Tempting Justice, Sons of Sydney 2

by Fiona Archer

  “Our sister?” Aidan’s gaze narrowed.

  Jesus, he’d asked that aloud? “I met her with Derek at your parent’s house last Thursday. I wondered if a Sunday roast was a family meal or if she’d be writing.” Or if the fates weren’t a bitch, she’d have been with him, and writing would have been the last thing on her mind.

  “Once a month we make sure we have a family meal, but the dinner wasn’t this weekend.” Derek moved to sit behind his desk and gestured to his brother to take the visitor’s chair on the other side. “Mom got it into her head her sons needed spoiling, and none of us are stupid enough to dissuade her of that idea.”

  “Although Cooper and Liam aren’t cops, so there’s a chance they really are stupid.” Aidan shared a smile with his brother.

  “Cooper being a fireman like dad is a total suck-up. And Liam becoming an economist proves he was swapped at birth.”

  Heath relaxed back in his chair, feeling a smile tug at his mouth. Brotherly banter. He understood. Sometimes it involved jokes. Sometimes the message was delivered with a right hook. That’s the world of brothers.

  “The economist admission is troubling, but then I have a computer genius for a brother, so who the hell am I to judge.” Heath smirked. “Getting back to setting up a visit to these two dealers, we should—” He broke off as he glanced over Derek’s shoulder and toward the entrance of their unit. “Lieutenant Brannigan,” he said, catching Derek’s gaze before his partner turned toward their commander.

  “I bring good news, Justice.” Their lieutenant stopped beside Heath. Dressed in chinos and a Henley, he looked like he’d been dragged away from a game of golf with his buddies.

  “Lieutenant, don’t know if you’ve met my brother. Detective Aidan Shaw.” Derek introduced the men.

  Brannigan gave Aidan a chin lift before speaking. “I received a message thirty minutes ago from an old informant of mine. Said he saw your victims getting shot last Wednesday evening.” The lieutenant swept his gaze over the three men before returning to Heath. “By the hooker’s pimp, Ruiz Vargas.”

  Heath blinked. A witness? This was a gift from the heavens. Nevertheless, years of false leads and letdowns on cases tempered his enthusiasm. “Can you trust this informant?”

  Brannigan nodded. “He described their clothing and the car. I rang CSI on the scene. Descriptions match.”

  Heath let out a sigh and glanced at Derek.

  The big detective rose from his chair. “We were just out where Vargas apparently rents rooms at the old motels in North Seattle. No sign of him.” He ran a hand through his short blond hair. “My guess is he’s gone to ground.”

  “Seemed that way.” Heath looked at his boss. “Lieutenant, why did the informant take so long to ring you?”

  “My guy’s a fence, ready to retire. He said he had no way of proving what had taken place. Now bodies have turned up, his descriptions fit, giving his story credibility. Said the girl had just given the guy a blow job in an alley. Vargas drove up. Had words with Jacobsen, something about money owed and then the woman starts slapping Vargas. Next thing, Vargas has his gun out, forces them to kneel next to the car, shoots them in the back of the head, shoves their bodies in the trunk and drives off.”

  “Cold son of a bitch,” Heath muttered.

  Aidan sighed as he stood. “That’s Vargas. He’s a bastard. Keeps his girls strung out. If he loses one from an overdose, he doesn’t care, there’s always another ready to take her place.” He glanced at his phone. “I can put feelers out and have our guys monitor his girls and the hotels he uses.”

  Heath nodded. “Appreciated.”

  “Your informant prepared to make a statement?” Derek asked Brannigan.

  “Yes.” Their Lieutenant shoved his hands into the pockets of his chinos. “Benny’s days away from moving to California, out of Vargas’s reach.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve arranged for him to be in interview room three. He should be there now.”

  “We’ve got to get more evidence than just a witness. Something to tie him to the bodies or the car.” Heath looked at his phone. No messages. It would be hours yet, probably tomorrow before any lab reports or prints were back from the car. “But this helps. Thanks for getting the witness in so fast.”

