He hadn't changed in that regard. He was still driven. Only this time, his passion was his job.
CHAPTER 9
Casanova had followed the cameraman from a safe distance, made a mental note of which apartment his target had entered, and then he'd gone home to change clothes and gather his equipment. The man's apartment complex had cameras scattered around the parking lot. While that complicated matters, nothing would deter him from killing the bastard who'd scared Erin.
He threw his gear in the trunk, drove back to the apartment, and parked in front of a movie theater a block away. Time passed slowly, but Casanova was known for his patience, and from this location, he could watch the front door. Having lived through enough stress in his childhood, he'd learned to compartmentalize his emotions. Rage built to a destructive level if he allowed it, as evidenced by him kicking the walls out earlier. That couldn't happen again.
That the man had hidden in Erin's yard, frightened her, caused her to fall, was enough to warrant his death. But the fact he'd thought his behavior was funny had sealed his fate.
The cameraman exited his apartment, jogged down the stairs, but walked past the van. He crossed the street and headed straight for the bar on the corner. Fate had dealt Casanova a winning hand. Intercepting the bastard on the way home would work.
He moved his car a block behind Hunney's Hang Out, walked to the bar, and hid in the shadows. The night air was warm, but he didn't remove the hooded sweatshirt. It wasn't long before sweat broke out and ran down his sides.
Time passed. People came and went. Nobody noticed him lurking in the dark. His knees grew weary from standing in one position. Still, he refused to move. His mission was clear.
The bar door opened and out walked the man with a cast. He made it to the curb before Casanova slid the knife blade up through a kidney and into the liver, puncturing his diaphragm. The beauty of this method was the target couldn't breathe. Therefore, he couldn't scream as he crumbled to the pavement.
A lingering coppery stench followed Casanova almost all the way back to the car.
Too bad there hadn't been a way to leave a message.
****
Rafe woke half-surprised at his surroundings. He'd been home three days, and waking up in his old bedroom still felt out of place. Coming home had him picking at old sores. Open wounds, because he kept digging up bad memories to dissect his teenage years to see what he should have done differently. He'd been so caught up in his own life that his brother's drug habit had been completely out of hand before he'd realized it.
Twins read each other's thoughts and minds, right? Then why hadn't he "seen" inside Nick's troubled mind?
Twenty minutes from Dallas, Westbrook Hills was a millionaire suburb where manicured lawns and long circular driveways fronted elaborate homes. Many parents commuted or traveled, leaving the kids to their own devices. Hell, the teenagers from this area drove cars that cost more than Rafe's father's annual salary had been.
One thing hadn't changed since he'd been gone: Rafe's deep-seated belief that the town was a hotbed of drugs was even stronger. Two additional high schools had been built in the past twelve years. No doubt, they shared the same problem.
The Sirillis had lived comfortably. It meant his dad pulled lots of overtime, but Rafe and his brothers had survived just fine without the lavish swimming pools, maids, and nannies. He snorted. Just fine was a stretch. Things stopped being "just fine" with their mother's death and had completely fallen apart when Nick started hanging with the high-dollar crowd. From his sophomore year on, their family life had been one constant fight.
Rafe pulled on a pair of sweats and wandered to the kitchen. Damn, would the odd expectation he'd round the corner and find his dad waiting ever go away?
He checked his messages, relieved to hear Luke's voice. Word had finally reached him that their dad had died. Rafe was pleased to know his baby brother was on his way. Maybe with Luke in the house, the place would feel more like a home.
Rafe headed for the shower. Fifteen minutes later, he bought a cup of coffee on the way to the school. That Westbrook High had doubled in size didn't surprise Rafe. The shock came at seeing the new sports complex, which spread out over more than a couple of acres.
Rafe paused at the flagpole and considered the opulence of the buildings. Odd that he'd never paid much attention back in his youth. Now all he could do was compare it to some of the poverty-stricken neighborhoods he'd seen since signing on with the feds.
"Rafe," a male voice called out.
