Cat's Paw (Veritas Book 1) Page 4

  Doesn’t he realize how important he is to us?

  As if he’d heard her thoughts, Crispin Wilder’s attention rose from the tablet in his lap, his distinctive dark-gray eyes troubled. At present, he was wearing a black T-shirt and a pair of jeans, totally at odds with the elegant room around them.

  It was actually a suite of rooms named after a famous author, decorated with crown molding, still-life paintings, a glittering chandelier, and comforting sage-green walls. The floors were wood, highly polished, a thick rug denoting the center of the room. A white fireplace was built into the far wall, and in a nearby hallway, an orchid bloomed on a carved table. The space spoke of tranquility, a sanctuary in a city known for glittery excess.

  Morgan shifted on the sofa. As she waited, she noted that Crispin’s beard had been trimmed, closely cropped. It revealed a few gray hairs. His long, dark-brown hair was graying at the temples as well, not unusual for someone in his forties. Caught in a ponytail at the nape of his neck, it made him ruggedly handsome. Both of his hands had a series of small scars in no discernible pattern.

  She’d heard a lot of rumors about how those scars had come to be, but no one knew the real story. At one time Crispin had not served the forces of good, but had been a ruthless gunrunner supplying weapons of war to greedy despots across the planet. The kind of weapons needed to decimate whole villages or countries, sometimes in the name of God, but most times in the name of the Almighty Dollar.

  Something had happened along the way, something that had changed Crispin Wilder forever. No one really knew the whole tale, and the man wouldn’t speak of it. All Morgan knew was that he’d abruptly quit the arms business and vanished, only to resurface a year later, the head of Veritas. His vast fortune helped fund their activities, cultivating those nefarious and legitimate contacts he’d made across the globe.

  Except this time he was peddling justice, not arms.

  When Morgan shifted on the sofa again, her boss noticed.

  “I did ask you to come see me, and now I’m ignoring you. That’s rude,” Crispin said, closing the tablet.

  “That’s okay. This is about Parkin, isn’t it?”

  He nodded. “Had any second thoughts since you met him?”

  Morgan cut to the chase, now that she’d had time to reflect on the situation.

  “I think we can still get him on board, but you really need to send someone else after him. He’s not listening to me.”

  Crispin nodded, leaning back and crossing his arms. A tattoo peeked out from the right sleeve of his T-shirt. Morgan couldn’t make out what it was, and she wasn’t going to ask. Her superior was open about some matters and totally closed on others, and you never knew where a topic fell on that scale.

  “Buryshkin’s shipment arrived last night,” he said. “Cocaine. Street value in the millions.”

  “God,” she murmured. “It never ends.”

  “My source says they will start moving the coke in a few days, but he has no idea where they’re storing it in the meantime. He’s trying to discover that, but I urged him to use caution.”

  Morgan sighed in resignation. “I’m sorry. I let Parkin push every one of my buttons.”

  One of her boss’s eyebrows rose. “I’m surprised. Usually you’re the one who does the button pushing.”

  “I don’t know what was wrong with me,” she admitted.

  “Maybe your timing was off. Our ex-DEA agent might be a lot more receptive later tonight or tomorrow. Make another run at him. If you find Parkin’s still playing games, turn him over to the Iceman. If Neil can’t convince him, then we’ll cut our losses. I have a couple of other options, but neither is as good as the ex-con. Revenge is a very powerful motivator.”

  Morgan felt her breathing falter. That was a little too close to home. Buryshkin had destroyed her life, killed her husband and her career. Revenge was all she had left.

  “I’ll give it another try.”

  Which meant that, once again, she’d have to look at that face, see those eyes and the history behind them. Though she’d never admit it to her boss, Alex Parkin unnerved her on too many levels.

  Crispin pulled a sheet of paper from under the notebook and handed it to her. “Just so you’re not duplicating efforts, here’s a list of locations we’ve already cleared. The coke isn’t at any of these. Work your contacts, see what you hear on the streets.”

