by Mallory Kane
"What about a cell phone?"
"Fine. Okay. How does it work?"
Jones showed Seth the tiny lens embedded in the top of the cell phone's belt clip. "It's wide angle. If you point it in the general direction of your subject, it will pick up about a six-foot radius."
"I assume the phone still works."
"Sure. It's a fully functioning cell phone. Just don't try to use the belt clip. It doesn't open. It's strictly there to house the camera. We'll be recording in here."
Seth exchanged his phone for Jones's. "What about sound?"
"The quality isn't the greatest, but as long as you're no more than five feet away, it should pick up conversations."
"Is your number coded in?"
Jones nodded and looked at his watch. "So are Burke's and McMullin's. Don't stay too long. Two more hours and I'm heading home to a hot feast—and pizza delivery." He laughed loudly at his own joke.
Seth smiled faintly. If Jones weren't so convinced that Adrienne was guilty, Seth might learn to like him.
He used the concealed exterior monitors to check the street before quickly exiting the truck and ducking into an office building. After studying the building's directory for a few seconds, he loosened his tie and stepped outside, crossed the street and entered the original Cajun Perk right behind the scantily dressed prostitute.
She stepped to one side, peering at the pastries in the glass case, obviously waiting for him to go first. He quickly ordered a latte and sat down at a mosaic-topped table near the counter. He retrieved the cell phone from his jacket pocket and set it on the table, aimed at the counter as the young prostitute gave her order.
"Hey, Leo. Let me have your special blend." Tapping her false French nails nervously on the counter, she glanced around, her heavily made-up eyes lingering on Seth for an moment. He didn't look away, just sipped his coffee as if he had all afternoon to sit and watch beautiful young whores.
"You know, the Hurricane Blend," she said quietly. As she waited, her gaze took in the rest of the patrons. When Leo returned to the counter with her coffee, she inspected the paper cup and the protective sleeve with a sharp eye, paid Leo and went over to the condiment counter, where she added several spoonfuls of sugar to the cup.
Seth casually turned the phone toward her as he studied the cup and the protective cardboard sleeve with interest. The sleeve on her cup was bulkier than the one on his, at least a quarter-inch thick.
His blood raced. He'd just watched the drug being passed right in front of his eyes, and he couldn't do a damned thing about it.
According to Jones, the prostitute had spilled to Courville that they used Category Five to drug wealthy older businessmen. The drug loosened inhibitions, stimulated arousal and was highly addictive. The prostitutes hauled in piles of money by bilking their johns, who kept coming back for another fix of both the drug and sex.
Just as the prostitute left the coffee shop, Jerome Senegal and a man Seth didn't know came in.
All senses on alert, Seth deliberately relaxed back in his seat and sipped his coffee. He aimed the phone camera at Senegal for a couple of seconds, then picked it up and keyed in Jones's number, keeping his attitude casual as Senegal swept the seating area with his sharp gaze.
Jones spoke before he had a chance to. "Did you see who just came in?"
"Yes. Did you get a look at the cup?"
"Got it all on tape. Could you tell the difference?"
Seth kept his voice low. "The cardboard sleeve is at least three times as thick as normal. She was telling the truth."
"The lab ought to be able to enlarge the pictures. But man, we gotta get our hands on one of those sleeves."
"What if she brought one in so the lab could measure it, photograph it and test it for traces of the drug?"
"Won't work. According to her story, the manager of each store keeps a running log of pickups, including dates and times. And the head pimp Maurice Gaspard checks each prostitute in each day, again with times. It's better than a chain of evidence."
A shadow blocked the afternoon sun shining into the shop. Seth glanced up at Jerome Senegal.
"I see," he said. "Then we'll have to make other arrangements. I'll speak with you later." Seth severed the connection. He set the cell phone back down on the table, resisting the urge to adjust its position for the camera angle. Even if it weren't at the best angle, it would still pick up their conversation.
Meeting Senegal's eye, he rose and held out his hand. "Mr. Senegal. Nice to see you."
"Lewis, isn't it?" Senegal grinned. "I guarantee I'm not likely to forget that name. Mind if I sit?" He indicated the other chair at Seth's small table.
"Sure." Seth sat back down.
The man with Senegal remained standing.
"Get me a café au lait. Want a refill, Lewis?"
Seth shook his head and watched with interest as the bulky man in the tailored suit marched to the counter and placed Senegal's order. Bodyguard.
"So, Lewis," Senegal said a few seconds later, accepting the steaming cup from the bodyguard. He sipped the fragrant chicory coffee and steamed milk mixture. He shook his head. "I surely don't like the name Lewis." His eyes were vicious as a blackbird's— sharp, intelligent, not missing a thing.
