at the thought—perfect for each other?  Oh, hell no.  He was footloose and fancy free and had no intention of changing that status any time soon.  He loved women—and the thought of being tied down to just one for the rest of his life, nope he didn't think so.  There was plenty of time for that later.  Thoughts of Max and his beautiful Theresa gave him pause.  They were happy and so in love it hurt sometimes to be around them.  His cousin, Connor, and his wife, Alyssa, too.  They'd made their own miracle, reconciled and were happier than he'd ever seen them.

Maybe…Nope, not gonna think about that.  Can't think about love, marriage or happily ever after until I've broken up Dubshenko's syndicate of terror and the rat-bastard is behind bars for the rest of his life.

“You just keep driving, Ness.  We'll figure out our next step along the way.

Chapter Thirteen

D
ubshenko walked around the metal folding chair in the middle of the otherwise empty room.  It was currently occupied by a skinny, stringy-haired man of indeterminate height, indeterminate weight, and definitely indeterminate intelligence.  Right now, there was a gag in his mouth, and a trickle of blood ran in a river of scarlet along the right side of his face, down his cheek and dripped onto his filthy shirt.

“Remove the gag.”  Dubshenko waved his hand toward his prisoner, and his guard rushed forward to do his bidding.  Ah, yes, he thought.  I love how quickly fear or money can accomplish more in a few seconds, than months of negotiations and politicking.

The bound man's eyes flashed wildly as the cloth was untied from around his face.  The second it came lose a scream erupted, its shrill high pitch making Dubshenko wince.

“Shut up.”  The authoritative command in his voice had the shrieking immediately cease.

“Much better.”  He walked around the chair stroking his chin, and took in every minute detail of the man seated before him.  “I have a few questions.  If you answer them truthfully, we should have no problems,
da
?  Nod if you understand me—do not speak.”  A vigorous nodding of the man's head was his response.

“Excellent.  Do you know who I am?”  Again a vigorous nod.  “Then you know better than to lie.  We begin.”  Dubshenko stood directly front and center of the seated man, peering down at his helpless captive.  He smiled, but it never reached to the icy blue of his merciless eyes.

“What is your name?

The man sucked in a shocked breath before responding, “Stanley.”  So, Dubshenko thought, the greasy monkey was named Stanley.  How fitting.

“You were found with a two thousand and thirteen Ducati Dravel Dark motorcycle.  Where did you obtain it?”

“Motel outside Openousas.”

“Exactly how did you come to possess this motorcycle, Stanley?”

“Guy gave it to me.”  Sweat beaded along Stanley's forehead, mixed with the streaky blood oozing from the open cut on his scalp.

Dubshenko tsk'd.  “Really?  How very generous of this person.  Did you know this guy, Stanley?  Was he perhaps a friend of yours?”

“Yeah, sure.  He gave it to me because he owed me some money.  Said I could have it until he got flush, then he'd pay up and get it back.”

Dubshenko tugged at the cuff of his white dress shirt, visible beneath the sleeve of his jacket.  Even in this intolerable heat, he felt it was important to always represent total control, and dress to impress.  With a quick jerk of his head, he stepped back and his bodyguard's fist shot forward, slamming into Stanley's stomach.  A loud oomph filled the room.

“Would you like to rethink your answer, Stanley?  The truth this time or I'll let my friend here—persuade you.”

“I stole it!”  He screamed, leaned back against the chair as far away from Bubba as he could get.  Dubshenko started to chuckle when he realized he'd referred to his bodyguard as Bubba, the nickname that Carlo had given him in the limo not so long ago.  When he'd shown such bravery in the face of his imminent demise.  He realized he kinda liked the nickname.  Bubba—maybe he'd keep using it.

“Good answer.  Now tell my good friend and I, did you see the owner of the motorcycle before you stole it?  Was he alone or was there someone with him?  Or her?”  He decided to throw that last question in to see if maybe Remy was smarter than he thought, letting the enticing Jennifer take his beloved Ducati and head out on the open road away from New Orleans.  No, Mr. Boy Scout would never let the damsel in distress ride away alone.

“Yeah, I saw 'em.  Man and a woman.  Checked into the place middle of the night.  She was a real looker, too.  Much better looking than the usual hookers who work the place.  She was real upscale, ya know what I mean?”

“Ah, Stanley, I know exactly what you mean.  Describe them for me, please.  Exact details.  This is very important; do not leave out even a single fact.  You might say your life depends on it.”

Dubshenko watched Stanley's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed, sucking in huge lungsful of air through his mouth.  Penny ante crooks.  They were all the same.  Show them who's the boss and they'll roll over and present their bellies every time.  This hadn't even been much of a challenge.