by Lyn Horner
“Hello,” a man said in a cracked, elderly voice.
“Uh, hi, can I speak to Michaela, please?”
“Who? Speak up, mister. I’ve got a hearing problem,” the man practically shouted.
“Sorry, sir. I need to speak to Michaela Peterson,” Nate replied, raising his voice.
The old man sighed loudly. “You’ve got the wrong number, and I don’t like being woke up in the middle of the night.” With that, he slammed down his receiver.
Nate scowled and clicked off. That settled that. The message was bogus. Agent Werner – Was she really an FBI agent? – and her pal were trying to play him. And he knew why. Somehow the two had learned of the Guardians’ existence and were attempting to capture them and force them to hand over the artifacts they guarded. How the pair had identified Michaela and him as members of the secret group and ferreted out his location, he had no idea. Nor could he fathom why they’d baited him with a false phone number. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to help them capture the whole Comhairle – the High Guardian’s council.
Tossing the useless scrap of paper into a metal trash can by one end of the sofa, he polished off his second beer. He set the empty bottle on the coffee table and trudged into the bedroom, tugging off his black t-shirt along the way. He dropped it in a half full laundry basket, stepped out of his jeans and draped them over a straight chair. He could wear them one more day, he figured.
Reclining on his rumpled, not overly clean bed, he sighed tiredly. The day had been long but lucrative, and he’d done some fine work if he did say so himself. He smiled at the thought. Then Agent Werner’s face sprang unwanted into his mind’s eye, followed by the sway of her gorgeous hips. She’d be one hot dish if she let her hair down and unbuttoned that tailored suit of hers. Better yet, he’d like to personally peel off her boring shell and reveal everything underneath it.
What was he thinking? Had he lost his mind? The woman and her good pal Dev were almost certainly out to take him and the other Guardians prisoner. If she turned up again, as he suspected she would, he’d tell her he knew what a conniving bitch she was.
Wait a minute. On second thought, he’d better not let her know he was onto her game. If he played along with her instead, giving her plenty of rope to hang herself, maybe she’d slip up and reveal part of her nefarious plans. Nefarious, he loved that word. It meant wicked or evil doings, exactly what the sexy Ms. Werner was up to.
CHAPTER TWO
By eight the next morning Talia had showered, dried her hair and donned the underclothes she’d rinsed out the night before. Turning on the TV, she listened to the news with half an ear while slipping on the white silk blouse she’d worn yesterday. It was wrinkled but since she had no other, it would have to do. At least her black worsted suit still looked fresh.
She was zipping her slacks when a breaking news report caught her attention.
“Approximately one hour ago, a woman’s body was found in an alley outside a bar on 7th Avenue in Ybor City,” the perky dark-haired newswoman said, pronouncing it Ebor with a hard E. Talia stared intently at the television screen as the reporter grimly added, “According to a police spokesman, the woman appears to have been murdered. If so, this is the third such killing in historic Ybor over the past two months.”
The report piqued Talia’s interest as an FBI agent and because Nathan Maguire’s tattoo parlor was located northeast of downtown Tampa in Ybor City, on 7th Avenue. No doubt merely a coincidence, but still … .
She stepped into her practical black pumps, retrieved her shoulder bag that doubled as a tote and extracted her slim laptop computer. Laying it on a round table positioned beneath the room’s wide window, she swung a padded chair around to face the table, sat and opened the laptop. It took only seconds to connect with the internet and bring up several articles about the recent murders.
The first two victims had also been found in alleys adjacent to bars in Ybor City’s entertainment district, either on or near 7th. No grisly details were provided.
Did all three killings exhibit the same MO? Had the killer left a calling card – some sort of signature on the victims? If the answers were yes, Tampa likely had a serial killer on the loose. Frowning at the possibility, Talia stuffed the laptop back in her bag along with the compact Glock 23 she’d tucked under her pillow before retiring last night. The gun was an extension of her person; she went nowhere without it.
