Rogue Nights (The Rogue Series Book 6)

by Talia Hibbert

  As always, we welcome your further questions and thoughts.

  Arthur for Atlanta

  Palmer grinned around the last bite of his sandwich. Sliding off the counter, he shoved his phone back into his pocket and reached for his plate and beer. The plate went into the sink, the empty beer bottle into the recycling, and he shuffled toward his bedroom with a slight change of plans in mind. Dinner, shower, email. Then sleep.

  “Re: Infrastructure.”

  Madeline shook her head with a smile as she took another bite of pasta. They’d been bouncing that email thread back and forth all week, though this time at least she was sitting on her sofa at home to read, not rushing from home to office to meeting.

  No surprise that Harris would have Lots Of Thoughts on infrastructure. Everyone in Atlanta who paid attention at all had known for years that the city’s roads and bridges, water and sewer systems, and power lines didn’t need repair so much as to be stripped to the foundations and rebuilt. Shutting it all down and starting over wasn’t an option. Patch-and-pray had been the modus operandi.

  Susanna’s plan aimed to change that. Her opponent, running on a Bush 41-esque “no new taxes” pledge—never mind that no new taxes were being proposed—spent much of his time trying to convince voters that her plan was a giant boondoggle designed to line the pockets of city contractors.

  He conveniently left out the part where his company already held several large contracts with the city.

  Harris had done his homework. His questions dug deeper than the statements on the campaign website or the media talking points. His concerns ran from the personal—more money out of his pocket for everything he bought for himself—to the more business oriented—the price increase his customers would see at the checkout. He didn’t seem to have a real problem with either, mind you. He just wanted confirmation that the money would go where it was supposed to go.

  Madeline didn’t fault him in the least, considering the reputation of Susanna’s opponent. Lionel Kimbrell had spent most of his business career skating by on the thinnest of edges, never quite crossing the line into anything illegal but somehow managing to rip off or piss off nearly everyone he crossed. His company, Kimbrell Construction, had grabbed the bulk of road construction projects in the Atlanta area for a solid decade. Their work passed muster, but they’d been the subject of numerous lawsuits and even more allegations, ranging from unpaid contractors to rumors of bribery and improper contract awards.

  What kind of damage could a man like that wreak if he got his hands on the city’s two--billion-dollar budget?

  She shook off the thought and set aside her dinner to answer Harris’s newest round of comments.

  Palmer had just finished restocking the first of three sets of coffee cups behind the counter when the ringing of the bell over the door disturbed the midafternoon quiet. He turned with a smile on his face to greet his next customer.

  He had to fight to maintain a friendly façade when he found himself faced with none other than Lionel Kimbrell.

  The man’s expression could best be described as “just got a whiff of rotten fish,” but from what Palmer had seen of him on television, that was just his usual face. Kimbrell turned to the man next to him as they approached the counter. “This place better not give me food poisoning, Wilson.”

  Palmer gritted his teeth to keep from ordering the men out of his store. He didn’t even attempt to smile. “Can I help you… gentlemen?”

  He couldn’t quite lay off the sarcasm on the last word.

  Kimbrell gave Palmer a look like he’d been scraped off the bottom of his shoe. “Large coffee,” he snapped. “Three Sweet N Lows, steamed milk, and vanilla syrup.”

  Vanilla latte, Palmer thought, but he punched in the order the way Kimbrell gave it. It would cost more that way. “Whole milk? Sugar-free syrup?”

  “Skim milk.” Kimbrell glared. “And yes, of course, sugar-free syrup. I said Sweet N Low, didn’t I?”

  Skinny nonfat vanilla latte, Palmer amended. “That’ll be four eight-six.”

  Kimbrell dropped a twenty on the counter. Palmer bit his tongue to keep from reacting, picked up the bill, and silently made change. Kimbrell, no surprise, took back every penny.

  Palmer turned to Kimbrell’s companion. “Would you like anything, sir?”

  Before the man could react, Kimbrell slapped his palm on the counter. “Aren’t you going to make my coffee?”

