by Cassie Miles
Rafe scoffed. “Never say never.”
“I’m curious,” she said. “Why do you call Rafe your partner? Did you work together?”
“It’s slang,” Chance explained. “In Cajun, a pal is called partner.”
“My pal Chance speaks crisp, clear English.” Rafe gave him a nudge. “The true pronunciation is ‘podnah.’”
Chance completed the thought. “Rafe is my podnah, and you are his boo.”
For the second time today, someone had assumed that she and Rafe were in a relationship. Was this a conspiracy? “I’m nobody’s boo.”
He took a pitcher of lemonade from the fridge and handed it to her. “Please take this into the dining room.”
When she stepped through the kitchen doorway into a gracious room with high ceilings and tall windows, a sense of contentment settled over her. She recalled similar homes in Savannah when she was a child. This was how life was meant to be—civilized and genteel. The generous proportions of the dining room were balanced by a china cabinet, a linen cupboard and a long oak table with seating for five on each side. Two polished brass chandeliers over the table were unlit. There was no need for artificial light with all those windows.
At the end of the table, Chance had set three places with woven mats, plates, bowls and tall crystal glasses. The dusty-pink napkins complemented the centerpiece of orange and yellow blooms—mums, dahlias and carnations. She was beginning to understand what Rafe meant when he described his “podnah” as a gentleman. Chance appreciated the finer things in life.
After the two pals brought the rest of the food to the table, she relaxed even more. The jambalaya was delicious with spicy bites of andouille. The cold lemonade refreshed her throat and washed away the memory of being locked in the tomb. For the first time since the Día de los Muertos parade, she began to believe that everything might turn out all right.
“Can I get you anything else?” Chance asked.
“It’s all good,” she said, “really good.”
“I hate to introduce an unfortunate topic,” he said, “but I need to warn you, both of you. Mr. Davidoff—or Davis or Diamond Jim—is a very careful man. He dresses with precision, keeps his goatee trimmed and his jewelry polished. He hired a brilliant bookkeeper who can legally account for every penny even though Davidoff is most likely engaged in fraud, tax evasion and smuggling. Likewise, his attorneys are meticulous. Frankie Leone’s murder caused a disruption in Davidoff’s business.”
“What kind of disruption?” Rafe asked.
“As near as I can figure, Davidoff had taken possession of three vintage cars that were worth over two hundred and fifty thousand dollars each. One went missing.” Chance rolled his eyes. “The very thought of that Lamborghini V12 makes my mouth water.”
A glance at Rafe told her that he was also captivated by that mental image. She would never understand why men loved pieces of machinery. Cars had never aroused her. As a teenager in Chicago, she preferred taking the bus or the L train so she didn’t have to mess with parking. “Did Frankie steal the car?”
“It seems that he did,” Chance said. “After years and years of carefully removing objects from the warehouse, Frankie Leone overstepped.”
Her good mood began to crumble around the edges. “How do you know all this?”
“It took some serious hacking.” He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a thumb drive and handed it over to Rafe. “The details are here, but I think you’ll both agree with my conclusions. In the end, Davidoff was working with the Leone family in Florida, who were not real happy with their cousin Frankie double-crossing them for years.”
“To the tune of seven point six million dollars,” Rafe said.
“How did somebody like Frankie get away with this?” She sipped her lemonade. “I mean, this was a sophisticated operation using forgeries. He must have developed a network of criminal connections to fence the property. He couldn’t just walk up to some person on the street and offer to sell them a Lamborghini. How did he pull it off?”
“By hiding in plain sight,” Chance said. “Nobody paid much attention to Frankie Leone the warehouse foreman. He didn’t live a flashy lifestyle, didn’t buy fancy clothes or women. There was only one time when he got in trouble. That was ten years ago.”
“When Aunt Charlotte got involved.”
“She could be in trouble.”
“In danger?” Alyssa didn’t want to care, but she did. Charlotte was the only family she had left in the world.