Pinning her hair into a tight chignon, she dabbed on a light touch of blush, eye liner and rose lip color. Then she hooked the heavy tote bag over her shoulder and rode an elevator down to the lobby, where an eating area was reserved for patrons who wished to take advantage of the hotel’s continental breakfast. Selecting juice, coffee and a bagel with cream cheese, she sat at a quiet corner table and opened her laptop again. She wanted to know more about Ybor City. Another quick search led to an article about the “city within a city.”
Reading while she ate, Talia learned the town was founded in the 1880’s by a Spanish cigar maker named Vincente Martinez Ybor, who’d moved his business from Key West due to labor unrest and other factors. The company town attracted experienced Cuban and Spanish cigar workers as well as other manufacturers of the aromatic smokes, turning Ybor City into a major center of the trade. Immigrants poured in and, in 1887, Tampa annexed Ybor City.
The rough settlement soon matured into a thriving community of brick buildings and streets, cultural clubs and even a streetcar line, a modern version of which still rolled over certain streets today. Tampa’s population mushroomed thanks to the influx of workers, and Ybor City became known as the cigar capital of the world. The boom lasted until the Great Depression struck, making hand-rolled cigars too expensive for most people.
Talia skimmed over material recounting the decline and slow recovery of the community. She was more interested in finding out how dangerous Ybor City generally was, particularly along 7th Avenue. She learned the area was considered safe in daylight – as she’d already seen for herself – but after dark, drunken brawls were not uncommon. Although the rate of violent crimes had dropped in recent years, auto theft, breakins, assaults and an occasional rape still occurred. Visitors were advised to exercise caution and walk in groups, especially during late night hours.
A perfect atmosphere for murder, Talia thought. Finished eating, she tucked away her computer and crossed the lobby to the front desk, heels tapping on the granite floor. The pretty Latina clerk smiled as she approached.
“Good morning, Miss. May I help you?” she asked.
Talia nodded. “Yes. Can you direct me to a streetcar to Ybor City?”
The girl’s smile slipped a notch. “I’d be happy to, but the trolleys don’t start running until noon. If you need to leave now, I can call a taxi for you, or you can take a bus.”
Disappointed because she couldn’t ride one of the colorful electric streetcars – trolleys, she corrected herself – Talia settled for directions to the nearest bus stop. Minutes later, riding along the bus’s zigzag route, she mulled over the information she’d gathered, wondering what the murder rate had been in Ybor before the three recent homicides. Perhaps she would ask Nathan Maguire. He ought to have a pretty good idea since he worked and possibly lived in the heart of the district.
Thinking about the latest murder, she wondered if she should offer her services to the local police. First, of course, she’d have to call Dave and ask his permission. But before she did any of that, she needed to make sure Maguire had called Dev Medina. If he hadn’t, she intended to hound him until he did.
She marched up to his tattoo parlor shortly before 9:30 and found the place locked up tight, a grid of bars across the door window. Shading her eyes with her hands to block the milky January sunlight, she leaned forward and peered through the glass but saw no movement within the dark interior. Stepping back, she glanced down and saw the store hours painted in bold white letters on the window. The place opened at 11 a.m. Shoot! Why hadn’t she noticed that yesterday?
>
She glanced up and down the street, debating what to do. Spotting a sign for a coffee bar about a half block away, she decided she could use another shot of caffeine and headed that way. The place was not busy when she walked in, so after ordering a plain coffee – she disliked fancy lattes overflowing with calories – she asked the barista if there was a dress shop in the area. The tall, blonde college-age girl smiled and nodded enthusiastically, saying there was a boutique she liked a couple blocks away.
Following the girls’ directions, Talia easily located the small store. Most of the clothes she browsed through were far too wild for her taste, but she picked out a flowered sleep shirt, some underthings and a pale blue silk blouse she could wear with her suit. If she ended up having to stay in Tampa more than a day or two, she would need to find a department store that carried conservative business clothes.
Her watch read 10:45 when she stepped out of the boutique with her bagged purchases in one hand and gripping the long strap of her shoulder bag with the other. Time to head back to Nate’s Tattoo Parlor.