Seth set his cup down carefully, aware that every move he made, every word he said, was under intense scrutiny. If Senegal managed to unearth the final thread of memory that connected Seth to his father, Confiden-tial's case could be lost.
"I apologize for my name, monsieur. Should I leave in order to save you from further offense?" He spoke carefully, affecting the slight continental accent and adding to it an attitude of boredom. Drawing on the rigid control of his military training, he concentrated on distancing himself as much as possible from New Orleans, from Robert Lewis, from everything connected to his former life. He had to be the wealthy financier Senegal thought he was if he wanted the mob leader's trust.
Senegal waved away Seth's response. "Non. Not at all." But his gaze still measured Seth, and his expression was thoughtful. "You say you're not from around here?"
Seth had expected the question. Still, his heart rate sped up. Confidential's entire case could depend on how well Seth handled the next few minutes. He realized he was feeling the same thrill of danger, the same satisfaction he'd felt during successful field ops. He felt useful. It was a tremendous boost to his ego. He'd spent too many months in a sludge of self-pity.
He leaned back and loosened his tie a bit more and sighed, as if he were relaxing after a hard day's work. "I said I'd lived in a lot of places."
An expression of intense anger darkened Senegal's expression, quickly covered with a toothy grin.
Adrienne's pale lovely face rose in Seth's mind, so frightened and worried, probably because of the man sitting across from him. Since he'd met his princess, Seth's priorities had changed. Accomplishing Confi-dential's goal would free her from the Cajun mob and remove the sadness and fear from her eyes. That alone would give him greater satisfaction than anything he'd done in Special Forces. A small voice that sounded a lot like Jones's whispered in his mind. If she's innocent.
"You don't impress me, mon ami," Senegal said. "You try to act the big shot, non? But you just a horny kid, worming your way into the designer panties of the rich Widow DeBlanc. You don't want to tell me where you from, that's fine with me. But tell me this. Just how much influence you really got with Crescent City Transports?"
Seth bristled at Senegal's comment about Adrienne, but he kept his expression bland. Senegal was playing right into Confidential's hands. Burke had instructed Seth to get this deal. He'd even given Seth the name of a contact at the transport company to refer Senegal to.
"Jerome Senegal doesn't conduct his own business affairs, not at the delivery level. He'll have a lieutenant to work out the specifics," Burke had told Seth. "You'll need to do the same. You're too big a fish to be making your own deals."
Seth wasn't about to make it easy for Senegal. He'd never
gain the mob boss's trust if he didn't have his respect. And a man as ruthless as Senegal respected ruth-lessness.
Seth set down his coffee cup and pushed back from the table. "Well, Mr. Senegal, I'd think a man in your position would already know the answer to that question. So, if you'll excuse me, this 'horny kid' needs to make a few transatlantic calls. Money never sleeps, as I'm sure you know."
He stood and picked up his cell phone. "Bonjour, monsieur," he said, inclining his head. "Call me when you decide you really want to do business." Seth started for the door, his shoulders corded with tension. He'd just turned his back on the enemy, something he'd been taught never to do. He keyed random numbers into his phone with one hand.
"Wait, mon frère," Senegal called. "What's your hurry?"
Seth paused and turned, casually holding the phone so the camera caught Senegal. He raised a brow. Senegal's Cajun accent had become heavier, his face looked more deeply lined. Had Seth gotten to him?
Senegal's bodyguard took two steps toward Seth, but Seth glared at the heavyweight at the same time as Senegal held up a hand. "Please. Sit."
Seth's thumb hovered over a number key as if the call he'd been about to make were a matter of international concern, then he closed the phone and sighed, glancing at his Rolex Oyster. "A few minutes should not matter." He sat, but didn't relax, exuding an attitude of barely reined in impatience.
Senegal smiled, his white teeth brilliant against his swarthy complexion. "Me, I have coffee beans to deliver. You have a trucking company. We are a perfect fit. Tony Arsenault handles deliveries to the various coffeehouses. He will be pleased to discuss terms with your people."
Seth let interest show in his face as he sat back in the chair and lay the phone on the table. "Now, you're talking business."
Adrienne had to drag herself out of bed. She wasn't sleeping well. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw her mother. The sister's warning echoed in her ears whenever she tried to rest.
She spent the morning at a small Internet cafe, searching for nursing facilities in nearby states. She couldn't afford to go very far. She'd found three possibilities. One was in Mississippi, a tiny nursing home in a town so small it was hardly on the map. One was in Memphis, and advertised its commitment to resident safety. And the third was a government run facility. She wasn't sure her mother would qualify, but it wouldn't hurt to ask.
She called Jolie, who'd guaranteed she could scratch up about twenty thousand.
"You realize I may never be able to repay you," she'd said to her friend.
