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Thorne and DEA
An article popped up. One-year anniversary since decorated DEA agent and wife slaughtered in home.
Something in her gut kicked. She selected the link and began to read all about Jack Thorne and his wife, Courtney. About what transpired one night over fifteen years ago, in an affluent suburb outside St. Louis. How Thorne and his wife were shot to death by the mafia after Jack arrested and charged the son of a Capo Crimini.
At the bottom of the article, after all the details of the brutal murder had been laid out for public consumption, was a photo of the surviving daughter.
A little girl with brown eyes and brown hair. Sullen. Quiet. Familiar.
Louie Thorne, it read.
Diana wondered if the picture had been taken after her parents’ murders. She thought so. There was already something dark and haunted in those eyes.
Diana sat back in her chair, staring at the screen.
“Did you find something?” her sister asked.
“Maybe.” Diana pulled up the search box one more time and typed in Louie Thorne.
Nothing.
She tried again. Robert King. Jack Thorne. DEA.
And there was King’s face smiling back at her, his arm over Jack’s shoulder.
“An old family friend then,” she said. “Looking out for your buddy’s kid after he’s killed. Guess I walked right into that.”
Blair came around the chair and leaned over Diana’s shoulder. “Is that what she looks like?” She pointed at the dark, sullen child.
“This picture is at least fifteen years old.”
Blair frowned. “Why do you have that look on your face?”
Diana chewed her lip, unsure why the anxiety in her limbs had spiked suddenly. “She’s like me. I mean, I already knew she was like me, but I didn’t realize how much like me.”
Blair gave a crooked grin. “So she’s a heartless, obsessive bitch too?”
“Her childhood was destroyed. She coped by fighting back, and she’s been fighting ever since.”
Blair settled into another chair. “Can I ask you something?”
Diana met her gaze. “What?”
“What do you hope to gain by tracking down this woman?”
“I want what she has.”
“And what do you think that is, exactly?”
“Money, resources. The things I need to take down Winter.”
“And let me ask you this. If you were her and someone showed up and was like, ‘Give me your stuff,’ what would you say?”
“I’d tell them to go fuck themselves.”
“Exactly. Because you work for yourself. You do what you want. Why in the world are we wasting time tracking her down? She’s not going to help you. If she’s as much like you as you think she is, this will never work. In fact, I’ll bet a hundred bucks she won’t help you.”
“She had no reason to help Jennifer McGrath, but she did,” Diana mused. She thought of the night the pervert Jeffrey Fish came to kill the girl. While Diana watched through the window, Fish broke into the girl’s house and chased her up to the bedroom with the intention of murdering her.
Once Fish began to rough the girl up, Diana had wondered if she should intervene. It didn’t matter to her whether or not the girl ended up dead. Diana had been content to let him wear himself out, and once spent, she’d step in and have her fun. She’d only wanted to make sure Fish didn’t see another sunrise.
But before she could decide, Lou had simply appeared.
One minute all Diana could see was Jennifer’s wide, kitten eyes and heaving chest. The next, Lou had Fish by the hair, pulling him out of the spotlight of an overturned lamp on the bed.
Lou was good at hiding, at moving unseen.
Diana could use that against Winter.
“If she isn’t in it for herself, then she does it for other people,” Diana said. “And she isn’t hunting mafia bosses, she’s hunting serial killers. This isn’t about her.”
“You don’t know she hasn’t killed mafia bosses. She could’ve murdered a hundred of them and then got bored. The point is, you don’t know enough about her. Period. You have no reason to believe she’ll help you. Why are we doing this, Di?”
Diana had seen Lou in action. She’d seen how coldly the woman had torn Fish from the room. She’d seen the woman’s hunger—and her restraint. If anyone could give her what she needed to trap Winter, it was Lou.
“She’ll help,” Diana insisted, looking at the photo of the kid on the computer screen, the one who’d lost everything but had rebuilt herself into something better, stronger. “We just have to make an offer she can’t resist.”
8
King spotted Mel at a table before the hostess could pull a menu for him.
“There she is.” He pointed at the woman with an Octavia Butler book open in front of her. “Thanks.”
He angled his wide body through the gumbo shop’s tight configuration of tables, making his apologies as he passed, trying not to bump corners or shake overfilled water glasses. Soft jazz seeped through unseen speakers and the whole place reeked of andouille sausage. Spicy and delicious.
His mouth watered.
Mel looked up from her book and smiled. Her hair was natural, teased out to its full height and pushed back from her face by a soft silk scarf.
“Good evening, Mr. King,” she said. The gold bangles on her wrist jingled as she pushed a menu across the table toward him. “You’re late.”
“My apologies.” He stooped and planted a kiss on her cheek, French style. “How are you?”
“Fine,” she said, unfolding the napkin across her lap. Then she reached up and fussed with the many overlapping necklaces at her throat, gently untangling the strands with her dark fingers.
“And Lady?” he asked, fondly warming at the thought of the Belgian Malinois.
“At home, napping. Do you want to take her with you tonight?”