Across the campus, his briefcase slung over his shoulder, Linc Hawkins was headed directly toward him. Rafe made a mental note to call Colton. Information on Hawkins should be easy to gather.
"How's it going?" he asked, walking up the steps to the entryway. "You about got the new system up and running?"
"Almost. Ran into a few bugs."
"Where to after this job's finished?" For some reason, Rafe was hoping the move would be soon.
"I have no idea." Linc stopped and studied the trophy case. "Your mug is in more than a few of these pictures." He nodded his approval. "State champions twice. Old memories bring you to the school?"
"You could say that," Rafe answered, glancing down at the picture. "We had a good coach and team."
"Too bad the school has neither now." Linc moved down the case, looking at pictures.
"That bad, huh?"
"I played for a tough coach, but wouldn't get on the field with this one." Linc leaned closer to the display case. "You have a twin? The guy on the back row looks just like you."
"Had," Rafe corrected. "He died of an overdose. We were identical. My dad had trouble telling us apart when we were little."
Linc's smile vanished. "Tough break. Sorry to hear that."
"Yeah, thanks." Rafe turned toward the principal's office, but hesitated. "Your company must be flush to rent you a house instead of sticking you in a motel."
"Unlimited funds. Since this was a long-term assignment, they ponied up the money for a rental." Linc shifted his bag to the other shoulder and went back to staring at the pictures. "I'm thinking of buying a place here. Be nice to have a home base."
"Really?" The hair on the back of Rafe's neck rose. He didn't dislike Linc, but the man was hiding something. "And you think Westbrook Hills is the right place?"
"I have no family, so here is as good as any." He shrugged one shoulder. "I'd better get back to work."
Rafe nodded once. He watched until Linc was out of sight, then hustled to the main office where he'd request to speak with the principal. He gave the older woman behind the counter his best shot of charm to no avail. Without an appointment, he figured he'd have to wait.
He studied her familiar face. Her silver hair had been pulled back in a knot. Tall and slim, she wore navy slacks and a soft, cream-colored blouse. She was a cross between regal and scary with her straight back and furrowed brows. She lifted glasses that hung on a long, gold chain around her neck and perched them on the tip of her nose. Her gaze narrowed as she scrutinized him. Years vanished. No way could he forget the Iron Maiden. Mrs. Henley used to be the librarian.
"Mr. Sirilli, you haven't been around for a long time."
"Yes, ma'am. I wondered if you'd remember me."
"Of course I remember you. The only boy harder to keep quiet in the library was your younger brother, Lucas."
"Luke," he corrected, immediately wishing he'd left the subject alone. It had taken years to get people to call him Rafe instead of Rafael.
"Whatever." Her tone had Rafe sitting up straighter. "What brings you to the school?"
Was this small talk or was she grilling him? She had always been full of questions. "My father passed. I'm home to handle the legal matters and get the house ready to sell."
Her face softened. "I'm sorry for your loss. How can we help?"
"Thank you. I appreciate your offer. I just needed a break and decided I'd stop by to take a look at all the changes, maybe meet the new coach
. Figured protocol demanded I check in here first."
She rested her hand on his arm. He remembered her even more clearly now. She'd always been tough on the outside but a marshmallow at heart.
"You go on out to the field house. I'll clear things with Principal Mueller as soon as he gets here."
She used to be a bit of a gossip, so Rafe decided to gamble. He leaned his elbows on the counter separating them. "What's this I hear about drugs and girls getting killed? Morale must be at an all-time low."
"It's worse than that," she said, lowering her voice. "Some of these kids are out of hand. Not all, mind you, but there's a handful who have no respect for anyone, including themselves."
"How so?" he prodded.
"All the trouble they caused for Ms. Brady. And for what? Everybody knows the accusations are false." She shook her head. "And now two of them are dead. Somebody needs to figure out what the heck's going on."
"I heard the trouble started when Ms. Brady turned one of the girls in for drugs."
"Darn right she did. See what it got her? No job. No career. It's not right." Her eyes narrowed. "Now that she's been cleared, I hope she puts a full-court press on the school board."
