Cat's Paw (Veritas Book 1)

by Chandler Steele

  The fact that she’d had access to his psych reports unnerved him. What else had the shrink said about him? Had Morgan just chosen to reveal the sanitized version, or did she know that, for a time, he’d fantasized about what it would be like to kill his ex-partner and his ex-wife? That he had come up with at least a dozen ways to make those deaths as excruciating as his dark fantasies could imagine?

  Not the time. Not the place.

  Alex studied the fence, which wasn’t electrified and was much less of a health hazard than the last one they’d scaled. Morgan followed right after him, and he resisted the desire to help her climb over. She wasn’t just any woman, and he had a feeling being chivalrous wouldn’t get him too far with her—in fact, it might even do the opposite.

  Now, as they moved closer to the side door, he put on his game face, his heart picking up speed. God, he’d missed the adrenaline rush, the feeling that he was doing something that might make things better in this world.

  Hell, she’s right. I am a white knight.

  Somehow, he didn’t think that was a good thing. Wasn’t it the knight who always got eaten by the dragon?

  As he bent to examine the lock, Morgan snapped on a pair of plastic gloves that she’d pulled from her purse, then handed him a pair. He tugged them on. On a whim, he tested the doorknob. The door swung open.

  “Oh boy,” he muttered. “Can you spell t-r-a-p?”

  Morgan pulled a small Maglite out of her purse and clicked it on, letting its brilliant beam dance around.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a winning lottery ticket in there, would you?” he jested.

  “Sorry. It’s in my other purse,” she said.

  She stepped inside, then halted. “Oh, God. We got something dead. I sure hope it’s a rat.”

  When he stepped inside, her fragrant sandalwood perfume was rapidly overwhelmed by the stench of mold, rot, and decomposition.

  “Not likely. Too strong.”

  “Of course,” she said. “Because our night hasn’t been special enough.”

  “Keep an eye out for tripwires. They might be tied to a silent alarm system.”

  “Just what a girl wants to hear.”

  He grunted in reply. The flashlight’s beam revealed the faint tremor of her hand now.

  “Not rats,” she said, shaking her head.

  The bodies were near the back wall: two men, one in a black suit and the other in faded jeans and a long-sleeved shirt.

  “Here,” Morgan said. The Maglite illuminated something in her hand, a eucalyptus lozenge. It was an old trick to confuse the nose so the stomach wouldn’t feel the need to purge itself at the stench.

  “Thanks.” He popped the lozenge into his mouth and let the pungent scent do its job as Morgan did the same.

  There were no tripwires present as they made their way across the interior of the building. It was a big open space with a concrete floor and a series of metal pillars down the center. Alex squatted next to the bodies, ignoring the flies clustered on the faces and the sickly-sweet smell of decay.

  “I don’t see any blood,” Morgan said, joining him now.

  He leaned closer, then touched one of the corpse’s arms.

  “See how their muscles are all tightened up, the arching of their backs? They got some bad dope,” he said. “Probably laced with strychnine, which totally screws up our guess of the time of death. The stuff hastens the onset of rigor mortis and makes it end quicker.”

  “You’ve seen this before?” she asked.

  “Yeah. In Dallas. Some guy thought it’d be a great way to cut his stash of cocaine. Killed five people before we caught up with him. Trust me, it’s a seriously bad way to die.”

  Alex leaned closer to the dead man in the suit, trying to breathe through his mouth. He waved away the flies. “I know this guy. He’s Russian. He was in Angola a year or so back.”

  “So TipTop’s intel was good.”

  “Looks like it.”

  Careful not to leave any trace of himself behind—which was nearly impossible—Alex stepped over to the other man and lifted his head. “Ledd Marston. Small-time dealer when I went in, but he must have gone up a few rungs on the food chain if he’s handling Buryshkin’s loads.”

  He shifted the dealer’s hand. Underneath was a tiny mound of white powder.

  “We’ll get that tested,” Morgan said. “See if it’s tainted.”

