Trust Quinn not to consider the price of being partnered to him and change the topic. “Not to me,” he lied. Instead of being a hero and saving the life of the green recruit he’d been assigned, Quinn should have let him die for his stupidity. But, he hadn’t. If he hadn’t saved his life, he wouldn’t have to live with the knowledge that Quinn took the slug meant for him.
Doran closed his eyes against the reality of Quinn’s sacrifice and controlled his breathing. If Wes’s plan proceeded as intended, they would save thousands of kids from the poison pushers spread over playgrounds. But if Quinn had a bad feeling about it, it could be a setup. “We have to protect the children Ling’s cartel preys on,” Doran repeated. “That takes priority over petty concerns like the depth of Kelsey MacLennan’s involvement in her drug smuggling family's illegal operation or even if this a setup.”
“I can’t find a shred of solid proof against any of them.”
“They’ve been smuggling for decades. Did you expect anything but rumors?”
“It’d be nice.”
Doran sighed. “They’re in the public eye so much that they’ve obviously buried their dirt deeper than most.” He worked a kink out of the back of his neck. “Have we ever gotten a case laid out on a silver platter?” Quinn grunted. Doran added, “Everything points to their involvement.” Now was not the time to run scared or think about the way Kelsey’s blouse molded to her chest in the wind. “If we wait for incontrovertible evidence, the rats might spot us or worse, change their distribution network as a precaution and save themselves. Again.”
“What if Wes relocated us here as part of his plan to offer us up to Ling? He could put his kids through college and still have enough left over to buy himself a tropical paradise with hot and cold running servants.”
“Ling has been offering millions for us dead or alive for years. If Wes was going to cash us in, I think he’d have done it before now.”
Quinn stared at the screen showing the side of the garage. “I thought I saw something move in that magnolia.” He tapped some keys, centered on the upper branches of the tree, and then zoomed in.
Nice try at distraction. “What if we never get another chance like this? I’m not asking you to do anything, except run for your life, if your hunch is right. And just in case it’s not, I’m going to follow through with the plan and gather the evidence we need.” Doran grabbed the jar of camouflage paint. After a few deft movements, he checked his reflection in a blank monitor. His face looked as black as his hair, his clothing and the night.
The next monitor showed the surrounding shadowed woodlands. The trees seemed to reach toward the immaculate colonial, as if trying to wrap it in shadows worthy of a gothic murder story. Doran shook his head at the idea and turned his thoughts to the woman. "Anyone who would leap onto the campaign trail and crusade for her scummy brother the day after he put his kid and wife in the morgue is guilty as hell,” Doran said.
“We don’t have proof that he-“
“Christ, how much more proof do you need? Twenty-four days before the accident, the man insured them for ten mill apiece.” Doran gritted his teeth. The contract Ling had out on each of them was only half that and Wes had stuck them in this backwater town after a dozen attempts on their lives. “Ramsey MacLennan is guilty as Satan and Kelsey crusades for him like he’s Jesus H. Christ."
"You’ve always hated lawyers.”
“You like him?”
“I like him better than Frederickson.” Quinn had detested Senator Frederickson from the moment he entered the P.I. office the department had set up as their local cover.
“Hell, you like dog shit better than him.”
“There’s something fishy about anyone that smooth.”
Doran nodded in agreement. “He’s a lawyer and a politician, they’re all 99.9 percent slick.”
“I still think the new life insurance and crash were part of a murder attempt against Ramsey," Quinn said. “Or maybe whoever was behind it simply planned the accident as part of a smear campaign.” Doran shook his head at his partner’s naivety. "MacLennan was coming up in the polls awfully fast," Quinn persisted. “We both know there are a zillion ways to sling mud.”
“So?” Thanks to Kelsey’s campaigning, Ramsey MacLennan is skyrocketing in the polls.
"I never uncovered anything incriminating about MacLennan other than a couple typical scrapes when he was a kid."
Doran rubbed his temples. "All I need to know is that Ramsey MacLennan had a one-car accident with no witnesses less than one month after insuring his wife and kid for a fortune.”
“Accidents aren’t uncommon.” Quinn’s tone lacked conviction.
