Shark's Instinct (Shark Santoyo Crime Series Book 1)

by Bethany Maines

  “I think the cost of couches is ridiculous,” said Shark, because saying what he really thought was never an option.

  Geier’s dark eyes fixed him with a gimlet stare. Shark took a sip of his own drink and weathered it without worry. He knew that Geier liked that he made random comments, and it kept up his reputation as being unpredictable. No one else in the room had been invited to speak, so they didn’t.

  “I’m trying to decide if that’s a reflection on my décor or if you’ve been spending too much time in the suburbs.”

  “It was a reflection on this price tag,” said Shark, pointing to the arm of the couch.

  Geier chuckled. “That’s real Italian leather and hand craftsmanship. One of those gets written into the sale agreement for just about every condo they get placed in. For double retail, of course. You wouldn’t understand.”

  He scratched the scar on his eyebrow. Geier could doll it up however he wanted—the couch was vastly overpriced.

  “I understand you’re making a mint,” said Shark, and Geier laughed again.

  “So true,” he said, swiveling a Mid-Century Modern black leather Eames chair. He stretched out his long legs—at six foot two inches he used his height to intimidate most people, but it didn’t worry Shark. “Now tell me what’s going on with Big Paulie’s territory.”

  “It’s as we expected. The territory is in disarray. I’ve had a look at the books.” Shark did not mention the amount of googling and notes that were going into the looking. “There was a lot of moving money around, but in the end, I think it’s pretty unlikely that Paulie was doing it all himself. At least one of his guys had to have known.”

  Geier exhaled through his nose, like a bull. “And does that person have my money?”

  “That is an interesting question,” replied Shark. “If they do, then they’re sitting on it. No one has made any moves.”

  “We, let me rephrase,” said Geier. “I need that money. And you know what happens when I don’t get what I need.” The last person who hadn’t given Geier what he needed had been dumped in a tub of boiling asphalt. “You’ve had almost two weeks. I was expecting more progress.”

  “Sorting the books took more time than expected, but I’ll have money for you on Saturday.”

  Geier’s glass stopped half-way to his mouth. Had Shark managed to surprise the old bastard?

  “You seem confident that you’ll find it by then,” Geier said.

  “I found an alternative revenue source.” There was a stir around the room. Shark took a sip of his whiskey.

  “That territory is locked down.” That was Cassius, chiming in. Of course it was Cassius. Cassius must feel pretty confident in his position to make a direct attack this way. Confident frequently meant stupid.

  Time to find out.

  “I don’t intend to start a war,” Shark said, speaking loud enough for everyone to hear, “but I have information that indicates that Ukrainian leader Andriy is about to find out that his sister is pregnant by his second-in-command. I don’t see why we shouldn’t profit while they’re busy discussing their family issues.” Whoever was snitching to the Ukrainians was sure to take that morsel of gossip straight back to the mothership.

  “I haven’t heard anything about that,” said Cassius. “You’re spreading a rumor and if your rumor starts a war, then you’re putting us all at risk.”

  Shark tilted his head, watching Cassius. There was something there, he could smell it. It was not the Ukrainians; otherwise he wouldn’t express concern. What did Cassius know? Behind Cassius, his bodyguard, the one in the tracksuit, seemed to be attempting to blend in with a potted fern. “Are you questioning my judgment?”

  “Yes,” hissed Cassius. “You think you’re so smart that you don’t have to play by the rules. That makes you dangerous. You shouldn’t even be here.”

  “Are you suggesting that I don’t have the best interests of The Organization in mind?” asked Shark. He could feel Geier enjoying this. Geier liked it when they fought. He liked blood of all kinds.

  “I’m suggesting that maybe you’ve got your head all twisted up some little girl’s skirt,” snarled Cassius.

  Shark felt a prickle run down his spine, but he didn’t move. “Now that’s interesting,” he said, running through his options. “What makes you think that?”