  After rolling off one of the plastic gloves, she scooped up some of the powder and sealed it inside by tying off the top. Then she stashed the glove down her bra.

  “That’s not going to stop the cops if they strip search you,” Alex said.

  “They’ll think twice about messing with me, since I’m a lawyer.”

  Which was probably true, though there was a certain kind of cop that felt lawyers deserved all the hell they received. Alex had been that way once. Still would be if he hadn’t met Morgan.

  She pushed up one of the dealer’s sleeves, then the other, revealing bruised welts in the flesh. “Ligature marks.”

  Alex checked the dead Russian. “Same here. I’d say snorting this poison wasn’t their idea.”

  “Clever way to execute someone.” Morgan rose to her feet. “Why leave them here? Why not haul the stiffs out to the swamp and feed them to the gators? No bodies, no cops.”

  That was troubling him as well. Leaving corpses behind, which would eventually be found by the smell alone, was slipshod. Buryshkin was many things, but he was never sloppy.

  “Maybe it’s a message of some kind. If that whole new load of coke is tainted . . . ”

  “God, I hope not,” she said, their eyes meeting.

  “Yeah. Dallas all over again.”

  “It’s time to get out of here.”

  Alex caught her arm right before she headed toward the door. “Let’s not go out the same way we came in, just in case someone is waiting for us.”

  “Good call.”

  They hoofed it across the building to the other door. Alex unlocked it, then looked at his companion. “You ready?”

  “Let’s do it.”

  He twisted the knob, shoved the door open, and ran, Morgan hot on his heels, her gun out. He waited for the punch of pain in his chest or head, the fire burning through him as the bullet destroyed tissue and bone.

  Mercifully, it didn’t come.

  They were two blocks away when Morgan phoned in what they’d found.

  “I’ll call our contact at the DEA,” Sanjay said.

  “Thanks. I got a sample of what looks to be cocaine. Can you arrange to have someone pick it up?”

  “Sure. I’ll have Ben get in contact with you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “When this is over, you must come to dinner,” Sanjay said. “I’d like you to meet my girlfriend. She’s amazing.”

  “What? I thought you were my guy,” she teased.

  “No. Sorry. You waited too long.” He paused and added, “I’ll let Crispin know what’s going down.”

  “Thanks.”

  Morgan found her companion staring at something in his hand. His gloves were gone now, and she hoped he’d lost them somewhere along the way, some place the cops wouldn’t be searching. Alex handed over a book of matches with a stark, red-and-yellow logo of a pitchfork and flames. “This was in the Russian’s coat pocket.”

  “Le Purgatoire,” she said. “It’s a bar near St. Ann Street.”

  “How’s about we check it out? See if anyone knew the Russian suit and who he was running with before he got dead.”

  She looked down at her dirty clothes, which smelled too much like the warehouse. “We gotta change, or we’ll never make it through the door.”

  “Then call us a cab, lady. We’re going clubbing.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Morgan stepped out of her bedroom in the safe house to find Alex lounging on the couch, staring at nothing, seemingly lost in thought. He’d showered; his hair was slightly damp, but his five o’clock shadow was still in p
lace. It moved him from handsome to serious hunk. He’d chosen a pale-blue shirt and black slacks, and she knew that once he hit the bar, the women would be all over him. Maybe one of those women would know the dead Russian.

  Alex glanced up at her, then smiled, scanning her head to toe, taking in her little black dress. The smolder in his eyes made heat rise in her cheeks. “Hot damn.”

  Morgan couldn’t stop the smile. “Thank you. The black hides bloodstains really well.”

  “Smokin’ hot and practical. My kind of woman,” he said, executing a double thumbs-up.

  She’d opted to wear black flats, because running around in heels on New Orleans’s uneven sidewalks was crazy, something tourists often learned the hard way, one twisted or broken ankle at a time. Her small, shiny, black purse was filled with the necessities: lipstick, money, ID, and cell phone. But no gun.

  Alex rose from the couch and moved closer to her. He smelled of soap and clean male. The scar on his neck was more noticeable now, and she tried hard not to stare at it.