“What about his lame excuse?” Doran demanded. Quinn raised a brow. Doran mimicked the televised interview that had infuriated him, “The car swerved on its own to avoid a chicken." Doran shook his head at the sheer absurdity of it. “Chickens roost at night. If the fool had claimed it was an owl, it would have at least sounded feasible and I’d give him the benefit of the doubt. But a chicken?" Doran shook his head. “No way.”
The speakers emitted a whippoorwill’s mournful night song.
Quinn began to hyperventilate; his fast breathing seemed to deplete the van's oxygen. Doran instinctively moved to help, then remembering the doctor’s warning to let his partner handle the attacks, he clasped his hands behind his back. Until Quinn had begun life on wheels, he had lived as if he was indestructible. Now, a T-shirt with the logo 'Fragile, Handle with Care' might be more appropriate than the pale blue knit, which stretched over his muscular shoulders and biceps. Doran’s nails cut into his palms as he forced himself to give Quinn the chance to control his emotions and tried to think of something to say. All he could think of was Kelsey. Smart. Beautiful. A genuine walking wet dream. "The woman acts like she’s perfection personified,” Doran said, “and you already found out that she’s involved in all public aspects of her family's empire.” Doran gave Quinn a significant look. “Everything you've discovered indicates she's involved in the corruption, too." He pulled on thin leather gloves, fisting his black-sheathed hand to adjust the fit. ”I know in my gut that she's using her delivery trucks to move drugs along with flowers."
"I’d like more than rumors to base an op on.”
“We’ll get the proof with the op.”
“Trent’s informant swears that the drug lab is at their poultry factory,” Quinn said. Doran snorted. Quinn glared up at him. “Why are you so convinced that the processing plant is located inside her lab?"
Because he wanted a valid reason to investigate her in exquisite depth. "Do you have a better explanation for why she has such a high tech security system for a greenhouse?"
Quinn shook his head.
"No one needs that kind of security for plants.”
"My research indicates there's big money in hybridizing."
Doran grunted. “If - no - when, the plan works, she’ll believe she needs help and I'll make certain she realizes I’m the one to protect her.” Doran clamped his hand on Quinn’s muscular shoulder. “Then, I’ll get into that damned lab and videotape the operation for you. Will that be solid enough evidence?”
“I still can’t figure out why you expect her to trust you just because she rear-ends you.”
How many more times would he have to explain this? “She drives like a Sunday granny. The accident won’t hurt her, but it will throw her off balance. She’ll see the correlation to Ramsey’s crash and figure someone is trying to kill all the clan. I’ll make certain she believes I’m the only person she can trust to protect her. And once we're in, we’ll get the evidence we need to nail them all.” It would be simple, if he could ignore the other types of ‘rear-ending’ and ‘getting in’ that he’d like to do with her.
Quinn sighed. "Logic according to Devlin Doran.” Doran turned off the van's interior lights and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Quinn exhaled and added, "Beats me how, but you tend to be right."
Doran gentl
y cuffed Quinn's rock hard biceps, then stepped through the blackout curtain, put on his night vision goggles, then opened the van's rear door and stepped into the humid shadowy forest that cocooned the van from observers. After he moved across the desolate pavement, he ducked under the perfumed boughs of an ancient magnolia and became invisible to all observers except Quinn’s infrared camera.
He stayed within the protective darkness and listened to the night. Then darted from shadow to shadow until he arrived under the old magnolia, which grew mere feet from the garage's man-door.
Through the night vision goggles, the shrouded setting looked like an open invitation to burglars. Gooseflesh rippled over his back as he weighed the possibility of a trap. Had Quinn's subconscious sensed something?
An owl’s mournful tones echoed his thoughts.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Doran eased out from the heavily perfumed air, past the thick, waxy leaves and stepped over the dewy strip of lawn. When he inserted the lock pick, he immediately hit an obstruction. Employing a calm he didn’t feel, he worked a broken key-tip out of the lock. Once it was gone, the catch clicked almost immediately.
Prickles of caution mingled with cold sweat. The only other time a deadbolt had been this easy, it had been a setup. A stealthy stirring within the magnolia's boughs revealed the watcher.
Clever place to hide.
