Armed and Famous

by Jennifer Morey

  He didn’t respond. Let her think that.

  “I thought you believed me.”

  “I do believe you.” About certain things.

  The hurt in her eyes made him slip his wrist free. “Do you know how to use that gun?”

  She inspected the pistol in her hand, appearing comfortable holding the weapon. “I’ll manage.”

  He nodded and should have been on his way by now, but something he couldn’t control kept his feet still.

  Seeing his reluctance, Sabrina rose from the bed. “I’ll be all right.”

  Her perceptiveness almost bothered him more than leaving her alone. Turn. Go. An inner voice still had logic, but he couldn’t move.

  She stepped toward him, putting her hands on his chest and giving him another reason for his difficulty. He could feel her heat.

  Going up on her toes, Sabrina pressed her lips to his. If she’d planned to diffuse his tension, she’d succeeded, temporarily. He held her head in his hands and kissed her with more purpose. She met the flare-up of passion.

  Finally, he lifted his head. “Promise me you won’t go anywhere.”

  “I promise.” Her voice was deep and sexy from the kiss. He toyed with the idea of being late for his meeting.

  “Do you mean it?” he asked, sticking to business.

  Once again, her keen perceptiveness keyed in on his worry. “I’ll be all right, Lincoln.”

  He wasn’t so sure. “If anything happens to you...” He verbalized the thought. Miranda’s face tormented him as it always did, lifeless and dotted with blood after she’d been shot. The weeks and months following that tragedy had been the worst of his life. He didn’t need a similar incident to add to his memories.

  “I’m not Miranda,” Sabrina said.

  The sting of her insight punched right where it counted.

  “I have to go.” Uncomfortable with the comparison, thinking that losing Sabrina might be worse than Miranda, he left the RV, slamming the door behind him. Was Sabrina deliberately trying to get him to talk about her? His beautiful Miranda, with her dancing brown eyes and silky, shiny, thick chocolate-brown hair.

  It disturbed him that curly red hair and green eyes replaced the vision, green eyes that had looked at him with such selfless commiseration. She cared how much Miranda’s death had hurt him. Despite how she protected herself, despite her extreme reaction to his meeting that woman and Rayna catching him, she cared. She had trust issues with men, and for a good reason, after her experiences. He would think she’d withdraw in the face of a man’s emotion over another woman. Instead, she’d reached out to him.

  He struggled with how that warmed him, how it opened a crevasse in his heart that had closed after Miranda had been shot. Lincoln hadn’t felt the way he had for Miranda since her death, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to now.

  He drove faster than he should to the 24/7 diner where he’d been instructed to meet. The flat-roofed, neon-cluttered, windowed building stood on a corner of an old neighborhood. There wasn’t much traffic. Thirty years ago it might have been a booming business. Now it just looked tired and near extinction.

  With his hand on the door, he was about to go inside when someone called his name.

  “Lincoln Ivy?”

  Lincoln turned. A thin, six-foot man with dark, short hair and intense brown eyes stood inside the open car door. He’d been sitting in the vehicle waiting for him.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Cash Whitney. Would you care to join me?” He gestured at his car, a shiny, new, black Subaru Tribeca.

  Glad he’d come armed, he walked to the passenger side and got in.

  Cash didn’t drive away, but he kept his eyes on their surroundings even as he spoke. “We have to keep this short.”

  Lincoln agreed and waited for him to say what he could.

  “I won’t ask you where Sabrina is,” he surprised him by saying. “I was one of the officers who responded to the call the night Kirby Clark was murdered. I’m not convinced she did it.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  He hesitated, glancing his way and then at their surroundings again, through the windshield, through the driver’s-side window. “I know what evidence was gathered, and some of it has recently gone missing.”

  “What kind of evidence is missing?”

  Cash’s hands gripped the steering wheel even though he wasn’t driving anywhere. After a moment, he turned his head toward him.

  “I met you tonight as a favor to a friend. We’re capable of handling this without your help. Just tell your girlfriend to lay low for a while. We’ll have it cleared up soon. That’s all I meant to share with you.”

  This had been a waste of time if that was all he’d come to say. “What kind of evidence?”

  Cash looked straight ahead.

  “I might be able to help,” Lincoln said.

  “Your friend in Denver said you were a bounty hunter.”

  “I am. And I’m good at what I do.” He had experience digging for information. That was how he found jumpers. He tracked them down and brought them back to jail. He didn’t have to track Tristan down, but he’d dig up all the information he needed on him to have him arrested.

  He watched Cash digest that. And after a while, he finally said, “Clothing fibers. Whoever took them must know they could place more than one person at the crime scene.”

  “Tristan Coulter?”

  The officer looked perplexed. Lincoln told him about the missing inventory at Wade’s store. If Sabrina hadn’t been a suspect in the murder, she wouldn’t have run and could have told police what she knew.

  “You have no idea what this means to the investigation,” Cash said. “Archer Latoya is the lead investigator on the case, and he’s Tristan Coulter’s half brother.”

  The news detonated in Lincoln. Latoya being the lead was no surprise, but Tristan being his brother? Boom.

