They reached the door, and a doorman swept it open for them. “Afternoon, gentlemen.”
“Afternoon,” Fox replied in his Tennessee drawl.
“Thank you so much,” Tenny said, mimicking his accent perfectly, and they stepped into an air conditioned, perfumed waiting area lined with tufted leather benches, the white-painted wall paneling hung with dreamy Southern landscapes.
The hostess greeted them with a decent, but fake, French accent, and after checking their names off on her list showed them to Mr. Shaman’s table.
Ian sat alone – Fox clocked Bruce in a corner booth with a view of both his boss and all the entrances and exits – at an intimate circular table draped in white linen, auburn hair gleaming in the sunlight, dressed in a dove gray suit with a powder blue shirt, the menu held before him in one elegant hand. He didn’t acknowledge them as they sat, only thanked the hostess with a tight smile and resumed looking over his lunch options.
Fox hadn’t spent much time at all with the Dogs’ moneyed drug supplier, but what he’d glimpsed of him in London felt like enough to read him properly. He was smart, originally from old money; he liked tasteful, expensive things, and he was a slave to aesthetic. He also had a bitter, insecure streak that he hid masterfully beneath good manners and flirtation. A thing to exploit, should the need ever arise.
“Well, how you doin’, sugar?” Fox said, laying the Southern accent on extra thick. He intentionally swerved into Texas oil baron territory.
Ian closed his menu, rested it on the table, and looked up with a slow-spreading shark smile, eyes glittering cruel above it. “I’m splendid,” he said, accent crisp – and not at all fake. Money and breeding dripped off every syllable. “Though you seem to be in the wrong state, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, well.” Fox grinned back, just as wicked, and slipped back into his Knoxville persona. “What can I say, I like showing off.”
Ian’s smile widened, and some of the coldness melted from his gaze. “Damn,” he said quietly, “you are good. Kenny said. But. Well, one never knows.” Then he turned his head to regard Tenny, and his expression turned downright predatory – and pleased. “And who have you brought to our little charade? He has your eyes. A brother, hm? A much prettier brother.” Lower: “Hello, darling, what’s your name?”
To Fox’s amazement, Tenny blushed. A lot. His face stayed carefully neutral, save for the flicker of a muscle in his jaw.
Ian laughed, soft and delighted. “Oh, you’re sweet, aren’t you?” He sighed, and sat back. Glanced down quickly at his left hand, the gleam of platinum there. “I’m quite happy, but it never hurts to look. Beautiful things are to be admired.”
He brushed his hair back over his shoulder and composed himself.
Tenny stared at his hands, now knotted together on the tabletop, red all the way up to his ears.
Hey, Reese, Fox thought. Come learn how to flirt from this guy and you’ve got your boy in the bag.
Ian turned to Fox, all business now. It was shocking the way all his showmanship melted, and he looked cool and professional. “Ghost said you’d be wired.”
“We are,” Fox said, quietly, in his true voice, and watched Ian’s brows give an uptick of surprise before settling. “We need him to admit to involving Peter Weston – that’s his assistant, or, was – in his crusade against the Dogs. It won’t be enough for him to say that he hates us.”
“Too commonplace a sentiment, I’m afraid.”
“We’re almost one-hundred percent certain Luis Cantrell is involved, but we don’t know all the inroads and connections.”
“Ghost said something about crime syndicates joining forces in New York.”
“And a human trafficking ring that I don’t think we’ve scratched the surface of yet. The more he can give us, the better. We need to charm him, get him comfy, and act like we’re on his side.”
“Darling, charming is my best quality, don’t you know. Give me ten minutes, and he’ll be eating out of my hand.” He shot a wink at Tenny, who frowned in response.
Fox kicked his brother under the table. “Get your head on straight. Deal with your blue balls on your own time.”
“Have I touched a nerve?” Ian asked, too innocently.
“No. Look, here he comes.”
~*~
Carter felt like he was the last person who should have been picked for this part of the plan, but Reese had looked right at him, and said, “You should come.”