Chance made direct eye contact. “Your auntie isn’t in as much trouble as you are. Rafe tells me that you’re a woman who makes plans. I would suggest that you exercise that ability. You need to find a way to leave town and lie low.”
Tomorrow, after she retrieved the necessary items from her safe-deposit box, she’d get away from New Orleans. “Is there anything I can do for Charlotte? She’s working with Agent Jessop of the FBI, you know. How much danger is she really in?”
“I’ll put it to you this way,” Chance said. “The only way Frankie survived ten years ago was to put all the blame on her. That was why she had to fake her death. They were all after her—the Leones, other smugglers, Horowitz and everybody else.”
Not her old boss! Of all the people she knew, he was the one she trusted the most. He’d helped her through the terrible time after her mom’s death and had been nothing but kind. If anyone could rescue her from this mess, it was him. “Are you sure Mr. Horowitz was after my aunt?”
“I am,” Chance said. “And I’m seldom wrong.”
Chapter Fourteen
Cruising back to New Orleans on the Mississippi River Road in a Mercedes C63 sedan, Rafe almost believed his undercover identity as a Grand Prix driver was true. The ride was sheer perfection. Chance had insisted that they take his twin-turbo V-8 sedan to evade surveillance by drone, camera or any person who had the license plate for Rafe’s SUV. It hadn’t taken much convincing for Rafe to agree to the trade.
His first choice would have been Chance’s racy red two-seater Porsche. But Alyssa pointed out that the car attracted too much attention. The sleek lines of the metallic-gray Mercedes didn’t look all that much different from other vehicles on the road. But it was—oh yes, it was. Driving this high-performance vehicle was as satisfying as harnessing the power of a rocket ship and taking off for the moon.
“You’re going over seventy,” Alyssa chided from the passenger seat. “We don’t want to get pulled over.”
A typical police car could never catch this powerful vehicle, which, according to Chance, went from zero to eighty in less than four seconds, but she was correct. They wanted to escape notice.
Reluctantly, he eased up on the accelerator. “I didn’t realize I was breaking the speed limit. The suspension system is so good that I don’t feel any bumps on the road.”
“Very comfortable,” she said.
He fondled the steering wheel. “Magnifique.”
For a moment, they rode in comfortable silence. Their bellies were full, the ride was smooth and a bond was growing between them. He wanted this feeling to continue and deepen. Life would be easier if he aimed the nose of the Mercedes toward the west—away from Florida or Chicago—and kept driving until he found a safe place where he could sit with Alyssa and hold her without fear of attack.
“I like your podnah,” she said. “Chance is different from any other computer nerd I’ve ever met.”
“He’s a mite crazy, but he’s never let me down.”
“He was right when he said I need to come up with a more detailed plan.”
“First, you’ve got to make a big decision,” he said. “Will you stay in New Orleans, or will you go on the lam?”
“On the lam? That sounds so...criminal. I guess I never thought about staying here. The plan was to run, and I made tons of arrangements from transportation and escape routes to fake identification. I ne
ver owned a lot of assets, but I inherited a bunch of cash when Mom died and got a hefty insurance payoff from Charlotte’s death.” She caught her lower lip in her teeth as she paused and considered. “If I know she’s alive, is it fraud to keep the money? I should probably pay back the insurance company.”
“You’re going off track,” he said. “Stay or go?”
“That brings up another set of questions. If I decide to stay, should I contact law enforcement? The FBI and the marshals are out, so that leaves NOPD.”
“I know some of the local cops—people who can be trusted.”
“Even when there are millions on the line?”
The temptation to betray her would be tempting, even for the most morally upright officer. He didn’t feel good about leaving her in the care of a system that had already revealed a rotten core. “Putting yourself in police custody means you give up on further investigation. You know how it works, cher. You aren’t entitled to information or follow-up. The detectives ask questions, and you answer.”