“No, she’s fine with you.” This was a lie. King missed the dog when she was across the hall from his apartment, sleeping with Mel. But he knew that the dog brought Mel great comfort and security. And with Dennard lurking around, it made him feel better to know the Belgian Malinois was close by. It was good protection and that dog would die for her.
“Why are you late?” Mel lifted her water glass and took a sip. “I was about to order without you.”
“I had to take the long way around.” He lowered himself into the chair. He didn’t pick up the menu. He knew what he wanted. “I was being followed.”
He’d spotted the tail halfway down Royal Street. It moved like a shadow in his periphery. When he’d bent to tie his shoe, he used the dark, reflective surface of his cell phone to search the street behind him. A man with a hobbled gait sharply turned, pretending to look in a storefront window as he rose.
King had cut across Jackson Square, walked through a souvenir shop and out the back, across the alley and into the adjacent street, squeezing past a young man taking out two large bags of trash. It helped that King’s own hip wasn’t talking to him tonight as it sometimes did. Watching his tail hobble as he did reminded him to be grateful for these rare pain-free days.
Mel straightened in her seat. “Who was following you?”
“A short man, uneven gait, and glasses. And something is wrong with his hair.”
Mel snorted, a laugh half escaping her. “What do you mean, something is wrong with his hair?”
King touched his right temple. “I can’t tell if he’s got a bald spot here or if it’s burned short. But something was wrong with it.”
“What can I get y’all tonight?” the server asked. It was a woman in a white apron and black tie.
“Chicken andouille for me,” King said. The smell of the sausage in the air was making him ravenous. “With a side of cornbread.”
“Cup or bowl?”
“Bowl.”
“Butter and honey?”
“Yes, please.” King would love some sweet, buttery cornbread this very minute.
“And you, ma’am?” she asked.
“Seafood gumbo for me. I’d like the cornbread too, please. And hot sauce.”
“Yes, ma’am. Waters, all right?”
“Yes, thanks,” King began, then added, “Actually, can I have a Coke?”
When the waitress left, Mel leaned toward him across the table. “Back on subject, please. You’ve got a guy following you. Do you know why?”
“Either he’s with Diana Dennard or he’s a different problem.”
“Diana Dennard,” she said, frowning and placing one hand on the cover of her book. “Where’ve I heard that name before?”
“Lou crossed paths with her back in March, when they were both hunting Fish.”
Last King heard, the serial killer was still behind bars, having admitted to over forty kills to date. King didn’t think that would be the end of it. He was sure Fish would confess to more soon enough.
Every time Lou’s restlessness got the best of her and she went out into the night to dig up a new grave, it prompted new confessions from Fish.
“Right,” Mel said, shaking her head knowingly. “The other vigilante.”
King didn’t like that word, vigilante. It conjured images of masked avengers blowing up government buildings. Lou—whatever she was—didn’t fit that description.
To him, she was an arbiter of retribution. A queen of death. Karma.
Payback.
“Dennard came into my office today pretending to be Lou’s sister. She was asking about what happened at Julia Street station.”
At this Mel visibly stiffened. King understood why. Mel had been the one to pull the trigger that night, and the bullet that was intended to scare her bully of an ex-husband had torn through Lou’s neck.
Mel fingered the necklaces at her throat. “You don’t think—”
“There’s nothing to find,” King assured her. “Konstantine and I thoroughly cleaned that scene. But maybe some blood was collected for processing. It could’ve been collected and processed as part of Terry’s case.”
Mel grimaced at the sound of her ex’s name.
“Maybe they’re reviewing all evidence for his trial,” King added.
This wasn’t anything Melandra didn’t know herself. “I’m sure the prosecution is gearing up.”
King noted the candle flame flickering on the table, seeing the light dance in her kohl-rimmed eyes.
“You seem okay with that,” King said, accepting the Coke put on the table by the passing waitress.
“Terry rotting in prison?” Mel harrumphed. “Hell yeah, I’m okay with that.”
Her smile came easy then. Wide and bright. King thought that her smile came a lot easier these days, now that Terry was out of her life.
“And cornbread,” the waitress said, placing a large plate on the table beside a small dish of butter and a honey pot. King eyed the mound of soft white cream.
“Thanks,” he managed, but the waitress was already gone.
“They’re busy tonight,” he remarked. “Will you go to the trial?”
“No,” she said. “I’ve seen enough of his face to last me a lifetime.”
She looked out over the restaurant, eyes falling on a young couple with a baby standing up in its highchair. The mother was scolding it softly.
“It’s amazing,” Melandra said.
King didn’t think she was talking about people having babies, so he kept his mouth shut.
“Absolutely amazing how we torture ourselves. All those years of guilt and shame, me believing something that never even happened. And for what? I’ve lost so much time, Robert.”
King reached across the table and covered her hand with his. He gave it a firm squeeze. “You’ve still got a lot of time left.”
And she did. Twenty or thirty years at least. She was healthy and not even old enough to retire, though he couldn’t imagine her ever doing so.
“I do,” she said with a bright smile, turning back to him at last. “And I’m not going to let anyone else take that away from me. Never again.”