  “Benny’s not a junkie and has no enemies. I’ve known him for years. Got help for his daughter to get her off drugs. My guess is he feels he owes me, so he’s speaking up.” Lieutenant Brannigan shrugged. “He’ll make a good witness.” He handed over his business card with his home number on the back. “Whatever I can do to assist, let me know. If you can’t get me on my cell, call my home.”

  “Yes, sir,” both men stated as Brannigan nodded to them before he left.

  Heath rubbed the back of his neck. Having a witness made their job a hell of a lot easier.

  So why did he have an uneasy feeling in his gut?

  He mentally shook himself. Jesus, he needed a beer, some dinner and a hot shower. The chance to wash away the scene he’d left at the wrecking yard from both his body and mind would do him the world of good.

  But first, he and Derek had an interview to conduct.

  He stretched his neck from side to side to try and banish the stiffness from his muscles.

  God, it was going to be a long night.

  ****

  London sat at her desk and dragged in a steady breath as she reached for her phone. Wednesday had finally dawned. The book signing was tonight, and she should be excited. In fact, she was for many reasons. Not least of which was the chance of seeing Heath again. To hear his deep voice, feel the scrutiny of his blue gaze and the touch of his hands sent a tingle of anticipation over her body. Yes, he was busy with the new case, but he said he’d try to attend.

  The day had also signaled the deadline to call her agent, Gloria, with her answer on whether to sign her publisher’s contract on the new YA series.

  And the nerves in London’s belly had been performing cartwheels at the prospect of delivering her answer to her stubborn agent.

  This was her career on the line, and therefore, her decision to make.

  “Come on, get this over with.” She lifted the phone’s handset and dialed the New York number.

  She announced herself to the receptionist and waited the few seconds to be placed through to Gloria’s phone.

  “London, good to hear from you.” Gloria’s deep, smoke-roughened voice came clear over the line. “Are you excited about the book signing tonight?”

  “Oh, yes.” London heard the smile in her voice. “Cleo’s worked hard to make everything perfect.”

  “Good. Good,” Gloria rasped back. “”You’ve such a loyal readership. I bet your local fans will love getting their books signed.”

  London didn’t miss the pointed choice of words to describe her readers. “I enjoy every chance of meeting up with them too.” She pressed her hand on the old oak desk, formerly a farm table, and felt the notches and scratches, which had rounded down over time and lost their sharp edges.

  Everything takes a few dents over the years, but survives. Tougher. With more character.

  The thought stayed with her as she strengthened her resolve.

  “Gloria, I’ve come to a decision on the publisher’s offer.” She waited a beat. “I’m grateful for the opportunity, but I’m turning them down. As I’ve said before, right now, I don’t see myself writing YA. Maybe in twelve months.”

  Seconds passed. Then a hard, impatient sigh cut through the silence.

  “I see,” Gloria clipped in answer. “You realize what a foolish mistake this is?”

  London refused to debate the merits of her decision. “My mind’s made up.”

  “You’re throwing away a dedicated following to satisfy some whim?”

  A whim? London opened her mouth to set the woman straight.

  However, Gloria spoke first as she switched her tone to one of cajoling. “London, you can write your mystery suspense, but do that outside of your normal writing schedu
le. Keep writing YA and grow that brand.”

  London sighed, beyond hiding her frustration. “The point is I don’t want to write YA right now. If I did, the stories would be weak, lacking conviction, and my readers would see through that by the end of the first chapter.” But her current choice of genre didn’t mean she was prepared to give away writing YA forever. “Taking a break will allow me to refresh. In twelve months, I’ll likely want to write that series.”

  “What if New York doesn’t want your concept then?”

  “Then we’ll try somewhere else.” Or I could self-publish. The words went unsaid, and she bet Gloria was thinking the same. Self-publishing meant no commission for her agent.

  Gloria wasn’t ready to concede and displayed the tenacity London had hired her for. “Being successful in this game is about selling books. Talent counts, obviously, but the size of your readership is a major key to getting more book deals.”

  True. And her following could drift away and not cross over to a new genre. She ignored the sudden tightening in her stomach. Fear is for the weak.