“And no one gets arrested.” Her fingers curled into a fist, and she pounded on her thigh, emphasizing each word. “Just. Like. Before.”
During his years in the FBI, he’d been on the other side and knew how hard it was to pry details from witnesses. “It’s not always so bad.”
“It’s been three years since I went into WitSec, and nothing is solved. Turn myself in? No, thanks, I’ve already taken that route.”
“You know the alternative,” he said. “We do our own investigation.”
Her mouth spread in a wide smile. “That sounds right to me.”
He found her confidence somewhat disturbing. Their chances of outsmarting federal and local law enforcement weren’t good. Not to mention Davidoff, the McGill family and the Leones. A lot of very motivated people were trying to solve this puzzle. What made her think she’d succeed when they all had failed? He had to wonder if she knew some detail that she hadn’t revealed.
“That’s your decision,” he said.
“It is.”
“Where do we start?”
“With Charlotte,” she said firmly. “I don’t owe that woman squat, but she’s the only family I have left, and I’m concerned about her survival. Chance thinks she’s in danger. At the very least, we need to warn her.”
Contacting Charlotte wouldn’t hurt their investigation. “She might give us leads on the missing millions. After all, she was Frankie’s lover.”
“She can tell us how he pulled it off. I know he wasn’t smart enough. She must have helped him set it up.” Enthusiasm rippled through her voice. “Maybe she can give us the names of her connections and we can follow up.”
Rafe doubted that Charlotte had many secrets left untold. She’d probably shared the names of any contacts with Jessop and the FBI, which meant that Davidoff had the same information. Still, talking to her was worth a shot. “You have her phone number. Give her a call.”
Sheepishly, she said, “I already tried. I called her from Chance’s house. She didn’t answer, so I sent a text.”
He couldn’t see her eyes behind her rhinestone sunglasses, but he could tell she was both excited and tense by the way she fidgeted and chewed her lower lip. “I wish I could tell you not to worry about Charlotte. She could be in danger. Keep in mind that she’s not without resources.”
“What does that mean?”
“The woman returned from the dead. She’s been in hiding for ten years while appearing in public as a lounge singer. I’m not sure if she’s on your side or is working for somebody else. Your aunt Charlotte is a wild card.”
Alyssa bobbed her head in agreement. “She’d adore Chance. The gracious living, the charm and the manners are her favorite things. I wish we could have seen his thoroughbreds.”
“We’ll visit him again. I’ve got no choice about that. My podnah is going to want his Mercedes. In the meantime, I suggest you contact Sheila Marie. If anyone can find Charlotte, she can.” He took his phone from his pocket and handed it to her. “I took a photo at the church. Send the picture of Charlotte and mention that she’s a singer.”
Approaching the city, he needed to be on high alert, watching for people who were looking for them. Rafe kept one eye on the road and the other on Alyssa as she put through the call to Sheila Marie. His phone was his lifeline containing information about the security at the house and his many contacts. He couldn’t help worrying that she might scroll through and uncover something he didn’t want her to see. No matter how many times he told himself to trust her, he couldn’t set all his suspicions aside.
Unlike Jessop and Woodbridge, Rafe believed her when she said that the dying man hadn’t told her any secrets. Her outrage when she’d confronted her aunt was genuine, which meant that Alyssa wasn’t working a con with Charlotte. His misgivings came when he considered her skill as an accountant and her insider knowledge of how the pawnshop worked. Her familiarity with the place was second only to Horowitz’s. Every time his name was mentioned, she bristled. Her feelings for her old boss went beyond the typical employee relationship.
Alyssa ended her call and turned to him. “Sheila Marie says hi. Her exact words were, ‘Where y’at?’ And I told her that you were happily driving a fancy Mercedes. She wants to take a turn behind the steering wheel.”
“Not going to happen.”
“She said that she’d look for Charlotte and let us know if she found her.” Alyssa held the phone toward him. “You have a text from Davidoff. I didn’t read it, but I think he wants you to call him.”