  She scanned the addresses. “I’ve got a couple folks who might know something—with the proper monetary incentive.”

  “If you do find the dope, call our contact at the DEA and let them conduct the bust. Only deal with her, not anyone else, you understand?”

  Morgan nodded. The majority of the agents were clean, but a few couldn’t be trusted. They’d found the lure of the drug lord’s money too tempting.

  “When you talk to Parkin again, push his weak spot—his sister.”

  She grimaced. “He’ll hate us if I go there.”

  “Better that he hates us than he or Ms. Parkin ending up dead.”

  Crispin had a point. Veritas played hardball when needed, but there were certain lines they never crossed. Hurting some guy’s sister just to get him to work for them was one of those. The Russians wouldn’t recognize a line if they tripped over one.

  As Morgan left the suite, her boss placed a call on his cell phone and began speaking in Dutch. He did it effortlessly, switching from one language to another like it was as simple as taking a breath.

  As she quietly closed the door behind her, for some reason Parkin’s dark eyes came to mind. It was time to let him know just how bad it could get if he didn’t pull his head out of his ass. Because no matter what, the Russians were either going to recruit him . . . or kill him.

  *~*~*

  Shaken by the discovery of his sister’s pet, Alex retreated into the house. How was he going to tell Miri her cat’s throat had been cut? She’d hate him for that. Was this a warning to him that Miri was next if he didn’t fall in line?

  He knew what she’d say: Life was fine until you came home. Which wasn’t the truth, not when she owned a gun to keep punks from breaking into her house and hurting her. Still, she wouldn’t see it that way. Once again, somebody was playing God with their lives. But who had done it? One of Buryshkin’s people? Or the babe in the Beemer?

  Maybe he and his sister should just bail, take off for Texas in the morning. Anywhere but New Orleans. They could start over where no one knew them.

  But what if whoever had left the threat tracked them down, caught his sister alone . . .

  Someone knocked on the front door, at first a light tap, then growing stronger. He flipped the locks and flung open the door to find Morgan Blake on the doorstep. Veritas’s mouthpiece had no idea that her timing was perfect. It was time to start lighting fires under these people and see who screamed first.

  “I got your message,” he said, glaring. “And you can just fuck off.”

  “What message?” she replied, looking confused.

  “You know what I’m talking about. Don’t play stupid.”

  “No, I don’t know what you’re—”

  “Let me show you, then.” He grabbed her arm and towed her through the house, ignoring her protests.

  “What are we doing?” she demanded as he marched her out the back door.

  “Letting you admire your handiwork.”

  He let her go right before they reached the trash can. Whipping off the lid, he waited for her to admit this was her doing. Instead, the woman’s face went pale. Her hand covered her mouth and she stepped away. He lowered the lid, then stepped back to escape the cloud of flies.

  Morgan swallowed hard as she took another step back. “Who did that?”

  “Your people.”

  “What? No way,” she said. “We don’t do that kind of crap.”

  His resolve wavered. “Then who? The Russians?”

  To his surprise, she shook her head. “No. That’s not Buryshkin’s style.”

  If it wasn�
�t her or the Russians, there was another player in the game. No, it has to be one of them.

  “That was my sister’s cat,” he said. “There was a note with it. It said, ‘Nowhere to hide.’”

  “Was it a message for you . . . or for her?”

  That, he didn’t know.

  The frown on Morgan’s face grew. “Admit it, you’re in deep trouble, Parkin. You’ve got enemies who’d love to break you in half, and they don’t care who they hurt in the process.”

  “My problem, not yours.”

  “It’s your sister’s problem too. They won’t hesitate to use her as a way to put a ring in your nose. You piss them off, and you’re both taking a one-way trip to the swamp.”

  “Is that any different from you guys?”

  “Hell yes.” A fly landed on her face and she swiped it off. “With us, you get a chance to make things right. A chance to get even. Don’t you want revenge?”

  “Of course I want revenge,” he said, stepping closer to her now. “But I won’t be a pawn for anyone. I’ll take care of my sister on my own. That’s my job now.”