  “I like your hair this way,” he said, reaching out to touch the rhinestone clip that held it suspended above her right ear. “Makes you look . . . exotic.”

  Exotic. No one had called her that before. Suddenly, her skin felt on fire. She needed to divert him before he tried to kiss her.

  “Don’t you ever shave?”

  “Sometimes.” Alex ran a finger down her cheek, leaving a trail of sensation behind it. “Sometimes not.”

  “Focus, Parkin.”

  “You know, I’d be able to if you weren’t so damned hot.” A sexy smile twitched the corners of his mouth. “Maybe”—his voice pitched lower—“you could help me work on my . . . focus. What do you think?”

  Morgan stepped back just as he moved in for the kiss. “No. Nice try. Time for you to get your mind back in the game, okay?”

  “I’m trying,” he replied. “But that dress . . . ”

  “It’s amazing that the male of the species has survived all these millennia. I wonder how many of you guys got picked off by saber-toothed tigers because you were too busy thinking about banging some female back at the cave.”

  “Probably more of us than we’d care to admit. But look at the bright side: That never-ending sex drive means there’re always plenty of us clueless dudes around, so it all equals out.”

  Morgan rolled her eyes. “You familiar with the Rule of Stupid?”

  “Yeah. Don’t go to stupid places with stupid people and do stupid things.”

  “There you go. Follow those rules tonight and we’ll be fine.”

  “Never worked that way for me.”

  *~*~*

  It was pushing two in the morning, but the streets were still active. The weather had remained clear and hot, typical for a Louisiana September. Alex and Morgan headed down St. Ann Street along a collection of nightclubs. Le Purgatoire was nearby.

  After Alex’s come-on at the apartment, which had bounced off her like a tennis ball against concrete, Morgan had grown quiet. Zeroed in on the mission, at the exclusion of everything else.

  For some reason, that bugged him.

  Challenges were his thing. He’d always pushed himself to excel—in college, at the DEA. It was in his bones. Right now, those bones wanted Morgan enough that he was willing to play the game.

  She completed her call and returned the phone to her purse. “The Russian stiff in the warehouse was Dimitri Golov. He got out of Angola two months ago.”

  “Huh. I couldn’t remember his name,” Alex said, shaking his head. “Grigori didn’t recruit him for his team. I know that much.”

  “So how did that sales pitch work?”

  “It was pretty straightforward. When a new inmate arrived, and Grigori found him of interest, he’d have one of his people chat with the newbie. Tell him how things worked inside, and that he had two options: get on board, or face prison without someone watching his back. For whatever reason, Golov didn’t sign on the dotted line.”

  “But then he goes back to work for Grigori’s uncle, with no hard feelings on either side?”

  Alex huffed. “That’s what confuses me. Of course, he did end up a corpse, so who knows.”

  Morgan paused, searching the street in front of them as if looking for someone. “I’m going to get bumped by a young black guy in the next block or so. Don’t go all he-man on him, okay?”

  But why . . . “The hand-off?” he asked quietly.

  “Yup. We keep the locations of our safe houses as secret as possible, even from those who aren’t working full time for the organization.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll stay mellow, as long as he doesn’t cop a feel. I got first dibs on that.”

  Morgan didn’t reply, pursing her lips as they continued down the street. As promised, a block later a man holding a plastic cup of beer lurched into her. Alex made sure to appear surprised, but it wasn’t hard; the scene looked perfectly normal, down to the guy’s confusion and stumbled apology. To his credit, he hadn’t spilled a drop of the brew.

  “No problem,” Morgan said. “No harm done.”

  “Nice legs, baby,” the guy said, winking. Then he was headed south toward the river, his gait telling any onlookers that he’d had more alcohol than was wise.

  “He’s good,” Alex said as they continued down the street.

  “Ben’s our general New Orleans gofer. He was raised in the projects in Chicago and came here before Katrina. He knows this place better than anyone.”

  “If you hadn’t told me what was going down, I’d have just figured he was a drunk.”