“That’s the spirit,” he said, unable to resist the cornbread any longer. He used his fork to smear butter along the top, which melted instantly. Then he drizzled honey before shoving it into his mouth.
His stomach turned appreciatively.
“Do you think this Dennard woman is dangerous?” Mel asked, moving a piece of cut cornbread to her plate, balancing it on her knife. “To us?”
“I don’t know. Her operation is underground. I don’t think she would benefit from outing Lou, not with the risk that she herself would be outed. Konstantine said that she was running credit card scams to fund her operation. She stands to face real jail time if she moves out into the open. Whereas Lou would only lose movability. There are no bodies or proof of her crimes, so if she were brought into the public eye, it would just mean that she’d have to work harder to disguise herself going forward.”
“No more snatching people from the streets.”
“Not without proper precautions,” King agreed. “But the question is, what does Dennard really want with her?”
Melandra’s frown deepened. “You don’t think she wants to eliminate the competition, do you?”
King tried to imagine Diana hunting and killing Louie. Louie was the most dangerous and capable person he’d ever met. But she wasn’t without her limitations.
“I hope not,” he said. “I really hope not.”
* * *
“They’re still in the shop,” Spencer said into the small communications device clutched in his grip. “I can’t believe he slipped me like that.”
“You weren’t careful,” Diana said, whispering into the earpiece tucked into the conch of her ear.
She stood on the stoop outside The Crescent City Detective Agency and pretended to smoke. She hated the taste of tobacco on her tongue and fought down the urge to spit. The passersby talked and laughed with one another, stumbling down the shadowed streets on their way to another bar. Diana hated them too. And this city. It was dirty. Noisy. Crowded. Too many piss-scented drunks wandering around.
And any place with too many people was the worst.
Spencer continued whining in her ear. “Excuse me. I warned you that my walk is too pronounced. You should’ve sent Blair. Oh, their food has finally arrived.”
She threw down the cigarette. “I’m going in. Message me when they ask for the check.”
Diana inserted two steel pins in the lock on the front of the building. It took a minute to find the correct placement, but once she did, she heard the tumbler move and the door popped free of its hinge.
The office was empty. Moonlight poured through the high window and painted the floor and furniture. Shadows pooled at the back of the shop.
Both desks were clear of all debris. She wondered if King took all his materials home with him each night. He must.
She closed the door behind her and locked it.
In King’s chair, she ran a hand over the tabletop, but there was nothing. She wiggled the drawer, but it was locked. She tried to use her pins to open it, but this lock was much smaller. She switched pins.
Once the drawer was open, Diana realized she’d wasted too much time. There was only a notepad, business cards, and gum in the drawer. A few pens were scattered as well. There were names on the cards, and scraps of paper, but none of them meant anything to Diana.
None of them read Lou.
She closed the drawer. Her eyes fell on the name plate. Ms. Thorne.
Diana crossed to the door, expecting to find it locked. But it opened easily. Diana’s heart rose in her throat as she pushed the door wider. She wasn’t sure what she expected to find in this room. Another desk. Lou herself, typing away, burning the midnight oil?
And what would she say if she came face to face with the woman now?
But there was nothing. At least, not an office.
There
was a row of metal shelves against one wall. Against the other, shelves full of the most banal items. Toilet paper, a box of legal pads.
Diana ran her hand along the shelves, but found no secrets.
Her fingers traced the walls, the dips in the concrete bricks. But nothing.
Is this some sort of secret panel? she wondered.
She pushed against the wall, wondering if there was a way to get it to open. Or maybe there was a secret lair.
Maybe there was a whole world under her feet. Questioningly, she tapped the floor with the toe of her boot.
But no matter how she picked at the corners or shoved against the bricks, nothing gave.
Irritated, she pulled the door closed behind her.
The room to her left was a bathroom. The room straight ahead was locked.
Diana was able to use her steel pins to unlock it and found a flight of steps on the other side. They ascended into the dark.
Diana threw one nervous look over her shoulder at the dim office. People passed the large picture windows, but the office itself remained dark.
“They still eating?” she asked into her comm.
“Yeah, the guy just ordered another helping of cornbread. This guy can eat.”
Diana mounted the stairs and pulled the door closed behind her. Inside, she found an apartment. A clean, shadowed kitchenette, a living room with sofa, coffee table, and TV. A window that shone with moonlight. The sheer white curtain seemed to glow in the moonlight.
Down a short hall was a bedroom and bath. The bed was made, though not tidily.
Diana searched the side tables. She went through the closet and searched the pockets of clothes. She pulled the luggage down from the top shelves and opened a box that turned out to hold a lot of photographs.
None were of Lou. Most featured a blond girl that Diana didn’t recognize.
Is this your apartment? Diana wondered, eyeing the blonde in the pictures with her arms thrown companionably over her friends’ shoulders.
At first she thought Lou might live here. But now it seemed that wasn’t the case. Or at least, there was nothing in the apartment that suggested Lou’s presence. No leather jackets or mirrored shades. No credit cards or paperwork bearing her name.
Devil’s Luck Page 5