That was exactly the kind of information he didn’t want her to know. Davidoff was a topic he’d rather not explore in great detail. He pocketed the phone. “I’ll check in with him later. Right now, we’re headed back to the safe house.”
Instead of the evasive driving he’d used when he knew Jessop and maybe Woodbridge were after them, he concentrated on obeying the traffic rules and blending in with all the lesser automobiles. Like a beautiful woman, the Mercedes didn’t need to flaunt her superiority. Any fool who took a second look would recognize her value.
On a Sunday afternoon after a wild parade the night before, New Orleans felt lazy and comfortable. In the French Quarter, tourists meandered on the streets, carrying daiquiris and Bloody Marys in plastic cups. Music emanated from every little jazz club.
“I want to get started investigating,” she said. “What can we do tonight?”
He would have liked to spend the evening getting to know her better. Not from what she told him or what he’d learned on the internet. He wanted to know her in a physical sense. When he thought about the natural heat from her body, his gut tightened. He could tell in a glance that she was in good shape, but he wanted to caress her arms and legs, to feel her strength. His arms ached to hold her. So far, he’d done a real good job of keeping his distance. They’d developed a certain level of trust, and he hoped she would let down the barriers that guarded her heart.
He cleared his throat. “We can review the case. I know you’ve been questioned by dozens of professionals, but never by me.”
“Do you think you can figure out something they missed?”
“Can’t hurt to try.”
“Fine.” She spread her hands wide with her palms up. “Ask me anything. I’m an open book.”
“Let’s start by talking about Horowitz, cher.”
The book slammed shut.
After all her demands that he tell her the whole truth, Alyssa was holding back. She had a secret, and her former boss was part of it.
* * *
AS SOON AS they arrived at the safe house, Alyssa told Rafe she was tired and wanted to take a nap. He could hardly blame her. Though today hadn’t been physically demanding, she’d been hit with one shock after another, from meeting up with her supposedly dead aunt to being locked in a tomb. Any reasonable person would need a rest.
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br /> In the room that was supposed to be a mirror image of her bedroom at home, she kicked off her shoes, peeled off her jacket and stretched out on top of the chenille bedspread that was a duplicate of the one she’d purchased several months ago. She liked being surrounded by her things—which really weren’t hers, but looked like them. In spite of her tension, she relaxed. Soft afternoon light from the windows shone on her bedside table and the Toulouse-Lautrec poster on the wall at the foot of the bed.
Figuring out a plan for what they should do after the visit to the bank was going to take focus. A different concern was foremost in her mind. While they’d been driving here, she’d managed to evade Rafe’s questions about Mr. Horowitz, but she wasn’t sure how long she could keep from telling him the truth.
Her former boss had disappeared after the murder, and everybody—feds and criminals alike—had a stake in finding him. Horowitz was the most probable person to know where the money had gone. After all, he owned the pawnshop and handled all the merchandise. His awareness of the inventory was encyclopedic. How could millions disappear without his express knowledge and consent?
Over and over, she told herself that Max Horowitz was an honest man. She trusted him, believed in him and knew he wouldn’t do anything illegal. Before he skipped town, he’d told her that she wasn’t alone. If she needed him, he would be there. Then he gave her a phone number, which she memorized. If she called the secret number, he would know that she needed his help. But she could only call in the very worst-case scenario—worse than being pursued by Woodbridge or the feds, worse than being on Diamond Jim’s enemies list and worse than meeting up with Charlotte. The threat had to be literally life or death. Even then, she wasn’t sure she could bring herself to betray Max Horowitz.
When she closed her eyes, she remembered the pleasantly musty smell of his sweater-vests and jackets. When he chuckled, his mustache twitched. He was only a few inches taller than she was, but he was surprisingly strong—an ability that served him well when he had to move heavy merchandise. While he worked, he liked to hum, mostly old Beatles tunes.