Finding Maguire’s door still locked, she checked her watch. It read 11 a.m. on the dot. She sighed impatiently, wondering if the man had overslept. She paced the sidewalk back and forth in front of the small storefront, waiting for Maguire to open up. When he hadn’t appeared by ten minutes past eleven, she knocked loudly on the door, cussing under her breath. Where the devil was he?
Finally, a shadowy figure stalked toward her from the back of the shop. Flipping on a light, Maguire scowled as he unlocked. Opening the door, he growled, “What the hell do you think you’re doing banging so hard on the door? You could have busted the window.”
“If you’d opened up at the posted time I wouldn’t have needed to knock,” she shot back. Stepping inside past him, she looked him up and down in disapproval as he shut the door. His dark hair stood out at crazy angles, his eyelids drooped heavily and his gray-dappled beard was in greater need of shaving than the day before. As for his clothes, they looked like he’d slept in them, and he was barefoot.
“What did you do, drink yourself into a stupor last night and forget to set your alarm?” she sniped.
His scowl deepened. “For your information, Agent Werner, my closing time is 2 a.m., but last night was busy. I didn’t finish with my last client until almost three. And yeah, I had a couple beers to unwind, not that it’s any of your business.”
Talia’s irritation diminished. Bouncing her gaze to the floor and back to him, she cleared her throat. “Sorry. I have no right to judge you.”
He scratched his bristly jaw and squinted at her askance. “Forget it. What are you doing back here? I thought you said everything you had to say yesterday.”
“I just wanted to make sure you called the phone number I gave you,” she said, adjusting the strap of her shoulder bag.
Scowling again, he crossed his arms, muscles bulging. “Yeah, like a fool, I made the call. An old man answered. He never heard of any Michaela.”
Talia frowned and shook her head. “But you weren’t supposed to ask for her. You were to leave a message for Dev saying you called.”
“You didn’t say that,” he replied, cocking one dark eyebrow. “You said the message came from Michaela.”
Exasperated, she threw up her hands. “Yes, it did, but by way of Dev. I thought I made that clear.”
“That’s not how I heard it, lady.” Turning his back, he padded to the rear of the shop, where a commercial-sized coffee maker stood on a waist-high storage cupboard along the side wall. “And if you’re gonna try to talk me into calling the old dude again, save your breath.” He unplugged the brewing machine, picked it up and moved to a sink adjacent to the cupboard.
“But you have to,” she insisted, following him. “Dev is expecting to hear from you. He said it’s urgent.”
Maguire dumped wet coffee grounds into a waste basket under the sink and rinsed out the pot. While filling it with water, he spoke over his shoulder. “Yeah? If it’s so urgent, why didn’t he contact me himself instead of sending you to look me up?”
“He … he said it isn’t safe for him to call you or come here. There are people out to find Michaela and they might try to use him to trap her.” She shrugged. “I tried to pry more information out of him, but that’s all he would tell me. He said you would understand the situation.”
“And you believed him?” Maguire returned the coffee maker to its place and turned to face her. “As an agent of the FBI, you weren’t suspicious?”
Talia averted her gaze. “Yes, of course I was, but I’ve known Dev a long time. In fact, we were partners for a while at the Bureau. I trusted him with my life back then and I still do.” Meeting her interrogator’s watchful eyes, she lifted her chin. “And he’s done me some favors over the years. I couldn’t turn down his request for help.”
“You tell a good story,” Maguire said with a nod. Leaning against the cupboard at his back, he crossed his arms and cocked his head to one side. “But how do I know you aren’t making all of it up as you go along? And if you’re really with the FBI.”
“What!” She clenched her fists. “Are you still questioning my identity? I showed you my credentials.”
“Credentials can be forged.” Ignoring her huff of indignation, he went back to preparing fresh java, scooping ground coffee into the filter basket.
Talia gritted her teeth. “I assure you they are not forged. If you won’t take my word for it, you can call the D.C. office and verify my badge number and identity for yourself.”