  Palmer turned his head as slowly as he could to meet Kimbrell’s gaze. “Yes, I will make your coffee,” he said, slow and deliberate. “But it will be faster if I take both orders and then make both coffees at the same time.”

  Kimbrell huffed. “You should hire more staff.”

  Palmer just ignored that and glanced back at the other man, just in time to see his eyes rolling. Palmer bit back a grin at that. “Sir?”

  “Flat white,” the man replied. He held out four ones. “Keep the change.”

  Palmer rang up the drink and dropped the leftover forty cents into the tip jar before moving to his right to make the drinks. It took him barely a minute to finish Kimbrell’s coffee, and he ignored the huffs of impatience.

  “Large coffee, three Sweet N Low, nonfat milk, sugar-free vanilla syrup?”

  He held the cup for an extra moment, as if he were going to hand it over, before setting it on the counter, just far enough away that Kimbrell would have to move to pick it up. Then he turned back to make the second coffee.

  When he finished, he turned to find Kimbrell gone and the other man giving him an apologetic smile. “Sorry about that,” the man muttered. “If it makes you feel any better, I get to spend the next hour interviewing him.”

  Palmer grimaced as he handed over the coffee. “Godspeed.”

  The man chuckled and lifted his coffee in mock toast. “We who are about to die….”

  Palmer finally let loose of a sharp bark of laughter. The stranger turned and crossed the small shop to where Kimbrell had settled into a table next to the window. Palmer’s curiosity itched at him to go find something to do near them so he could eavesdrop, but he shook off the urge and went back to work behind the counter.

  Had the extreme joy of coming face to vile, pugnacious face with Lyin’ Lionel Kimbrell today. It was all I could do not to throw him out on his kiester.

  Madeline choked back a giggle. She’d opened Harris’s most recent email during a conference call, which probably hadn’t been the brightest idea, even though she was only listening in, not participating. The two sentences were the full message—no campaign-related questions or comments.

  She hit reply and typed out a quick response: I would’ve been hard pressed to be so kind. Well, if it weren’t for the problems it would cause at the day job.

  She sent off the message with a smile and turned her attention back to blocking bots on Twitter.

  Palmer got a much nicer customer the following morning: the elusive Mads, with her usual caramel latte order. Also usual, though, was the long line of customers waiting that kept him from doing anything more than making the drink and handing it over with a smile. Not that it mattered, since she was deep into reading something on her ever-present phone. She did look up long enough to give him a quick smile and a thanks, though.

  Next time, he told himself as he tried not to watch her leave.

  Next time, what? His brain shot back.

  Shut up, he replied.

  He forced himself away from that train of thought. He needed to do inventory over the weekend, a job he dreaded at the best of times. They’d been busier than usual the past few weeks, the looming elections drawing more people than usual into the area. He was used to the stream of political types, but for the past few weeks, the volume had been turned up to eleven.

  The net result meant his stocks had depleted faster than planned, so he had some math to do.

  “Hey boss, phone’s for you.”

  Palmer glanced up and realized the line had petered off to just a few. He nodded and han
ded his last cup across the counter. “Got it.”

  He crossed the back counter area to the tiny break room, where the only phone on the premises hung on the wall. The receiver sat on the edge of the table, and Palmer picked it up. “Capitol Grind, this is Palmer.”

  “Mr. Harrison?”

  Great. Telemarketer? “That’s right.”

  “Mr. Harrison, this is Karen with the Kimbrell for Mayor campaign. We wanted to let you know—”

  “I’ll stop you right there.” Palmer rolled his eyes. “This is a business line. We aren’t interested, and I would appreciate it if you could remove it from your call list.”

  “Certainly, sir, but while I have you—”

  “That means no. Goodbye.”

  Palmer hung up the phone a little harder than necessary. He knew the caller just had a job to do, but it drove him nuts when telemarketers didn’t take no for an answer. The source of this call didn’t help matters.

