“Hey! This is your no-good ex-con brother, checking in to see how you’re doing,” Alex said, his voice straining to sound nonchalant.
She blinked in surprise, then frowned. “I’m fine. Did you get the tire fixed?”
“No. I—”
“Shanita can’t drive me to work tomorrow. I need my car, Alex.” She’d given him one little job, and he’d let it slide.
“If you’d listen . . . I didn’t get it fixed because it was too damaged. I bought a used one to replace it. I talked the guy down ten bucks, and it should last a long time.”
Miri paused, realizing she’d been jonesing for a reason to argue with him. Which was dumb.
“Sorry. That’s cool. Thanks.”
“No sweat.”
“Did you eat anything?”
“Yeah. I ordered a pizza. That was a novel experience. I’m not used to having to decide what I want to eat.”
Just one of the many things she took for granted. “You find the beer in the refrigerator?”
“Yeah. I’ve had two, and it feels more like eight.”
“Listen to you. You’re a total wuss now.”
“Tell me about it,” he joked. “I’m about to go to bed, so . . . when should I start worrying if you’re not home?”
She could tell Alex was lying—he was already worrying, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to bed until she came through the front door.
“Actually, I’m really tired and Shanita’s just getting started. I should be home in about an hour or so.”
“You need a ride?”
“I’ll catch the bus. Remember, you don’t have a license? You don’t need the cops nailing you for that.”
A long sigh came down the line, telling her he’d forgotten again. “Where does the bus drop you off?”
“St. Charles and Josephine.”
“Good. Then when you get on, call me, and I’ll meet you at the stop. That way I won’t freak out about you walking home alone in this craptastic neighborhood.”
Rather than being angry at his interference, Miri smiled. Her brother could be a pain in the ass, but he always cared.
“Okay. You got it. You sure an old guy like you doesn’t need his beauty sleep?”
“Smartass. You having fun?”
“Yeah,” she said, though that wasn’t as true as she made it sound. “I’m just tired from work.”
“I’ll try not to snore tonight and keep you awake.”
“You better not. Did you feed Mr. Toes?”
There was a long pause. “Ahh . . . no. Sorry.”
She decided to let it go. Toes would be waiting for her when she got home, and she’d take care of him.
“I’ll call you when I leave,” she said, heading back toward the bar’s entrance.
“Love you, sis.”
Miri hung up without replying. Why? She didn’t know. She loved him, but she wasn’t good with the chaos he brought into her life. Her instincts told her it was just starting all over again.
Did she dare tell him what had really happened when he’d been in prison, the kind of hell their aunt and uncle had put her through? Would he understand why she’d kept running away, time after time?
Not yet. Maybe someday.
She found Shanita on her third daiquiri, doing Beyoncé imitations—which was goofy, since she was totally a white girl and her voice sucked. Miri still laughed at her attempts because it was so Shanita.
“Anything going on?” her friend asked.
“Just the bro checking in on me,” Miri replied, sliding back into her seat. “You’d think I was like sixteen or something.”
“Do you have a picture of him? I want to show him to my friends here.”
It was an odd request, but Miri chalked it up to too much alcohol. She did have a photo in her wallet, but it was from before he went to prison. Alex now was different from Alex then. “Not really. I need to leave pretty soon.”
“No! We should go until dawn!” Shanita protested.
“You can. I have to be at work at noon.”
“Then let me buy you another beer. You guys want something?”
After collecting their orders, Shanita was off to the bar, leaving Miri to chat with the other two, both of whom she barely knew.
Awkward.
Yet another reason to drink her last beer and head for home.
*~*~*
As Morgan stepped inside the bar, she winced. It must be a sign of age, because all the noise and packed bodies didn’t do a thing for her. Not that she was old at thirty-four, but the jumbled mix of spilled beer, sweat, and perfume made her head ache.