  “I hear that you’ve got some teenager hanging around all the time. Now maybe you like young—”

  Shark didn’t wait. He threw his glass at the forehead of the bodyguard and was across the room with his gun shoved in Cassius’s face and his knee on the man’s chest before anyone else moved.

  “Who have you been talking to?” he asked. “And what have you told them?”

  “Geier! Are you going to allow this?” demanded Cassius, wheezing the words out.

  “The man asked a question,” observed Geier. “Who have you been talking to?”

  “No one!”

  Shark dug the barrel into the man’s temple. Cassius recoiled.

  “Answer the question, Cassius,” Geier warned.

  “One of the guys in the Fives. We came up together. It wasn’t a big thing. We were just catching up!” Shark guessed it was Two Tone. The rest of the fives were slightly younger and Two Tone was the right temperament to get along with Cassius.

  “And did you tell him,” Shark said, “that I was still looking for the missing money?”

  Cassius was sweating. “No… maybe.”

  Shark stepped back and looked at Geier. The rest of the room was tense and watching the scene, but no one had made a move to help Cassius. Even the bodyguard was hanging back, hand over his now bloody nose.

  “What does it matter?” demanded Cassius, rubbing his temple. “Everybody knows Big Paulie got whacked for skimming the take.”

  “Yes, but until you opened your mouth, not everyone knew that we didn’t recover the money,” Geier said. “That makes me look weak. And now, whoever Big Paulie’s partner was, they know that Shark is still hunting for it. This weakens his position and puts his plans in question.”

  “This is what I was talking about,” Shark told Geier, taking the opportunity to look around the room. Whatever support Cassius had was quickly evaporating. None of the territory bosses were going to make a move.

  Geier threw up his hands. “What do you want to do—shoot him because he gossips more than my grandmother?”

  “That wasn’t just gossip,” said Shark, mentally clicking through the variables. He knew Cassius. Being humiliated like this would make him hate Shark even more. “He was checking up on me.” He really couldn’t have that. But what could he get away with? If he was going to do it, then this was the place to do it. They were used to messes here.

  “Of course he was,” argued Geier. “I consider it a system of checks and balances.”

  “I consider it fucking up my shit,” retorted Shark. “It makes it difficult for me to get you what you need.”

  Geier made a c’est la vie gesture, the pinky ring on his pale hand catching the light. “Well, then, fuck that guy.”

  “Now—” began Cassius, but it was too late. Shark had pulled the trigger.

  “I was only half serious,” objected Geier.

  “His chair is dark brown,” Shark said.

  Geier looked at him appraisingly. “Then obviously it’s fine. All right everyone, that concludes today’s meeting.” Geier made eye contact with one of his bodyguards and pointed to the body. The bodyguard nodded. The rest of the territory bosses were standing and chatting, heading for their cars. No one seemed upset.

  “Shark, a word, if you would.” Geier beckoned to him, and Shark followed him from the open area toward a back corner where offices had been walled in.

  “Was he right?” Geier asked. “About this girl you got running around?”

  Shark went for amused. “I thought yo
u didn’t care how I ran this operation as long as I got results.”

  Shark suppressed the urge to squirm under Geier’s stare. “I remember why you went to the pen, even if you don’t.”

  “Francesca was… Francesca,” Shark finished lamely. “Look, don’t worry. She’s a fucking kid for one thing.”

  Geier looked skeptical.

  “Kids can go practically anywhere and no one questions them, especially girls,” Shark said, trying not to sweat. “She’s on the payroll for intel on the 38th Street Crew and the Ukrainians. And she’s at the bowling alley all the time because I don’t fucking trust anyone in the fucking ‘burbs to relay a message. I know it’s unusual, but you said we were on the clock. I don’t have time to be running the usual plays.”

  Geier nodded. “Always thinking outside of the box. I like it.”

  “Yeah, well, you might want to wait until Saturday before you decide how much you like it.”