  He could admit, if only to himself, that he probably wouldn’t vote for Kimbrell unless his opponent was even worse—and he couldn’t imagine that much of anyone could qualify. Still, Susanna Arthur was a relative unknown, so he’d felt compelled to investigate further.

  His correspondence with the campaign had eased his concerns from the beginning, and it hadn’t hurt that the messages had carried a higher degree of thoughtfulness and warmth than basic professionalism had called for. He knew almost nothing about the person writing the emails, but he found himself wanting to find out. He just didn’t know how to go about it. The campaign office wasn’t far away, but he couldn’t imagine that a stranger barging in and asking for an unnamed emailer would go over all that well.

  In his mind’s eye, he pictured Mads and her caramel lattes, and he laughed at himself. Man, was he ever a bust at all this. He had no idea about the gender of his email pal, and he didn’t much care, but he couldn’t even figure out how to approach one of his customers without coming across as a total creep. Try the same thing with a complete stranger based on a few emails? Not a chance.

  The bell over the door dinged as a group of suited-up customers entered, and he set aside the entire train of thought. He put on his best welcoming smile as the first of the new arrivals approached the counter. “Welcome to Capitol Grind. What can I get for you?”

  Madeline swam awake to the insistent buzzing of her cell phone. She slapped her hand around until she could grab it and blinked to focus on the screen enough to read Julie’s name.

  The communications director calling her at o-dark-thirty on Monday morning couldn’t be good. She rushed to answer. “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Turn on the news.”

  Madeline pushed up with her free hand. “I’m not even awake yet, Jul. What is it?”

  “Half the new overpass collapsed.”

  Now she was wide awake. “What the hell?” she demanded as she scrambled out of bed and into the living room to find the remote. “What happened? Was anyone hurt?”

  “Don’t know yet. It’s been less than an hour. Only one injury that I know of.”

  Madeline had the TV on by then, set to the top-rated local news station, as usual. The images from the helicopter flying over the scene filled the screen. Even in the dim, early morning light, she could see broken concrete and tilted asphalt, dust still rising from the pile of rubble. The nearly completed overpass was designed to streamline one of the busiest intersections in Buckhead, the elite section of the city several miles north of downtown known for old-money mansions and shining glass skyscrapers. Things had been going well for months, ahead of schedule, even, but now it all lay in ruins.

  And the name on the contract was Kimbrell Construction.

  “Jesus,” Madeline muttered. “Imagine that in the middle of the day, with all the construction workers around.”

  “Imagine it in a few more weeks, in the middle of rush hour.”

  “Jesus.” She flipped to another channel, finding more of the same images from a slightly different angle. “What… how do we handle this?”

  She could hear Julie typing on the other end of the phone. “Working on it now. We do have a crisis manual, after all. Just have to adapt it to the specifics. First and foremost, we’re relieved that there were no fatalities. Avoid anything political for now. No bringing up Susanna’s infrastructure proposals.”

  “Oh heck no.” Madeline reached for her laptop where it lay on the coffee table. “When will you have a statement ready?”

  “About a half hour. We’ll post it on the site, and I’ll email you a link for Twitter and Facebook.”

  “Got it.” Madeline woke up her laptop, knowing the accounts she needed would be waiting for her. “I’ll be here.”

  Julie ended the call, and Madeline sat staring at the TV screen for a few seconds before shaking off her torpor and heading to the kitchen.

  No caramel latte today. She’d have to live with home brew this morning.

  “Large mocha for Steve!”

  Palmer set down the finished drink on the counter and turned back to grab the next cup. Everyone and their entire family needed coffee this morning, the line of customers much heavier than usual even for a Monday. Normally the rush would’ve dried up to a trickle by a quarter to nine, but today showed no signs of stopping.

  No Mads, though. Palmer grimaced at the voice in the back of his head. No, the elusive Mads hadn’t been among the throngs of customers that morning, and no, he shouldn’t be paying attention to something like that anyway.

  Thankfully, Lizzy appeared out of nowhere, breaking him out of his thoughts and grabbing the next order. “Mornin’, boss.”