  “We’ve been over this before. I’m not going to change my mind.”

  “I think this is career suicide for your author brand.”

  “You’re entitled to your opinion.” She stared unseeing at the scattered papers on her desk as another thought punched a hole in her defenses. “I hope my decision doesn’t impair our relationship, Gloria.”

  “We have a three-year contract for me to represent you. I’m paid a commission on any contracts I’ve negotiated for you. That was your last series. We still have ten months left on our agreement.”

  “Right,” London agreed. So why did Gloria feel the need to spell out the terms in such a cold, businesslike tone?

  “Then we’re fine.”

  “Okay.” She grabbed a pen, flicking it over in between her fingers as a rush of anxiety swamped her. She didn’t want to burn this bridge with her agent. They’d worked so well together in the past. “I appreciate you being candid and letting me know how you feel about my decision on passing up the publisher’s offer.”

  “Of course.”

  Gloria said no more. A torturous lengthy silence stretched out. God, she needed to say something more. “I haven’t said I want to give up YA entirely. I just want to try this new project first.”

  “That’s your right. As you’ve said, you’re the author.” The sounds of paper being shuffled sounded through the phone. “I’ll inform the publisher on your behalf. They’ll be disappointed. Look out for an email from Emily. She’ll try to change your mind.” Gloria named London’s editor. “Good luck with tonight’s signing. Rory’s Girl’s a hit. I’m sure you’ll have a great time.”

  “Right. Okay.” London blinked as the agent spoke at rapid fire speed. “Thanks,” she managed to get out as the phone clicked in her ear.

  With a sigh, she dropped the handset back in its cradle. “That went well.”

  Hey, what had she expected, cheering and shouts of joy?

  Whether London had just committed “career suicide” or not, the decision was hers to make.

  She hoped like hell this move was the right one.

  ****

  Heath scanned the entrance and parking lot of the motel across the road. From the driver’s seat in the unmarked black van he had an unobstructed view of most of the motel’s rooms, including the one used by Ruiz Vargas. No movement. A normal Wednesday afternoon to the casual observer. He spoke into the two-way radio. “Everyone in position?”

  Softly spoken one-word confirmations came in.

  Daylight afforded the team of five cops no cover as they sat in regular cars on the street or hid in the alcoves around the two-story motel. Three streets away, two patrol cars plus a SWAT Team waited. Vargas was a suspect in a gun related murder. He had a history of violence and intimidation. Heath and Derek weren’t taking any chances in his capture.

  Vargas was in room 25 on the second floor. In the three days since the discovery of the bodies, Heath’s men had staked out the motel—one of two the pimp used for his stable of hookers. But Vargas had been in the wind. Nobody had seen him or heard from him. Not the normal behavior for a man pimping flesh.

  Finally, Heath’s patience had been rewarded. Only thirty minutes earlier, his team had sighted their suspect. Heath wasn’t surprised. Criminals always fucked up one way or another.

  As news of the murders spread, word on the street leaned toward another dealer carrying out the hit, not Alyssa’s pimp. So why was Vargas hiding unless he was running?

  “Female. Exiting room 25,” Derek’s voice said over the radio. Heath’s partner had commandeered the motel’s office on arrival. For all they knew, the owner was on Vargas’s payroll. At the very least, the balding, mouse of a man was getting paid to look the other way as Vargas’s hookers went about their business.

  Heath watched the female—from this distance, he’d guess she was in her early twenties, possibly younger—walk to the next room and use a key to enter. From her skimpy bra and short skirt, it was a safe bet her job wasn’t motel housekeeping.

  No other movement came from room 25. There were no windows at the back of each room, only a small one looking out onto the balcony and parking lot. Vargas could still have others in the room with him, but Heath needed to strike now in case the pimp was only there to check up on business and run again.

  Heath nodded to the SWAT Commander sitting next to him. The officer issued his orders in quick, precise declarations. His efficient, no-nonsense manner was in line with the straight, blunt buzz cut of his gray hair and expressionless demeanor.