On top of all that, she’d had to leave her gun in the car, something she never liked to do. Since state law came down hard on folks who went armed into a Louisiana bar, that would violate one of Veritas’s prime directives: avoid hassles with local law enforcement. With her luck, it would just get stolen out of her car and she’d still have to talk to the cops.
Since Bill had reported that all was quiet at the girl’s home, Morgan texted her other contact, the one who’d been tailing Miri. Samuel Marsh was in his mid-thirties, a former Chicago homicide detective who now worked as a private investigator. Tonight he was serving as backup on the mission.
His return text served as her guide dog through the throng at the bar. With a slim build and a boyish face, he could pass for someone ten years younger, even a college student. That had worked to their advantage in the past.
He’d chosen a spot along the far wall, which made him look like he was scoping out the babes, not just one girl in particular. He had a beer in hand and was dressed in bar camouflage: jeans and a navy T-shirt. He worked out regularly, but his muscles weren’t quite as defined as Parkin’s. Morgan groaned to herself. Now she was comparing every guy to the ex-con. That wasn’t a good sign.
“Sam,” she said, leaning back against the wall next to him while keeping her focus on the milling crowd. “How’s it going?”
“Good. Our lady is directly opposite us, with three friends.”
Morgan’s eyes skipped over the tables and settled on a young woman. She’d seen surveillance photos of Miri Parkin, but she was even prettier in person, with an expressive face and a lighter version of her brother’s thick brown hair. The way she held herself told Morgan she was exhausted and really wanted to be anywhere but here.
“How much has she been drinking?” Morgan asked.
“Not much. That’s her third beer for the night. She’s a smart one. She won’t touch a bottle unless the cap is still on. Got a bottle opener in her purse.”
Morgan found herself liking the girl already. “She works in a bar. Probably seen every roofie trick in the book. Thank God she’s not a lush. Babysitting drunks is never fun.”
Sam grunted his agreement. “We won’t be babysitting much longer. She got a call from her brother. She told him she was going to be leaving soon.”
“Good. I don’t think my eardrums can handle this noise much longer.”
“You get used to it after a while,” he replied.
“Only after you go deaf.”
Morgan pulled out her cell phone, acting as if she were just checking messages. Using it as a prop, she held it up in such a way that she could scope out the bar, noting certain faces, taking pictures of a few of them for reference. No one screamed “Russian,” so she lowered the phone and looked back at Miri. The girl was doing the same thing—scanning faces—minus the phone. Had her brother warned her to keep an eye out for trouble? Or was it something else?
“Does she seem edgy to you?” Morgan asked.
“Yes, and I’ve been wondering why.”
“I’ll scope the place out, see if I find anyone who looks like they’re working for Buryshkin. Let me know if anything changes.”
“You got it.”
Morgan made the rounds of the bar, wandering through the crowd of locals and tourists. Offers to buy her a drink came her way, but she politely turned them down. Finally, she grabbe
d a half-full beer bottle off an empty table and carried it with her to keep the come-ons to a minimum.
When she returned to Sam, she found that Miri was no longer with her friends. “Where is she?”
“Restroom. It’s amazing how long you ladies can spend in a place like that.”
Morgan’s unease rose. “How long has she been gone?”
Sam shrugged. “Five minutes, maybe.”
Except none of Miri’s friends were with her, so there would be no reason to spend that much time hanging in the restroom.
“I’ll check on her.” She placed the beer decoy on a nearby table and headed through the crowd once more.
“Hey, honey!” a guy called out, but she kept moving.
The hallway to the restrooms had a series of classic New Orleans photographs on the walls, most of them of Mardi Gras, with lots of masks and beads and the occasional topless female.
Morgan pushed open the door to the ladies’ room and found a lone occupant at the sinks. The girl had to be using a fake ID. Ms. Underage was busy adjusting her clothes for maximum exposure. Hiking her short skirt even farther up, flashing more thigh. Bending over and plumping her breasts to make them pop out from the low top.
Was I ever like that? Unfortunately, the answer was “affirmative,” at least when she’d been sixteen. Once the girl was gone, Morgan checked underneath the stalls. No Miri.