Mercy was going along too, and had shaken him fondly like a dog shakes its puppy. “Yeah, come on. It’ll be good practice.”
Practice for what? he wanted to ask, but hadn’t argued.
Stepping up.
The plan was simple – so simple that Carter was worried it wouldn’t work. He and Reese left off their cuts and traveled to the office – set in a gleaming industrial building off Gay Street, overlooking the river and the iconic Gay Street bridge – via club truck. Reese had scraped his too-long hair back into a tidy knot at his nape; they wore nondescript t-shirts and jeans, tool belts around their waists and hardhats crammed on their heads. Carter toted a small, metal stepladder.
Mercy, though, walked into the building several paces ahead of them, wearing his cut, his long hair loose, his shirtsleeves short enough to flash his ink. Every inch of him screamed outlaw biker, and he drew immediate, alarmed looks from the people milling about the lobby.
“Hey,” he called, far too loudly, as he strolled toward the counter. “I need to talk to the mayor about some shit.”
“Oh, God,” Carter muttered; ducked his head and followed Reese to the elevators.
Ratchet had been able to pull up the building’s floor plan on his computer, so they knew which floor the mayor’s personal office was on. They boarded a thankfully empty elevator car, and Carter pushed the button.
He let out a deep breath when the doors closed. “I don’t know that this is gonna work.”
“I’m going to set the fire in the trash can,” Reese said, calmly – almost soothingly, Carter thought. “And you will speak with the receptionist.”
“Thanks,” Carter muttered, but knew it was the best call. They’d talked about it on the way over, and decided that Carter had a much better chance of being charming and apologetic than Reese.
The elevator arrived, and they stepped out into a windowless, carpeted hallway. One man hurried past, shuffling through paperwork and muttering to himself, an ID card on a lanyard bouncing against his chest.
When he was out of earshot, Carter said, “Try not to burn the whole place down, alright? I don’t wanna have to jump out a window – and then go to jail for torching a government building.”
Reese only nodded, and took out his book of matches.
When the garbage can started to smoke, they went around the corner, heads ducked so their hardhats hid their faces from the cameras, and approached the reception desk that allowed access to the mayor’s inner-sanctum.
The receptionist – a harried-looking young woman with her cellphone in one hand and the landline handset in the other – glanced up quickly, and then did a double take, frowning. “Hold on,” she murmured into the handset. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah.” Carter hefted the ladder up higher on his shoulder and offered his best fake, relaxed smile. “We’re here to replace the bulbs in all the offices. We got a call that some of them are burned out.”
Her frown deepened. “Okay, sure, but I don’t…”
She was interrupted by the whoop and screech of the smoke alarm going off.
“Shit,” she said, just barely audible over the nose. She slammed one phone down, and slid the other into her pocket. Reached under the desk to gather her bag. “Shit, we have to get out of here.”
Carter stepped aside. “Ladies first.” He had to shout to be heard.
She brushed past him, and they made as if to follow – but didn’t. Turned instead back to the office door.
It was locked, but Reese picked it easily, and they s
wept inside, shutting it behind them.
Carter set the ladder down and took a second to get his bearings. The alarm was overpowering; he couldn’t stop wincing, whole body jerking each time the whoop sounded. He gritted his teeth, and his eyes started to water.
Reese appeared in front of him, something held out in offering – earmuffs. High quality shooting over-ear hearing protection. He wore another pair himself, the headstall hooked behind his neck so he could leave on the hardhat.
Carter nodded his thanks, and snapped them on. He could still tell the alarm was going off, but it no longer felt like the sound was drilling holes through his eardrums. He took a breath, and gathered himself.
The office was large, with wide windows, and a massive wooden desk modeled after an antique. Bookshelves dominated the walls to the left and the right, full of leather-bound tomes Carter assumed were mostly for show. The rest of the wall space was given over to plaques and diplomas, awards, and photo ops. The family photos were in frames on the desk, the mayor with his wife and two children.