  Seconds later, a dark armored van sped into the motel’s parking lot. Ten men dressed in black commando gear, including full-face helmets exited the van and ran up the stairs leading to the second story. Heath drew his weapon and ran from his cover to the motel’s reception. The SWAT Commander was by his side as they monitored the scene.

  One SWAT officer slammed an entry ram against the door to Vargas’s room, while another threw in a small object. Seconds later, deafening bangs sounded as blinding light flashed inside the room.

  “Police! Get on the ground! Get on the ground!” Heath ran up the stairs toward the officer’s shouts and a woman’s scream. He stopped ten feet from the doorway as one of the team exited.

  The officer lifted the visor of his helmet. “All clear. One male and one female contained. No weapons on either. The female has a facial injury, sustained before our entry.”

  The Commander nodded and then turned to Heath. “The prisoner’s all yours, Detective.”

  SWAT was used to ensure capture and initial containment of a suspect. From there, the rest of the job fell to the homicide squad. “Thanks, Commander. Please pass on my appreciation to your men.”

  “Will do,” the Commander acknowledged before heading down the stairs.

  Heath and the two homicide officers who had staked out the motel the past few days walked to the doorway of room 25.

  Dark clothed figures filled the room, blocking their view. Heath and his team waited for all but three SWAT officers to exit before entering.

  Heath saw a door open to the bathroom. A brunette woman with a bath towel wrapped around her sat on the toilet seat crying. Tiny. Too thin. Swollen eye already starting to bruise and red marks on her throat. Heath clenched his jaw. Women should be protected, not abused.

  He looked over his shoulder and nodded to Jenkins.

  “I’m on it.” The female officer headed toward the bathroom.

  Clearing past the remaining SWAT officers, Heath caught sight of a man wearing only jeans and motorcycle boots lying face down on the brown carpeted floor, his hands cuffed behind him. A tattoo of a coiled serpent took up most of his olive-skinned upper back.

  “What the fuck is this, man?” the suspect complained. Raising his bald head from the carpet, the man blinked, clearly still dazed from the effects of the flashbang. “I’m just on vacation.”

  The hard feature
s of the man’s face and the dark goatee matched Ruiz Vargas’s rap sheet photo.

  The SWAT team members nodded to Heath before leaving the room.

  “Shut the fuck up, Vargas.” Heath hauled the man up and noted the top of Vargas’s head reached his shoulders. Not tall, but built solid and with lots of attitude. With a firm grip, he pushed Vargas to sit on the bed.

  He noted a paramedic entering the room and heading straight to the bathroom. Jenkins’s face was tight as she glanced at Heath. She pointed at Vargas and mouthed “him” before closing the bathroom door quietly.

  A wave of hot anger washed over Heath, and he forced the emotion down. He was a professional. The best way to fuck this bastard up was to get the facts and use them to screw Vargas into as many charges as possible.

  Order.

  Method.

  Do the job right the first time.

  “How do you know my name? I don’t know you.” The pimp glared, his brown gaze flicking between Heath and the other detective.

  “No, but you know me, don’t you, Vargas?” Aidan Shaw walked into the room.

  Vargas snapped his head in the direction of the vice detective’s deep voice.

  Aidan stopped next to Heath. “Been a couple of months since I’ve had the sad occasion of your company.”

  “I’ll be out in a day, tops, Shaw.” Vargas gave on oily smile. “I’m just staying here with some friends. None of the women here will say otherwise.”

  Heath could imagine. Vargas was a pimp. Intimidation—backed up by physical punishment—was his tool to keep his hookers in line. For that alone the bastard deserved a beating of his own.

  “You think I’m trying to bust you for running your girls?” Aidan smiled, but the coldness in his eyes held no humor. “I’m simply here for the pleasure of seeing a win for Justice.”

  Heath chuckled at Aidan’s hidden joke.

  Vargas’s cocky attitude vaporized as uncertainty clouded his gaze. His gaze switched from Aidan to Heath.

  “Ruiz Vargas, you’re under arrest for the murders of Alyssa Holmes and Donny Jacobsen.