Where was Parkin’s sister?
When she pushed through the door to the hallway, Morgan had to step aside to allow an older woman in pink polyester pants and a “Do Whatcha Wanna” T-shirt to enter the restroom. Ignoring the Men’s, she tried the two doors located closer to the bar. The first led to a deep storage closet, currently occupied by a pair of lovers who were not there to do an inventory of the paper towels. Not with the woman’s legs wrapped around his waist and his jeans around his skinny ankles.
Once she’d determined the girl wasn’t Miri, Morgan apologized and closed the door, slightly embarrassed. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen people having sex before, it was just that they were having such a good time at it.
Not once in her life had she gone into some storage closet and gotten it on. She’d always convinced herself it wasn’t her thing. It certainly hadn’t been her husband’s. Now, as she grew older, Morgan wondered exactly what she’d been missing all these years. Besides the great sex.
She sighed and checked the other door, which led to a small, unoccupied office. That left one other possibility, one that she could not imagine Miri choosing on her own.
Morgan pushed open the heavy back door that led to the alley behind the establishment. It was like most New Orleans back alleys: smelly. A single security light offered a small patch of meager illumination. At the end of the alley to the right was a metal privacy fence, separating it from the main street. Along the adjacent building was a line of lidded trash cans, unfortunately reminding Morgan of the dead cat she’d seen today. That chilling image echoed the warnings her mind kept pushing at her—she was damned if Parkin’s sister would get hurt on her watch, even if Parkin insisted he didn’t need Veritas’s help.
To the left was another privacy fence, dividing that end of the alley in half. Its gate hung open on sagging hinges. Morgan stepped out of the light, moving toward the open gate. She’d just reached it when a sharp cry of “No!” and then the sound of a slap came from that direction. A low moan followed.
“Miri?” she called out. Another cry, this one quickly cut off.
Morgan’s fingers hunted for the zipper to her purse. Then she remembered—no gun. She slung the strap across her body and edged through the gate. In the semi-darkness, she made out two figures—one large, over six feet tall, weighing at least 225. He was choking out the other, smaller figure, his massive arm around her neck as he dragged her down the alley toward a black sedan and its open trunk.
“Ah, hell.”
To her credit, Miri was fighting the bastard, but it was plain that she didn’t have the skills or the bulk to take on her attacker. She clawed at his thick arm, blood running down her face and onto her T-shirt from a cut on her scalp, her eyes panicked as she tried to breathe.
“Hey asshole, let her go!” Morgan called out as she advanced.
“Get lost, bitch,” he snarled.
“Wrong answer,” Morgan said, looking around for a weapon. None to be found, unless she wanted to throw a trash can at the guy. It wasn’t going to be an even match—he had at least ninety pounds on her—but no way was this monster leaving with Parkin’s sister.
He ignored Morgan as if she posed no threat. Instead, as he shifted his captive around to force her in the trunk, Miri took that opportunity to slam a fist into his face. A sickening crunch of cartilage and a roar of pain as the man reeled backward, holding his bleeding nose.
Morgan waded in, snapping a kick at his closest knee. He moved at the last minute, and it missed him, clipping his thigh instead. His fist shot out, but instead of targeting her as she’d expected, he hammered a blow into Miri’s chest. She folded to the ground, curling into a fetal position, trying to catch her breath.
Morgan exploded in fury. She grabbed a beefy shoulder with both hands, and using all her leverage, tried to ram his head into the open trunk lid. He swung a fist at her, catching her chin and snapping her neck around. She lurched backward, but the bastard just kept coming. He grabbed her throat with huge hands, digging his fingers into her flesh.
As black spots crowded her vision, Morgan swept her right arm down and broke the chokehold. Trapping his one arm against her, she elbowed his gut. When he bent over in pain, she brought her knee up, connecting with his chin. The man fell back, blood dripping down his face. Fumbling, he reached behind his back. When the gun came into sight, Morgan kicked it out of his hand.