  Palmer breathed out a sigh. “Morning. Thanks for coming in early.”

  “No worries. I was up early anyway when you called.” She reached for the milk steamer. “Did you see the news?”

  Palmer laughed. “I haven’t moved from this spot since 6 a.m. except to grab a fresh bottle of syrup. What’s up?”

  “The new overpass collapsed.”

  Palmer froze, lid halfway on the cup. “Holy sh—crap.” He censored himself automatically, mindful of customers standing nearby. “Anyone hurt?”

  “Initial report is two construction workers, nothing life-threatening, thank God.” Lizzy grabbed the bottle of caramel syrup. “Big mess to clean up, though. One whole side of 400’s closed.” The limited-access highway cut through the center of Buckhead, connecting Interstate 85 downtown to Sandy Springs on the north side.

  “Ouch.” Palmer finished closing the cup and called out the order as he slid the drink onto the counter. He turned back to retrieve the next order. “That’s one of Kimbrell’s projects.” He’d read enough about the man to know he was right.

  Lizzy just shrugged, though. “Didn’t catch that. Maybe? He’s the mayor guy, right?”

  “Running for mayor, yeah.” Palmer forced away the avalanche of thoughts tumbling through his head and focused back on work. “Not something to worry about now. Let’s get this line cleared, okay?”

  “On it, boss.”

  Nearly three hours after she’d been blasted out of a deep sleep, Madeline blocked one final Twitter troll and pushed her laptop aside. She grabbed her coffee mug and drained it as she stood to head to the bathroom for a much-delayed shower. Her email dinged, but she ignored it. The world can live without me for twenty minutes.

  Just as she stepped under the spray, her phone rang. Dammit. Guess the world can’t handle twenty minutes after all.

  She finished showering in record time and dried off just enough that she could grab her phone. She didn’t recognize the number, but the area code was local and the exchange familiar. Probably some intrepid news reporter trying do an end run around the campaign office and get a comment directly from her.

  Nope. Not gonna happen.

  She set aside the phone and finished drying off and getting ready. Her email dinged a few more times, so as soon as she was dressed, she headed back to her laptop to check in. Three more news emails, four p
ieces of junk, and another email in the ongoing infrastructure conversation with Harris.

  Tempted, Madeline let her finger hover over the email, desperately wanting to read what Harris had to say about the morning’s events. But she didn’t have time. She needed to be in the office, strategizing with the rest of the team.

  As quickly as she could, she packed up her laptop and tablet, grabbed her phone and purse, and headed out the door.

  It was after seven that night when Madeline clicked away from Twitter yet again and pushed away from her desk to lean back in her chair. Her neck and shoulders screamed at her, reminding her that she’d hardly moved from the computer all day, and her stomach reminded her that she’d eaten less than half of the dry, flavorless sandwich someone had handed her around lunchtime.

  “Pizza’s here!”

  A chorus of cheers greeted the call from across the room, and Madeline started to head that way but paused and clicked back into her email. This time, she opened the new one from Harris. It was just two sentences.

  I’m sure you’re all going to have a mess of a day. Just keep in mind that it won’t be as bad as the day Lyin’ Lionel is having.

  Madeline reread the message three times before she filed it away with the others. She bit back a smile as she finally left her desk and followed the smells of garlic and tomatoes.

  Tuesday afternoon, Madeline had just finished handling another four emails about the overpass collapse—copy-and-paste boilerplate language took care of near all such messages—when a raised voice caught her attention.

  “Wait, wait, back that up!”

  Madeline looked up in time to see Jeremy with remote in hand, running back the beginning of the 4 p.m. local news broadcast on the television that sat against the wall nearby. He switched back to play and kicked up the volume.

  “… comment this afternoon following Lionel Kimbrell’s press conference regarding the overpass collapse. Kimbrell apparently did not realize that cameras were still recording.”

  The picture shifted to a blurry video overlaid with subtitles, though both Kimbrell and his voice were distinctive. “... knew I never should’ve trusted that subcontractor. Run by damn Mexicans. Bunch of criminals.”