  Morgan shook her head in dismay. “You’re so out of your league.” She dug a business card from her purse and offered it to him. “Call me if you change your mind.”

  “I won’t.”

  She tossed the card in the grass at his feet. “Someday, you may not have a choice anymore.”

  He made no move to pick it up. “Not going there, lady. I’d rather kiss the devil’s ass.”

  “Dial that number and maybe we’ll still have time to pull your ass out of the fire. Because we’re going to be the only ones who can do it.”

  As the woman marched around the side of the house through the weeds, he stared down at the business card, then picked it up. A mobile number was listed beneath her name.

  He crumpled the card, then threw it toward the trash can and the rotting corpse, where it belonged. By the time Alex was back inside, the kitchen clock told him he needed to get a move on; Miri’s tire needed fixing, if for no other reason than to get in her good graces. Especially when he would have to tell her Mr. Toes was dead.

  Who the hell would do something like that? Clearly it was some sick bastard, and the fact that he’d been anywhere near Miri scared Alex senseless.

  After making sure the back door was bolted, he collected the ring of keys and the money from the kitchen table. Locking the front door behind him, he paused and took a deep breath as the open space loomed around him, pressing down on him like it had its own weight. Some cons took time to adjust to the outside, and apparently he was one of them. He wondered if he would ever be normal again.

  No routine. That was what he was missing. Routine meant stability. Relative safety. Now he felt like he was completely adrift in a sea of unknowns. Other people would go to the cops, tell them about the cat, maybe get someone to investigate.

  But not Alex. Not with his record. He was on his own.

  It took work to get the tire off the car as the lug nuts weren’t cooperating. The heat didn’t help; he was dripping sweat by the time the task was complete. Slowly, he ran his fingers over the tire and found a slice in the sidewall, not a nail hole. His first guess had been right—someone, probably Veritas, had slit the tire to allow Morgan time to lure him into their web.

  Their plan had failed.

  Hefting the tire, Alex set off down the street. If he was lucky, he’d find a neighbor kid who could point him toward the closest tire-repair place. Once it was fixed, he’d order some pizza and decide what to do next. Figure out how to fight back.

  Mr. Toes had been an innocent victim. Alex was determined that he’d be the only one.

  *~*~*

  Morgan flipped the locks on her front door, then tapped in the code to disable her apartment alarm. She was still fuming at Parkin’s stubbornness. How could he think they would kill his sister’s cat? They weren’t monsters. This wasn’t like the Russian’s goons, either. They wouldn’t mess with some pet—they’d go right after Parkin or his sister.

  As Morgan kicked off her tennis shoes, her cell phone began to play “Ride of the Valkyries.” She checked the caller ID and smiled—it was Lars Ericson, who had been assigned the task of keeping an eye on Parkin. Lars was the son of a Scandinavian pharmaceutical executive and a British-Jamaican flight attendant. He was a whip-smart operative and a devastating handball player. Morgan had learned about the latter talent at great personal humiliation and expense, because there was always some money riding on each game.

  “Hey Lars, what’s new? Parkin get his ass shot yet?” she said, bending down to scoop up her shoes.

  “Nope. He’s currently carrying the flat tire down the street. I’m guessing he’s off to an auto shop.”

  “Being the dutiful big brother, then.” She caught Lars up on what their subject had found in his trash can.

  “Ah, hell. What kind of sick SOB would do that to a cat?”

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like Buryshkin. Could it be an ex-boyfriend who wasn’t happy to be left behind?”

  “According to our research, the sister’s last steady guy was over eight months ago and he lives in Detroit now.”

  “So maybe it’s a stalker,” Morgan grumbled.

  “Always possible. I didn’t see anyone around the house, but then, I didn’t start surveillance until six this morning.”

  “There were no maggots on the corpse yet, so it probably died sometime last night. They take about twenty-four hours to hatch out.”