When it skittered away, vanishing into the darkness, he staggered toward the front of the car, spraying blood with each step. Though Morgan really wanted to kick the hell out of this guy, a quick look back at Miri told her that the girl needed help, immediately. She lifted her up and began moving her toward the bar’s back entrance.
They’d nearly reached it when the car fired to life and the reverse lights came on. Their attacker hadn’t given up yet. As the tires squealed, Morgan dragged Miri into the narrow entrance. With a roar, the sedan ploughed backward through the fence, snapping off the metal pipes, which headed toward them like a line of sharpened stakes.
As the girl cried out in fear, Morgan wrapped herself around Miri and pressed her against the door. The metal spikes screeched against the asphalt, then cut along the bricks.
In the end, the fence saved them, as one of the stakes drove a hole into a rear tire and a loud pop echoed in the alley. Inside the vehicle, their assailant bellowed his fury, then put the car into drive and took off down the alley, the flat tire thumping with each turn. Shouts erupted as the sedan barreled out into the street, telling Morgan that he’d barely missed some pedestrians in his effort to escape.
“Jesus,” she murmured, her knees no longer supporting her. She turned so her back was to the building, then slid down the brick to the ground, cradling the injured girl to her chest. Miri’s breathing became increasingly labored.
Morgan’s phone was trapped under the girl. As she tried to extract it, the back door opened and Sam stepped out. He took one look at them and swore. His phone was out of his pocket in an instant, and he dialed 911. Another face appeared in the doorway, one of the bouncers.
“Get a blanket. She’s going into shock,” Morgan said to him, feeling surprisingly calm, though her voice still shook.
The man blinked, then nodded and vanished inside.
Miri murmured something, her head rising, eyes unfocused. At least her breathing had evened out. Maybe she didn’t have a broken rib after all.
Morgan pushed back the girl’s bloody hair. “He’s gone. The paramedics are coming. You’re going to be okay. Just hang in there.”
“He . . . he . . . ”
“I kn
ow, honey. I know.”
Morgan knew better than most that too many girls ended up dead in shallow graves or in alleys, tossed away like garbage. She’d seen so many of them during her time at the FBI. Knew how close she’d come to the same fate.
“Why . . . me . . . ?” Miri asked, shivering in Morgan’s arms now.
“Don’t know. Some guys don’t need a reason.”
“Said I was . . . his . . . stalking me . . . ” Then the girl shuddered. “My brother . . . he’ll kill him . . . go back . . . to prison . . . ”
“No, he won’t. You have my word on that,” Morgan said.
Because if I find that bastard first, I’m going to take him out before Parkin has a chance. And I’m going to smile when I do it.
Chapter Seven
By the time the cops and paramedics arrived, Miri had stopped talking and fallen unconscious, which wasn’t a good sign. As the paramedics began their initial assessment of the victim, a few of the bar patrons wandered out to check on the commotion. The bouncer promptly earned his pay and herded them back inside.
Still seated on the ground, Morgan leaned back against the building. Her throat and shoulder ached in time with her heartbeat.
“Ma’am?” a city cop asked, kneeling next to her. “You hurt?”
“Nothing an ice pack and a stiff belt of whiskey won’t cure,” she replied. Compared to the gunshot wound earlier in the year, this was nothing.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
Morgan laid out the details of the assault step by step, though some of it was pure fallacy. She could hardly talk about the Russians and Alex Parkin, so she claimed to have stepped outside to get some air when she found the girl being attacked. She noted that Sam was nearby, listening to every word. He gave a short nod, indicating he’d spin his tale the same way if asked.
Fortunately, the cop seemed to buy her story.
It pissed her off that she’d only gotten a couple numbers from the Dodge’s license plate, but it was that or get flattened like an armadillo on a state highway.
“Description of the guy?” the cop asked, taking notes.
Cat's Paw (Veritas Book 1) Page 5