Doran took a step backward and merged into the deepest shadows. He crouched motionless, every sense alert for an assailant, every muscle ready for combat.
Again, a rustling movement. What were they waiting for? Reinforcements?
Doran peered toward the ambusher’s hiding place, but only saw leaves quaking in the humid, unseen breeze.
In the distance, a dog howled. Roses, recently cut grass and moist earth scented the air. Occasional clouds shrouded obliterated the crescent moon.
His thigh muscles started to cramp. He tried to ease his position as he waited for the concealed onlooker to make his next mistake.
Time dragged on. "Dev-"
"Shhh." Though the sound was quiet as the breeze, Quinn instantly went silent.
This watcher was a pro. Doran should have expected Kelsey MacLennan to have at least one guard. Lord knew the family had enough money to hire a squadron of mercenaries.
Dampness saturated his socks and the knotted muscle in his right thigh got so bad he gritted his teeth to keep from groaning, but Doran remained still as death, senses alert for the tiniest sign.
Several feet up the magnolia, waxy leaves moved. Doran steeled himself for an attack, but as the branch shivered, a whippoorwill’s mournful song resonated from the spot. Doran expelled his breath in an unintelligible curse.
“What’d you say?” Quinn sounded tense as his aching leg.
“Nothing.” He kneaded his cramped muscle then stood. The bird’s song quit. He hobbled out of the shadows, eased the door open and entered the garage's eerie stillness. "I’m in.” Doran ghosted past a utility cupboard and a trashcan that smelled too pine-fresh for rubbish. Muscles protesting, he stooped to peer under the Mustang’s chassis. He reached under and felt for the flexible rubber brake line, then squeezed his head and shoulders under. "They make these damned things lower every year." Quinn grunted agreement. Doran twisted his head until the clumsy night vision goggles focused on the brake line. Drilling the tiny hole seemed ridiculously anticlimactic. He repeated the process on the other front wheel.
“Nearly done,” he said, as he slid under the rear. The ingenuity of copying the method her brother had used to fake his own crash should make her distrust her family, and everyone else that she had previously relied on. Except she’d trust the innocent stranger she rear-ended. He grinned as he drilled the fourth hole.
Abruptly, the overhead light snapped on and the main garage door began to rise. "What the hell," Quinn exclaimed.
It was a setup. Doran closed his eyes and whipped off his night-vision goggles. How could he have been so stupid? He should have sensed the trap. Should have confronted the lookout in the boughs. Should have listened to Quinn.
Damn.
A car’s headlights sped down the peaceful semi-rural road, as he tried to push out from under the low-slung car, but something snagged his shirt and held him in place. Helplessly, he watched the car’s headlights careen into the driveway. The light emphasized the incriminating drill in his hand and three pristine drops of brake fluid on the polished concrete floor. Doran squinted against the glare as the brakes shrieked and tires screeched on the asphalt.
Then, the engine revved and hurtled forward on a collision course with the Mustang. Damn, the driver must have spotted him.
Doran ripped his shirt as he slid out from under the car and scrambled toward the side door. Staying low, he used the Mustang for cover.
Brakes squealed and then the oncoming car skidded to a halt mere inches from the Mustang’s rear bumper, its headlights centered on him.
Doran froze.
Rummmm. Rummmmm. Rummm. The motor revved.
The man door moved.
Trapped between two foes. Doran mentally kicked himself for wanting Kelsey so much that he’d jumped to accept Wes’s pathetic plan. When it came to getting into that skinny redhead’s pants, he’d acted stupid as a teenage recruit. He’d been so determined to get the plan started, that he’d given the unseen watcher with the phony birdcall time to set up this trap.
Varroom. The car surged backward, engine shrieking like a pack of starving banshees. Tires squealed as it halted for a moment, then it came forward. Again, it stopped mere inches from the Mustang's rear bumper. Trapped between the concrete floor and the chassis, he squinted at the red sports car, trying to glimpse his attacker. The bright headlights simultaneously masked the malicious driver and held Doran helpless as a moth in the glare.
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, a fan belt wailed as the car vaulted backward. Brakes squealed, then the car rocketed forward, swerved to the right and came to a screaming halt in the vacant spot between the Mustang and the house.