Reese was already at the computer, had already plugged in the flash drive Ratchet had given him, and was clicking through programming screens.
Carter saw a leather-bound day planner at one corner of the blotter and picked it up. It was clear that Cunningham kept his own appointment book, the handwriting slanted and dark and obviously masculine. No doubt the receptionist had a digital schedule for him synced to all her devices, but these were Cunningham’s personal notes.
Carter flipped back through the last few months: lots of lunches and dinners; a ribbon-cutting ceremony or two. Conference calls, and golf games, and dentist appointments.
A date circled in red in February caught his attention. The note read: Abacus Call 4:00. Two phone numbers were listed, one labeled A, and one labeled R. The R had a Knoxville area code – the A, however, had a Manhattan area code.
Carter punched both into his phone as a note, and kept searching. Abacus, whatever it was, popped up again and again, as did “meeting with R.” The meetings continued regularly for about six weeks, and then halted.
Ricky? Too much to hope for, probably.
He snapped photos of the planner’s pages and put it back. The idea was that Cunningham wouldn’t immediately realize his office had been tampered with.
While Reese finished up with the computer, Carter searched the desk drawers, sorting through files and papers that didn’t seem to have much to do with anything illegal or immoral, just regular bureaucratic bullshit. He didn’t honestly know what he was looking for, and it frustrated him.
Then he got to the bottommost drawer, and found it locked.
He tapped on Reese’s arm to get his attention, and pointed, tugging on the handle in demonstration.
Reese pushed back the chair and the lockpick set came out again. He had it open in moments.
Inside was a bottle of Scotch and a sticky tumbler. And an envelope – full of photos. They’d all been taken at a distance, with a long-range lens, and all of them were of the Lean Dogs.
A cold chill took hold of Carter’s gut as he paged through them. There were Ghost and Walsh talking in front of the under-construction Bell Bar. There was Aidan pulling out of the main gate at Dartmoor. Ava and Mercy’s house, Ava’s truck in the driveway. Maggie coming out of the grocery store with Ash in the seat of the shopping cart. The Dogs riding in formation down the center of town, when they’d done their childhood cancer charity run back in January. He spotted himself, walking across the parking lot of Leroy’s toward his bike.
He didn’t see any photos of Leah – and maybe that was because she’d only recently gotten back to town; maybe there was a chance no one had associated her with the club yet…but they would.
He slid the photos back into their envelope and glanced up to find Reese studying him. “You ready?” he asked, and could only hear the faint vibration of his own voice inside his skull.
Reese nodded, and held up the flash drive. They tucked the chair back the way they’d found it, and straightened everything.
Carter took the photos, though; tucked them away in his toolbelt. Cunningham would realize they were missing when he went for his first Scotch that evening, but some evidence, Carter thought, was too offensive to go unconfiscated.
~*~
Mayor Cunningham was just as Fox had expected: a big boned, soft-faced, blond relic of the Good Old Boy network, with a booming, deeply-accented voice, and fat fingers, upon which he wore several rings, including a monster of an old alma mater signet. He looked like he’d played football in his teenager years, but all the muscle in his wide shoulders had run to fat and melted down his bones to rest solidly in his midsection. His suit and shoes were impeccable, and he smelled strongly of expensive cologne.
“Mr. Shaman,” he greeted Ian heartily, shaking his slender hand with his own bearlike paw, gripping hard enough that Fox saw a muscle twitch in Ian’s cheek as he fought not to wince. Ian had been a good choice for this, not only because he had the money, connections, and sophistication for a meeting like this, but because he was the sort of refined and elegant man that someone like Cunningham would see and immediately want to dominate in all aspects.
Fox was already schooled and deeply rooted in his Knoxville act when the mayor turned to him and offered a shake – it did hurt; he felt bones crushing.
“I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Shaman yet, but I have heard of him. I’m afraid I’m not familiar with you.” The way his brows tucked said he wasn’t afraid of that at all; always looking for someone new to intimidate.