He plugged in the coffee maker and turned it on. Swinging around, he started to speak but just then the front door burst open, banging against the wall. In strutted three young Latino men. Talia went rigid at the sight of them. Obviously gangbangers, they wore black bandanas tied low over their foreheads, half concealing their eyes. Long white tshirts showed beneath plaid flannel shirts buttoned only at the throat, with baggy chinos completing their costumes. Tattoos encircled the neck of the man in front.
Talia stared at the three in alarm and heard Maguire curse softly.
“Hey, homes, old Nate’s got him a fancy piece of ass,” the leader jeered, drawing snickers from his companions. “Hola, mama, you lookin’ for a real man? I got plenty for you.” Grinning, he grabbed his crotch.
Talia glared at him in disgust and reached into her bag, intending to flash her badge at him and the others, but Nate stepped forward to block her. Gripping her arm, he thrust her behind him.
“Don’t push me!” she cried, batting at his hand, hearing the three punks laugh at her protest.
“Quiet,” Nate said, umber eyes drilling into her. Releasing her arm, he faced the snickering punk who’d affronted her. “What are you doing here, Ortiz?” he barked in a cold, hard voice. “I told you not to come back.”
“Like I’m gonna take orders from you, old man,” the glowering thug sneered. “You ruined my favorite tat. Think I’m gonna let you get away with that?”
“I gave you exactly what you asked for. Not my fault you were too stoned to see the new ink would cover up half your woman’s face.”
“You shoulda warned me, cabron.”
“I did but you wouldn’t listen.”
“You lie! Now you gotta pay,” Ortiz snarled. “And after me and my homeboys take care of you, we’ll show Blondie a real good time.” He shot Talia a nasty grin then stomped forward, his two followers right behind him.
Talia’s hand dove in her bag and clutched her gun. Before she was able to draw it, Nate pivoted and shoved her into a partitioned cubicle across from the sink and storage area. She yelped and stumbled backward. Losing her balance, she flopped onto a leather tattooing couch.
“How dare you!” she spluttered. “I’m an FBI –”
A scream cut her off. Panicky curses rent the air, followed by racing footsteps. Regaining her feet, Talia dashed from behind the screen in time to see the three troublemakers almost trampling each other to get out the door.
; Astonished, she watched them run past the window as if the devil was hot on their heels. “What did you do to them?” she asked, gaping at Nate.
Hands planted casually on his hips, he chuckled, deepening the laugh lines around his mouth. His very nice mouth, she noticed. “Let’s just say I learned how to take care of myself a long time ago.”
Frowning at his evasive answer, she remembered she was angry. “I don’t like being pushed around, Maguire.” She tossed her head. “And I don’t need your protection. I can defend myself. I’m an agent –”
“Of the mighty FBI, I know.” Winking at her, he said, “I’m hungry. Want to get some lunch? There’s a Cuban sandwich shop up the street. The food’s great and it’s early, so they shouldn’t be too busy. We can find a quiet corner and talk.”
Blinking at his unexpected invitation, she nodded hesitantly. “Alright. I’m not really hungry but we do need to talk.”
“Good. Let me clean up and put on some shoes.” He started for the back door but stopped short and glanced at her. “Uh, I live up there.” He pointed at the ceiling. “The stairs are outside. I’ll be a few minutes. The coffee’s ready. Grab a cup if you want.”
“Okay.” Talia watched him disappear out the door, mystified by the man’s odd change of tune. He’d made it clear he didn’t believe her story. Now he wanted to have lunch and talk. It made no sense. Did he suddenly believe her? If so, why? What had changed his mind?
Shaking her head, she took his advice and helped herself to coffee. She needed it to settle her jangled nerves.
CHAPTER THREE
Nate watched his lovely companion take a tentative bite of the Cuban sandwich he’d recommended. Made with ham, Swiss cheese and marinated pork, it was his favorite and judging by Agent Werner’s appreciative nod, she agreed.
“This is delicious,” she said.
“Glad you like it.” Tucking into his own sandwich, he ate in silence for a few moments, allowing her to enjoy her lunch. Once his stomach was nearly full, he casually asked, “So, how long have you been with the FBI?”