  “I discovered that when I did some research on OneDefense. I checked all the backgrounds of the executive and upper-management staff, people who might have worked with Kirby. I thought it was interesting and maybe a little peculiar that the lead investigator was closely related to someone Kirby worked with.”

  “Did you check into Latoya?” Lincoln asked.

  And Cash nodded. “I checked into both of them. They come from a broken home. There were some domestic-abuse records but no charges. Archer’s background checks out. So does Tristan’s. I couldn’t find anything on either one of them to suggest they’d turn criminal.” He faced ahead and then looked back at Lincoln. “There was one thing, though.”

  Lincoln braced himself.

  “Archer Latoya paid off a significant amount of debt last year. To the tune of about fifty thousand. A lot of money on a detective’s salary, and he didn’t have it in his bank account. Someone gave it to him. It was a transfer from an account in Grand Cayman. Untraceable. The transaction looks legal. Life must have improved considerably for him. His wife got half the savings in their divorce, and he’d bought her share of the house. The divorce coincided with the payoffs.”

  “Do you think Tristan could have given him the money?” Had he helped his half brother through a difficult divorce?

  “If he’s involved in illegal gun sales? Yeah, it’s not only possible, it’s feasible.”

  “But the family was broken. Are Tristan and Archer close?”

  “I’ve never seen Tristan around the station, and Archer never talks about him. I’m not his best friend but I’ve asked around. They both live here in Newport Beach. The mother doesn’t live far from here. Brea. I stopped by and talked with her. It wasn’t a long talk. She hasn’t seen either son for years.”

  Lincoln liked the man. He was proactive and resourceful, unruffled and always thinking. He’d have to thank his friend in
Denver. He’d taken time to find the right contact for him.

  “Can you give me an address on Archer Latoya?” he asked.

  Cash pulled out a small notebook from the compartment between the seats. Flipping to the right page, he handed the pad to Lincoln. Lincoln read the address and committed it to memory.

  “I’ve already talked to him,” Cash said.

  “I figured you had.”

  The cop half grinned. “I won’t tell you not to go meet him.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Let’s stay in touch.”

  Cash nodded. “I’ll let you know if I learn anything new, and you do the same. Just be sure no one finds out we’re talking. Accusing a member of law enforcement of murder won’t go over lightly. We have to be sure.”

  Lincoln opened the passenger door. “We will be.”

  * * *

  Parking far enough away, Lincoln lifted a small laptop from the seat next to him where he’d put it. Next came a compact leather tool case—a very special tool case. Taking the case with him, he left the rental and walked down the street. He saw the single-car garage door open at Archer Latoya’s white two-story house. That made it easier to break in. He was hoping Archer went to bed early. It was after ten o’clock now, and the street was dark and void of activity. The houses beside this one were close together, blinds and draperies were closed and no one was at the windows.

  He entered the garage, passing a black Honda Accord. Trying the inner garage door, he found it unlocked and stepped inside. The door opened to a laundry room. Through that, he saw part of a living room where a portion of one wall had been removed to open up the view from the kitchen. A flat-screen TV hung on the wall, playing a crime series. A man reclined on a sofa, his feet up on an ottoman, three beer cans on the side table along with a pile of magazines and a dusty lamp.

  Quietly, Lincoln approached. Archer Latoya’s eyes were closed and he snored. He’d planned to install a transmitter if Latoya had been sleeping, and then wake him up to have a conversation. He was sleeping pretty soundly. The beer probably helped. Leaving him there, Lincoln decided to install the transmitter. He found an electrical outlet in the hall toward the garage and knelt. Checking on Archer, still hearing him snore, he opened the tool case and removed a small transmitter with wires springing from it.

  Using the tiny tools, he connected the transmitter inside the electrical outlet and then put the cover back on. The entire process took less than five minutes.

  Closing the tool case, he tucked it into the waistband of his jeans and took his pistol from its holster under his shirt. Going to the couch, he stood before Archer, who hadn’t stirred.

  “Archer Latoya?” Lincoln said.

  The man snored loud once and then slumped back into deep sleep.

  Lincoln nudged him with his pistol on his temple.

  The man’s green eyes fluttered open, bloodshot from drinking, and then he blinked rapidly when he saw Lincoln standing there with a gun. Scrambling to sit up straighter, he looked from the gun to Lincoln’s face, sleep and alcohol slowing down his processing time. At fifty-one or so, he was in fairly good shape, not tall but average, lean except for his stomach, and still had all his brown hair.

  “What are you doing?” he finally asked.

  “I’m here to talk to you about Sabrina Tierney,” Lincoln answered.

  The man breathed heavily, unable to overcome the shock of waking to find a stranger with a gun in his house. “Who are you?”

  “That’s not important. What’s important is that you tell me why you’re allowing Tristan Coulter to set Sabrina up for the murder of Kirby Clark.” It was a stab in the dark, but he needed to find out where this man’s loyalty weighed heavier—with Tristan, or with the law.

  The man stared at him. Cat and mouse. The detective in him began to resurface, no longer startled out of deep sleep or afraid.

  “Tristan Coulter has nothing to do with the investigation,” he said.