  “He’s one helluva pickpocket. Even better, he knows how to handle himself if a cop gets too nosy.”

  Alex found himself wondering what other talents Veritas’s people possessed. How many of them were there? Given Crispin Wilder’s alleged net worth, it was probably a lot.

  “Club’s just up ahead. I think the best thing to do is split up and work the crowd. See if anyone knew dear dead Dimitri,” she advised.

  “What, no dancing cheek to cheek?” he asked, hip-checking her.

  “Hey. Behave yourself. Maybe one dance. If you find out something worthwhile.”

  “You’re offering a reward if I’m a good boy?” he said, not sure if he should be amused or annoyed. “Be still my heart.”

  She ignored his jesting. “Are you going to be okay in there? It’s going to be packed.”

  Reality returned, causing Alex to take a deep breath. “I’ll just have to be. Too much is at stake for me to back out now.”

  To his surprise, Morgan placed a kiss on his cheek. “Good hunting, Mr. White Knight.”

  “Be careful, Valkyrie,” he replied.

  *~*~*

  Le Purgatoire was classic New Orleans, though more understated than many places, despite the neon lights. From Morgan’s previous experience, the clientele varied by the time of day: heterosexual couples in the early evening, gay and lesbian couples by midnight. By now, it’d be mostly brave tourists and the folks who didn’t color within any of the gender lines.

  Which she’d failed to mention to Alex.

  She couldn’t stop the grin, knowing it was petty of her, but this was payback for him making her so uneasy, making her think things could be different than they were. He’d proved to be a master at that. Not all that unease was just on her part. She’d seen the frank desire in his eyes earlier this evening. She knew the surly ex-con was still there, just beneath the surface, but now she was seeing hints of the DEA agent he’d once been. Two sides of the same coin, both of which she found far too attractive.

  Focus. It appeared she needed that as much as he did.

  Like most NOLA bars, Le Purgatoire’s front double doors were open, and the music and air conditioning sought the street like an addict does another high. As she made her way inside, she found that the place was busy, but not as packed as some nights. Probably because it wasn’t the weekend.

  Back when she was younger, this kind of meat market had held a
certain fascination, but not now. Not when she knew the bad stuff that could go down in places like this. How easy it was for predators to use this as their hunting ground.

  The anger rolled through her in the span of a heartbeat. Memories of that night in a different bar, one just a few streets away from this one. The handsome guy who’d lied from the moment they’d met. How smooth he’d been. The dancing. The emotional manipulation. The drink that he’d insisted she consume, the one that held the drug. If her friends hadn’t been watching over her, it would have ended in rape, or worse. All because one man didn’t understand that women weren’t his personal playthings.

  That hellish experience had been the catalyst that sent her to law school, and then to work for the FBI. The cops had never arrested the man who’d drugged her—he’d crawled back into the woodwork. Nevertheless, she was paying it forward in her own way. Because there were still bastards out there who thought that anyone was theirs for the taking. For some of them, the younger the victim, the better.

  “Hey, pretty dress,” a guy said.

  Morgan blew out a stream of air and conjured up a smile. “Thank you.”

  “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “No, I’m good,” she said. “You come here often?”

  He shook his head. “First time. I’m in town for a software convention.”

  Which was code for: “What happens in New Orleans stays in New Orleans. You game, baby?”

  Time to shut this down, since he wasn’t a regular patron and most likely wouldn’t know Dimitri.

  “I’m a local,” she said. “I’m a reporter doing a story on convention tourists and prostitution. Maybe you’d be willing to tell me some stories.”

  The guy paled, then shook his head. “Ah, no. Sorry, gotta go.”

  Morgan kept the smile to herself as she headed for the bar. Sometimes it was just so easy. It took a bit before the bartender could get to her.

  “A beer, please. And open it in front of me, please.”

  The girl raised an eyebrow, then nodded her understanding. “No problem.”

  The beer was delivered as requested, and Morgan made sure to include an extra tip for the service. Not all bartenders took that request well.