With a whine, the garage door began descending.
Doran slid along the floor toward the Mustang's rear and the dubious safety outside the steadily lowering door. His torn shirt snagged on the mud-flap and he was yanked to a stop just short of his objective. He ripped his shirt free, but a quick glance told him the garage door would crush his torso if he tried to make it.
The other car's door slammed against the Mustang. Scents of stale cigarettes, whisky and Opium mingled with the garage’s pine-fresh smell. Caught between assailants and a crushing door, Doran wished he’d brought his handgun.
The door settled to a stop.
With no real backup and no hope, Doran expected to feel a bullet's death bite any second. Wishing he’d carried a gun, he rolled over to face his fate. Too bad his last memory would be the sight of a six-inch-high metallic gold heel descending toward his forehead.
Doran crammed his wide shoulders and long legs under the Mustang. Again, his shirt caught on the frame. The gold clad foot landed on the pristine concrete, then the second foot joined it. The slim ankles wobbled. The shoe's flimsy diamond-studded straps hovered over candy apple red toenails. Odd garb for a mercenary, but typical attire for one of Ling's pushers.
Doran slid as far as he could under the rear bumper. Something thumped against the Mustang.
“Fucking shoes.” The woman’s voice sounded slurred. She shook her foot and fell against the Mustang. She gasped, then shook her foot until the golden spike-heeled shoe thumped to the floor. Two bejeweled hands landed next to the wobbly ankles. “Attack me, will you, you, you-“
Doran clutched his flashlight, ready to smash it into her face.
Long, glittery crimson fingernails clumsily worked at the strap of the remaining shoe. The woman belched loud and long; the wave of putrid air made Doran gag. She managed to rid herself of the second shoe while he fought nausea. The bare toes wiggled. His stomach twisted and he clenched his teeth against gagging.
Dora
n inched sidewise, toward the long expanse of shapely leg and peered upward. Wispy black lace underwear were visible beneath a miniscule red leather skirt.
Appalled that Zoë Lancaster, Kelsey MacLennan’s housemate, had given him the fright of his life, Doran wormed his way under the Mustang’s rear bumper and wished the car were higher. Zoë stagger-walked between her crimson Porsche and Kelsey's Mustang then tottered to the door connecting the garage to the house. She fumbled with her keys, swaying as she tried to line one up with the lock.
Abruptly, the door slammed open. Kelsey stood in the open doorway; hands on slim hips, her gaze snapping with fury. Doran froze, mesmerized by the sight of the way her sheer ivory silk robe molded to her form. “Where have you been?” Kelsey demanded.
“Missed me, huh?” Zoë staggered into the house, rubbing suggestively past Kelsey. “I love you, but you gotta quit locking that door.” With each word, her voice receded.
Kelsey glared after Zoë with obvious malice. Doran watched, spellbound by his first glimpse of the woman showing genuine emotions. With no paparazzi to shackle her feelings, she seemed like a different person. An even more desirable person.
Anger apparent in every muscle, Kelsey stomped into the garage and studied the mustang’s passenger door. “You disgusting drunken twit!” She stooped down. “You clumsy, drunken klutz. You will never park next to my car, again,” Kelsey fumed. She stood up and whipped open the door to Zoë’s Porsche. When she stuck her head inside the car; the ivory silk caressed Kelsey’s bottom like a lover’s touch. Doran swallowed to stifle his groan. She straightened, holding something small and black in her hand. As she closed the Porsche’s door, Doran eased farther under Kelsey’s Mustang. Her bare feet marched around the hood of her car. She stopped in front of the utility cabinet, whipped the door open and stood on tiptoe. The sensual line of her arch made Doran’s mouth go dry. “Let’s see you mess with my car, again,” she muttered as she slammed the door.
Even her ankles looked sensual, as she tramped into the house. After the door closed and the dead bolt snapped into place, he counted to one hundred and tried not to think about how tantalizing feet could look. Then teeth clamped against the lingering memory of being so close to his prey and his body’s intense reaction to her, Doran hastened outside. If he reacted like an oversexed teenager, tomorrow, Quinn would be right and he’d end up dead.
Deadly Rumors Page 2