“Colton Ledford,” Fox drawled, and offered his own hand for a mauling – he felt bones grinding together. “And my brother, Dalton.”
In the moment before Cunningham turned to him, Tenny’s eyes flashed: really? Colton and Dalton?
Fox sent his brother a wink and enjoyed the way his face paled when he shook Cunningham’s hand.
“We’re recently back from Texas,” Fox continued as Cunningham took his seat and accepted a menu from the hostess. “We’ve got investments in Orwell & Sons down there, and now we’re looking to invest here in Knoxville.”
“Nothing like getting established in your home city,” Tenny chimed in, and his face was composed again, the perfect mask of a spoiled Southern rich kid.
“No, there’s really not,” Cunningham agreed, distracted, gaze on the menu.
“I’m trying to convince them not merely to invest, but to establish their own firm,” Ian said. “I’ve had wonderful entrepreneurial luck here in Knoxville.”
“Yes, you have.” Cunningham glanced up slowly, his gaze narrowing a fraction. “I hear you own more small businesses in the city than anyone these days.” Not an accusation – but close. “Is that true?”
Ian smiled. “Surely you would know better than me, Mr. Mayor, what with your access to all the city’s records.”
“Hm. I confess I stay too busy to keep up with all the little details.”
“Little details, yes.” Ian stroked the rim of his water glass with one fingertip, producing a low chime. “Seeing that I do own a sizable amount of property, it seems only natural the Ledford brothers have come to me for advice – they expressed interest in investing in my business.” He invited Fox to add to that with a gesture.
Fox chuckled and laid on the Tennessee charm. “Well, no offense to anybody else, but we didn’t get to where we are by betting on slow ponies. If you’re going to invest, you need to invest in something already successful. I’m not much of a gambling man.”
Cunningham’s expression went thoughtful. “No reason to be these days. It’s easy to see who’s sinking and who’s swimming. No sense climbing in a boat with a hole in the bottom.”
“My, we seem to be mixing metaphors,” Ian said, the gleam in his eyes subtly mocking. “I’ve told the Ledfords there’s plenty of opportunity to be had here. I thought speaking with you would help allay the last of their misgivings.”
“Misgivings?”
Their server arrived, and Cunningham said, “Bring me a Scotch, honey,” and waved her off. “What’s there to worry about?”
“Well, there’s taxes, and interest rates,” Fox said. “And we’d of course have to tailor our business to suit the sort of clientele we have here. And…then there’s the competition.”
Cunningham snorted and motioned toward Ian with his water glass. “You’re sitting right next to him. If he likes you, I say you’re golden.”
“I’m flattered by your confidence in my economic domination,” Ian said.
The mayor snorted again, chuckling afterward – but his expression bordered on angry. He didn’t like Ian, and Fox was beginning to think it wasn’t solely about Ian’s manners and dress.
“No, I’m talking about a different sort of competition,” Ian continued. “Of the less legal variety.” He leaned forward, voice lowering. “You and I both know who has the ultimate say-so in this city, Mr. Mayor. The Lean Dogs Motorcycle Club.”
Cunningham’s eyes bugged. His face reddened. “The fuck you say!” he exclaimed, much too loudly.
Other diners glanced toward him.
“That trash doesn’t say jack about shit.” The server arrived, quailing visibly, and handed over the man’s Scotch. He threw it back in one go, set the glass back on the tray, and said, “Bring me another one.” He propped an elbow on the table, and lifted a wagging finger toward all of them. “Let me tell you a thing about the Lean Dogs…”
~*~
“It’s ready?”
“Ready,” Ratchet confirmed, clicking one last key on his keyboard. “When the call picks up, we’ll have to keep him talking for at least a minute, but then we should have a location.”
Ghost nodded, and picked up the landline they’d rigged up for this purpose. He punched in the number, aware of the unnatural hush in the common room around him.
The line rang, and rang, and rang, and rang…and went to voicemail.
Homecoming (Dartmoor Book 8) Page 40