His heart warmed with Mrs. Henley's passion and support for Erin. "If there's a drug problem here at school, surely the cops are investigating."
"These kids are too smart to get caught. Principal Mueller had every locker searched but came up with nothing. The parents showed up at the next board meeting. You'd have thought he'd had their kids frisked. It's hard to get through to teenagers, especially without their mothers and fathers backing us up." Her grip on his arm tightened. "I'm retiring soon. I gave up the library and moved into the office for my last few years. My husband and I are moving to Florida." She frowned, then glanced over her shoulder.
Rafe got the message. She was afraid she'd talked too much. "Nothing you said will be repeated." He gave her his card. "You can tell me anything."
She smiled again as she studied the card. "I always knew you'd make something of yourself." The card went into her pocket. "Now go. Principal Mueller won't care that you stopped by. If the coach asks, you cleared your visit with the front office."
Rafe left, feeling even more sure that drugs were rampant at his alma mater. They'd been in the shadows when he and Nick were in high school. Back then, the use and sales had mostly happened off-campus. Today, it sounded as if they were commonplace. He hoped Mrs. Henley thought of something helpful and called. Having a friend inside the school would be invaluable.
Rafe walked toward the side exit, the quickest route to the field house. The deeper into the bowels of the building he went, the more out of place he felt. Suddenly, teenagers poured out of classrooms into the hall. Seeing him, they reacted as if he were Moses parting the water. Their curiosity entertained them for a minute, and then they hustled off to their next classes.
He jogged down the stairs, stepped outside, breathed in the spring air, and headed down the path to the field house. Rapid footsteps on the concrete drew his attention. A pretty brunette with an armful of books was locked on him, and she was gaining ground. He moved off the path and waited.
The student slid to a stop, looking him up and down. He remained silent, allowing her to catch her breath and start the conversation on her terms.
"One of the guys said you were on TV." She shuffled her feet as if standing barefoot on hot pavement, which she wasn't. "Were they lying? Are you really an FBI agent?"
This young girl's face screamed fear. "Guilty as charged, but I'm not here on business. I graduated from Westbrook."
"Really?" Her eyebrows lifted.
"For real. Go look at the pictures in the trophy case. I'm the football player wearing the number fourteen on my jersey." He smiled, and her bunched shoulders relaxed. "I'm Rafe Sirilli. And you are?"
"Grace...just Grace." She bit down on her bottom lip.
Rafe decided to approach her carefully. She was scared shitless and would bolt like a frightened rabbit if he pressed. "Why did you ask if I'm FBI?"
"I heard you were Ms. Brady's friend." She shifted again, this time looking over her shoulder.
"That's true. We went to school together." Rafe slowly maneuvered Grace to the bleachers. He sat down and patted the bench next to him. "I can't help if I don't know what's frightening you."
She hesitated and then moved to his other side. It was obvious she was uncomfortable being seen with him, so he shifted his body to shield her from prying eyes.
"I'm the new girl at school. We moved from Houston a couple of months ago." A thin sheen of sweat highlighted her forehead. "I didn't know anybody, and people weren't falling all over themselves to be my friend. Penny and her girls were the first who let me hang out with them."
"Are you somehow caught up in the lie about Ms. Brady?" He paused, waiting until she nodded. "Have you told the principal Ms. Brady didn't make inappropriate advances or threats?"
"I can't. I'm not opening my mouth." She jumped up. Her movements were so jerky the books she carried fell to the ground.
"Grace." He scooped up her books and handed them to her. "Telling the truth is the right thing to do."
"If you tell, I'll deny it." Books clutched to her chest, she stared at him for a long heartbeat. "There are two of us still alive. We just want to stay that way."
"Take my card. Call when you're ready to talk." He reached for his pocket. She waved him off. "Just take a look at it."
Her fingers trembled as she accepted the card. Her gaze dropped and then flashed back to his face. "I just wanted Ms. Brady to know I'm glad she was cleared."