  Geier grinned. “I have a lot of faith in you, Shark. I also have a lot of guns for when faith doesn’t work out. Bring me my money.”

  Five Years Ago

  11

  Shark & Francesca

  Shark went into the ThomasHAUSMAN based on the strength of the sofa in the window. He’d successfully resisted the peer pressure to buy some of Geier’s ridiculously uncomfortable staging furniture. But his apartment looked like an estate sale on the third day and he was tired of sitting on the bed.

  The couch in the window was low, sleek and modern looking, with a subtle pattern on navy blue. It reminded him of a really expensive suit: stylish without being obvious, relying on the form and construction to show off. Everyone he knew, except for Geier, wore designer logos and gold chains. When they owned couches, if they owned couches, they were overstuffed monstrosities. He wanted a couch that made him look like an architect—and this was that kind of couch.

  He knew the second he entered the store that he didn’t belong there. Not because he couldn’t afford the large numbers on the tiny price tags, but because he didn’t know how to not care about them. He persevered, making his way to the window to scrutinize the couch in question.

  “Gorgeous, isn’t it?”

  Shark turned to find himself being addressed by a slender, black-haired girl with sapphire blue eyes, high cheekbones and a red-carpet way of standing.

  “But is it comfortable?” he asked.

  “I doubt it. We only put the furniture that wants to be modern art in the windows.”

  “Is there any place that has furniture that’s comfortable, but doesn’t look like a bean bag on legs?” asked Shark in exasperation.

  “Yes, it was called the sixties. If you like that look, but actually want to sit down, we do have a Le Corbusier on the floor.”

  Having spent his fair share of time at strip clubs, he had no illusions about what was a sales pitch and what was flirting, and from sales people he expected both. But this girl spoke in a monotone, as if she didn’t care if Shark bought anything. He liked her approach—it felt honest. He shrugged and gestured for her to lead the way.

  A Le Corbusier turned out to be a low, black leather couch with a silver metal frame. It was more masculine than the first couch and felt intentionally designed without being overwrought. Shark sank down into it, waiting for the cardboard-box feeling. It did not arrive.

  “This is actually comfortable,” he said, already picturing it in his apartment. It would look substantial and respectable and more than a little bit sexy. “How much?”

  “Nine thousand nine hundred and eighty one dollars. Plus tax.”

  “Ten thousand,” he repeated. “That’s ridiculous. I would be annoyed every time I sat on it. Paying that much money for a couch is an exercise in stupidity. I’d be a better human being if I stole it.”

  “Well, you’d be a smarter human being if you stole an entire shipment and sold them to our clients,” she said, her voice maintaining the flatline quality.

  Shark tried to decide if she was fucking with him. “I’d need someone on the inside and a client list,” said Shark, looking her over more attentively.

  “Yeah,” she drawled, picking at an imaginary split end.

  Everything she was wearing was expensive, but her Louboutins were a little bit worn at the heel. Her upper-crust accent and knowledge of furniture said educated and smart. But her job as a salesclerk said she couldn’t afford to shop at her own store.

  “Want to get coffee later?” he asked.

  She looked amused. “I think I’m out of your league.”

  He grinned. Out of his league was what he liked. “I have a table reserved tonight at The Rosco.” He didn’t actually. But he could get one. He knew the maître d’s bookie.

  She looked him over and apparently decided he was worth a table at The Rosco. “I’m Francesca,” she said. “You can pick me up here at six.”

  Over the course of the evening he discovered that Francesca was an interior design student, great in the sack, and angry that her father would pay for school or her drug habit, but not both. After the couch heist, it took almost six months for her to raise the topic of maybe stealing from her father. It took another three months to plan the job, ten seconds for it to go wrong, five minutes for her father to die after falling down the stairs onto his Mike Fields bronze sculpture, and exactly thirty-six minutes with a police detective for her to give up Shark.