  Not exactly true. “You and I both know Sabrina didn’t kill Kirby Clark, so why are you trying to pin her with it?” Lincoln leaned down and patted the man to make sure he wasn’t armed, and then moved around the ottoman to sit beside him, keeping the aim of his gun on him. Sitting beside him may relax him more.

  When Archer didn’t respond, Lincoln asked, “How did you pay off all your debt last year?”

  The detective in him registered what he’d said. “Someone has connections.” Meaning Lincoln. “What area of law enforcement are you in?” Then recognition slowly dawned in his eyes. “You’re that movie producer’s son. Police tried to arrest Sabrina at Haute Cakes Café, but you ran with her. I was briefed this afternoon.” Archer leaned back and smiled. “The producer’s son is a cop?”

  “No. I’m not a cop. Why are you helping Tristan?”

  “I’m not helping him. If you aren’t a cop, then what do you do?”

  “I think you are helping him. What I need to know is why.”

  Both of them were deliberately avoiding answering questions.

  “I could always look it up on the internet,” Archer said. “There’s probably plenty of information about you there.” With Jackson Ivy as a father.

  “Not while I’m pointing this gun at you,” Lincoln said.

  Archer glanced down at the gun Lincoln held casually, and then back up at him, hesitating, reluctant to believe he wasn’t in any real danger.

  “Are you in on Tristan’s illegal gun operation?” Lincoln asked.

  “What illegal gun operation?”

  The way he asked almost seemed as though he were fishing for how much Lincoln knew. “The one I plan to expose.”

  More hesitation rendered Archer silent, and his teetering on whether he was in danger or not leaned more toward not. Lincoln was becoming certain that the debt was at least part of what motivated him to hide evidence.

  “Did Tristan use the money he made from illegal gun sales to bail you out of debt?”

  No longer concerned that Lincoln would use his weapon, Archer stood. “I think you should leave now.”

  “You must have been in serious trouble to accept that kind of help. Or did you just feel desperate while you were going through your divorce?” Maybe Archer had used his half brother’s shifty offer to try to save his marriage. “Was it her or you who wanted to leave?”

  Now pure affront stormed over Archer’s brow. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  It must have been her. His reaction was too strong for it to have been his. “What did you have to do for the money?”

  The tightening of his mouth accompanied the emotion creasing his brow. He said nothing.

  Lincoln walked toward him. “Did you know Tristan would use his generosity against you when you accepted the money?”

  “You’re making a lot of assumptions.”

  And his assumptions were probably correct. The bug he’d just planted would confirm that for him. “Are you close to him? He is your half brother.”

  “How do you know so much about me?”

  So it was true. Lincoln didn’t answer that question. “He won’t be able to hold that over you after I’m finished with him.”

  “A producer’s son is going to take down a ruthless bastard like Tristan Coulter?” He grunted a laugh. “Good luck with that.”

  Lincoln grinned, letting Archer know he was aware that he’d just revealed his fear of Tristan. And if he feared him, he must have personal knowledge of why Tristan was a man to be feared. No customer account manager would generate that kind of reaction in people. It would take a man of far greater ruthlessness. Criminal ruthlessness.

  “If you aren’t law enforcement, what are you doing here?” Archer asked.

  He sensed that he’d have to give some inform
ation in order to gain trust. Because he had a feeling Archer wasn’t hiding evidence willfully. Tristan was forcing him. Holding him hostage because of the money he’d given him. Had he known the money was dirty when he’d taken it? Lincoln guessed not. Tristan had essentially used him to launder it.

  “I’m a bounty hunter,” Lincoln said at last.

  “A wannabe tough guy? Is that the closest you could come to playing a role in one of your father’s movies?”

  “I will expose Tristan.” He put away his gun. “With or without your cooperation.”

  Archer studied him as though contemplating the actuality of his claim. But he wouldn’t reveal anything. Not yet. Not until he was sure he’d live to talk about it later.

  That was okay with Lincoln. He removed his wallet and took out a business card, one from his martial arts studio. Handing it to Archer, he asked, “Did you grow up with Tristan?” He put his wallet away.

  Numbly, Archer nodded, looking down at the card. “We didn’t get along at first, but became friends later on, especially after his dad died. I didn’t see mine after my parents divorced. I don’t remember him. Tristan’s dad was the only father figure I had, and he wasn’t much of one.”

  “You were close to Tristan growing up?”

  Archer shrugged. “I can’t say I was close to anyone when I was a kid. My mother was preoccupied with her pastry shop and domestic violence. It wasn’t an ideal childhood.”

  “Is that why you became a cop?”

  “I wanted something good in my life. Every time the cops came to our house to peel my stepdad’s hands from my mother’s throat, I wanted to leave with them and never come back.” The edge in his tone revealed his conviction. “Anything else you want to know?”

  Yeah. He wanted to know about Tristan. “Give me a call if you really want to talk.” With that, Lincoln left the house.

  Once in the car, he opened the laptop and plugged in a USB device. Starting the surveillance program, he turned up the volume. Nothing.

  Just as he suspected, and the purpose of the device, Archer Latoya was not going to call Tristan and tell him about the visitor he’d just had.