"I'll pass that on for you. But I need to know more about the drugs that were in Penny's purse."
"I have to go."
"Stay safe, Grace. Call me if you change your mind."
"You should be careful, too. First Penny, then Sara, and last night some photographer who was covering the story. Looks to me like anybody close to this mess could be next." She rushed back inside the building.
What was this about a photographer? Fuck. Was he going to have to watch every news show that aired to keep up with this killer? He grabbed his cell and pulled up the news. Son of a bitch. The guy Rafe had pulled out of Erin's tree had been killed outside a bar. Stabbed in the back. Did the fact a knife was the murder weapon worry Rafe? Hell, yes.
Minutes later, he had Colton on the line.
"You're sitting on a bed of hot coals." As always, Colton had skipped the pleasantries. "You can't even go home without getting shit stirred up."
"What does that mean?"
"According to the boss, there's already a joint effort in Westbrook Hills, and you're not to get involved."
"How'd he know you were looking into the drug angle for me?" Rafe wasn't questioning if Colton had leaked information. He knew better. Yet here was a message to back off.
Colton chuckled. "While you had me discreetly poking around, somebody inquired about you. I was told to remind you that you're taking some time off."
Rafe's neck muscles tensed. "I knew it. I fucking knew it. Systems programmer, my dying ass. He's a federal agent."
"If you're referring to Linc Hawkins, you're right. While you and I were undercover in Mexico, he made quite a name for himself. Got a brother with the DEA. I suspect they're working the drug angle together. You'd better keep an eye on your lady friend. I hear Hawkins is almost as good with women as I am."
Rafe heard Colton laugh, but nothing he'd said really registered. Nothing past the fact that Linc was a fed. That should have made him happy. It didn't. Should have eased his concern about an ongoing investigation into drugs. It didn't. Should have assured him that Erin was well protected with Linc next door. It didn't.
However, it did make him curious. Was Hawkins really thinking about settling down in Westbrook Hills? Or had he been yanking Rafe's chain to piss him off?
What the hell? He didn't give a damn where Hawkins lived.
Rafe asked Colton to get
the inside scoop on the murdered photographer and then ended the call. He arrived at the field house just as the door opened. Young men poured out onto the football field. There'd be no talking to the coach for a while.
He climbed the bleachers and found a good spot to watch practice. The first time the wide receiver ran downfield for a pass, Rafe visualized Nick doing the same, arms in the air, ready to catch the football. Once upon a time, Rafael and Nicholas Sirilli had made one hell of a team.
The young players had broad shoulders and thighs the size of tree stumps. Within minutes of practice starting, things turned ugly. Rafe remembered workouts so brutal that half the team puked. Aggression was expected, but the young men on the field today were vicious. Words were exchanged, and more than one confrontation turned into a shoving match.
Rafe's coach had been tough, preached teamwork and ethics. This man was encouraging the violent behavior. Hell, he was setting an example with his own taunts, shoves, and kicks.
Rafe had seen enough. He jumped to the ground and jogged to the sidelines.
"Coach," he called, interrupting a tirade directed at one particular kid.
The coach whirled. His lips were drawn back over his teeth. He released the kid's jersey. "Practice isn't open to the public. You'll have to leave."
Rafe flashed his badge, exposing enough to identify himself as a federal agent. This had to remain informal, but he had to interrupt.
"Rafe Sirilli," he said. Without hesitation, he walked to the young player and clapped him on the shoulder pads. "You okay?"
The kid's lower jaw moved, but no words came out. He swallowed, glanced at the coach, and then nodded. He jogged back to the action on the field.
"What can I do for you?" The coach moved to stand on Rafe's right side.
"I noticed things were getting out of hand. Thought a timeout might be welcome." Sometimes staying casual and keeping things light worked better than the tactic he wanted to use. He held back the urge to give the asshole a taste of his own medicine.
"If you're not here on official business, I'll get back to the team."
"You go ahead. There's no law against me watching from the stands." No way was he getting anything out of the man or his players.
Till Justice Is Served Page 8