  Four years later, she was in St. Moritz with her fiancé and her inheritance, and he was in a bowling alley in the suburbs.

  Thursday ~ October 19

  12

  Shark: Rolling Thunder Lanes

  Shark left Zip to park the car and went inside. Marko and Peregrine were finishing up when he walked in. Marko had a target set up in the last lane, with sandbags stacked behind it. It was on a rolling cart. Aside from occasionally having to patch the walls, the bowling alley was actually an ideal place for target practice. It was isolated and insulated for sound. Two Tone and a couple off the Fives were camped out at one of the lanes, actually bowling. He went behind the bar to fix himself a drink.

  Peri came over, digging into her bag. She pulled out her phone and began to text. “Two Tone’s been here awhile. Kept bugging Marko about where you were.”

  “Yeah, well, believe it or not, our little shindig is not the only thing I’m working on this week.”

  “Someone once told me to ask for help if you’re pressed for time,” she said, her eyes flicking up from her phone, full of laughter.

  “You are helping,” he said, smiling involuntarily. “Did Two Tone get anywhere?”

  She shook her head. “Marko told him to mind his own business. Paper also swung by earlier, tried to go into the office. Marko shut him down and told him to stay away until he was sent for.”

  “Why the office?”

  There was a beep from her phone and whatever the message was it made her look both tired and angry. She dismissed the message and looked up at him with a smile. “Dunno. That is just the direction he was headed.”

  Whatever the message was, she wasn’t going to talk about it. “Two Tone’s coming up on us. Did Marko get you ready for tomorrow?” He raised his voice to a normal level for the last question.

  “Yeah. I think so. We picked out a piece I can use and I can reliably hit the target.”

  “Well, if everything goes right, you won’t have to use it. And if anything goes wrong, just remember that I’m not the target.”

  She laughed. “Got it. Anyway, tell Marko thanks again. I’m gonna bounce. Gotta catch my bus.” Waving, she walked out the door.

  “That girl has a fine ass,” remarked Two Tone.

  “She’s underage,” Shark reminded him.

  “Oh come on. You know she’s probably been around the block a time or two. Otherwise, what’s she doing here?”

  Shark took off his sungla
sses to give Two Tone a look.

  Two Tone licked his lips and ran his hands over the bar as if he was smoothing it out.

  “I don’t care what neighborhood she’s been to,” said Shark into the silence. “Don’t mess with one of my assets.”

  “I’m not going to touch her,” protested Two Tone, trying to rally. He offered Shark a nervous grin, his snaggle tooth flashing awkwardly in the light. “I was just commenting on her assets. Which you cannot tell me you haven’t noticed.”

  Shark leaned back against the far wall of the bar. “What are you doing here, Two Tone?”

  “Well, when Big Paulie was around, he used to have the guys in to do a little bowling. It builds team morale. Makes sure that everyone knows each other. Keeps everyone on the same page. I thought, with the upcoming op, that we could use a little of that.”

  “What is this,” Shark said, “a fucking slumber party? You want to order some pizza and braid each other’s hair too?”

  He saw the flash of irritation in Two Tone’s eyes, but it was buried quickly.

  “I know management’s got us under a microscope right now,” said Two Tone. “But that’s why we need to build up the team. We need to make sure we can rely on each other.”

  “Management does have us under a microscope. Which is why I find it odd that the only one who is prepping for the op is the teenager. Meanwhile, all of my guys are bowling.”

  Two Tone took a step back and raised his hands in surrender. “I’m just trying to help. You’re the boss. Whatever you want to do.”

  What did he want to do? He wanted Two Tone to relax. Shark took a step forward, and leaned in conspiratorially. “Look, I’m not being a dick just to be a dick. I just got back from a meeting in the city. Geier is not pleased. We really need to get this place together, or the spring cleaning I just gave Big Paulie is going to turn into a clean sweep, if you catch my drift.”