  A brief pause and a shuffling noise, perhaps Lars switching the phone to the other ear. “What happened between you and Parkin? I saw him haul you into the house. I figured you could handle him, so I held back.”

  “Parkin was blaming us for the cat. He’s got a short fuse, and the fact that his sister’s space has been invaded has made him even more volatile.”

  “You want me to keep watching him?”

  “Yeah, at least for another couple days. The Russians will be in touch with him soon.”

  “Who’s taking the night shift?” Lars asked.

  “Bill.”

  A laugh came down the line. “No surprise there. I swear that man is a vampire. He’s pale enough to be one.”

  “True.” Which was one thing that Alex Parkin wasn’t—his time in the prison fields had made sure of that.

  “I gotta go. Our guy is turning the corner so I better catch up with him. I’ll call you later with an update.”

  “Thanks, Lars.”

  “Later, Valkyrie.”

  Morgan ended the call and tossed the phone onto the bathroom counter. Eyeing the bathtub, she turned on the water and began to strip. Dropping in a scoop of sandalwood bath salts, she climbed in.

  Morgan slid farther down into the water, hoping it would wash away some of her worries. She had good people—Lars, Neil, and Bill were top-notch operatives, and they’d keep an eye on Parkin and his sister.

  “Come on, you idiot, work with us,” she muttered.

  God help her, she was willing to use his desire for revenge to fuel her own.

  Chapter Six

  It was close to two in the morning and Miri really wanted to go home, exhausted after a six-hour shift—though the tips had been really good. Nevertheless, she’d agreed to go out for a few drinks after work to celebrate Shanita’s birthday, so she’d put on her happy face and sucked it up. Because that’s what you did for your best friend.

  They’d started the evening with a couple of Shanita’s buddies at the Two Friends Bar, a gay watering hole on Dauphine Street. After spending an hour or so there, they’d migrated to a raucous daiquiri joint down the river from Jackson Square. That was when everyone else’s drinking had gone into overdrive.

  The only things keeping Miri in place were loyalty to her friend and the fact that her brother was at home, probably wondering where she was. She needed to demonstrate her independence or Alex would treat her like she was still a teenager. It had never been a contest of wills betw
een them before, but she suspected that would be the case now. He’d be trying to make up for all the years she’d been on her own.

  Day after day, year after year, she’d waited for that phone call to tell her that he’d died in prison, been knifed or beaten to death, because she knew that former law-enforcement officers didn’t do well behind bars. Too many people had scores to settle. But somehow, he’d survived. She’d always known Alex was tough, but he’d managed to surprise her.

  Miri had wanted to burst into tears, hug him, and tell him how relieved she was when he’d knocked on the door, but something had held her back. Something deep inside her that she didn’t really understand. Something she wasn’t proud of. It was as if she needed him to hurt as badly as she had. But that was stupid, because one look in his eyes had told her that he’d been there and suffered just as much, if not more.

  Her eyes swept across the bar again, the third time in a few minutes. She’d had the feeling that someone was watching her all evening, but it was hard to determine just who with so many bodies in one place. It’d begun at work, then followed her to the first bar, and now here.

  You’re just being paranoid. Mostly because she was a cocktail waitress, and that meant that a lot of guys—and a few girls—felt the need to hit on her. Most of them backed off, but every now and then there was one who just didn’t understand “no.”

  She shook off the feeling and tried to refocus on the conversation between Shanita and her two friends. One was a realtor and the other a would-be fashion designer. All three were becoming drunker by the minute.

  Miri’s phone rang and the caller ID wasn’t familiar, so she let it roll over to voicemail. It buzzed again a minute later, which meant it probably wasn’t a wrong number. Then she remembered it might be her brother. Yet another new thing to adjust to. As she answered the call, Miri pushed her way toward the front door.

  “Hello?” She stepped outside, where the noise level dropped by half, and moved farther down the street, leaning against a building to be out of the flow of foot traffic. She was careful to keep her small purse tucked between her and the brick wall. New Orleans bred thieves like it did tourists, and she had nearly a hundred fifty dollars of tips in there.