Jolie's voice had held concern and compassion. "Repay me for what? I'm repaying you. I wouldn't have The Cater Caper if it weren't for you."
Now Adrienne stood in front of the large marble-topped chest that dominated the decor of her dining room. It was the only piece of furniture that was truly hers. It had belonged to her grandmother and had sat in the lobby of The Caldwell Hotel all her life. She caressed the cold marble. Once she'd hoped to give it to her own daughter.
She opened the top drawer and felt inside it. Toward the back was a lever, which she tripped. It was a secret lock for the bottom drawer, which appeared to the casual observer to be part of the base. She crouched and pulled it open, staring at the piles of cash. She knew exactly how much was in there. One hundred and forty-two thousand, three hundred dollars. It wasn't much, but add to it the twenty thousand or so from Jolie, and hopefully it would be enough to get her mother and herself to safety.
She'd bought new luggage yesterday. The middle-sized piece was just the right size to hold the cash. Somehow the purchase of the luggage made her decision seem starkly real.
What she was considering seemed impossible. She shuddered. The mob was ruthless. She had heard Marc talk about people who'd wanted out. Some of them had disappeared. Some had changed their minds. Some had ended up dead. There was no one she could turn to for help. She'd already endangered Jolie, her only true friend, by involving her. As soon as Jolie got her the money, Adrienne would sever all ties with her.
Then she really would be alone. Everyone she knew was potentially connected to the mob. Even Seth.
When she'd met him, she'd dared to believe he was different. In the short time she'd known him, she'd begun to fantasize that he could help her escape. She'd come so close to confiding in him, so close to asking for his help. But if he would lie to her about his ties to New Orleans, then how could she trust him?
Her eyes filled with tears that spilled over onto her cheeks. She brushed at them impatiently. She didn't have time for self-pity. There would be time enough for crying when she and her mother were safe.
Now she had to prepare.
She retrieved the mid-sized suitcase from the hall closet and put the cash inside. The stack of bills looked pitifully small inside the leather bag. She closed the case and put it back into the closet, then locked the empty bottom drawer just as someone knocked on her patio door.
Her pulse leapt. Was it Seth? She cursed her fickle heart.
But it wasn't Seth. It was Tony.
Her only reaction to the sight of his tall, menacing figure through the screen door was a contraction of her already tight muscles and a queasiness under her diaphragm. She rubbed her neck. She was stretched like a rubber band. Any more pressure and the band would break.
She opened the door,-hoping to discourage him from coming inside by standing with her hand on the knob, but he stepped up onto the first step, towering over her, advancing until she backed away. He entered her kitchen.
"What do you want?" she asked bluntly.
"I understand your mother is doing much better."
His oily voice slithered down her spine like a slick, cold snake. She shuddered in revulsion, surprised that she still had room for any emotion inside her.
"What do you mean?" This wasn't his usual threatening message, couched in the form of a polite inquiry into her mother's health. He appeared positively cheerful.
He smiled, the scar on the side of his face giving his leathery countenance the distorted look of a Halloween mask.
Tony "The Knife" Arsenault was only happy when he was torturing someone. Had he hurt her mother?
A deep, primal fear radiated through her, washing all the strength from her limbs. She pressed her palms down on the cool granite surface of her kitchen counter, trying not to collapse.
"What have you done?" Her voice broke. "Is my mother all right?"
"Of course, chère. Your mother is fine. You have pleased Jerome, and as for me, I am very impressed. I was certain you could be tres persuasive if you set your mind to it."
"What are you talking about?"
Tony flexed his fingers like a gunfighter about to draw his gun. The image of him holding the machete he was rumored to be so fond of rose in Adrienne's mind. She swayed as the blood rushed downward away from her head, making her feel lightheaded.
"It pleases me to report that your boyfriend has made a deal with us to deliver coffee beans."
The words hit Adrienne like a blow. She'd been expecting something like this, but she'd hoped she was wrong.
"So?" she said, forcing herself to sound unconcerned. "He's a businessman. I'm sure he makes deals every day." She was nowhere near as confident as she sounded. The way Tony's voice wrapped around the word deal made her feel physically ill.
Seth had made a deal with the mob. He had sided with the enemy.
"Of course. So, chère, as long as Seth Lewis continues to 'deal' with us in this particular way, you may assure the nuns at St. Cecilia's that your mother will not have any more unwelcome visitors."
Her blood felt like ice water running through her veins. "What particular way?"
Tony stepped around the counter. Adrienne took a step backward, but he stopped her with an iron grip on her arm.
"You're hurting me," she grated through clenched teeth.
"I know." He leaned down until his awful voice and hot breath assaulted her ear. "We have a nice setup for coffee deliveries with Crescent
City Transports, thanks to your lover. You keep him occupied a little longer, ma petite. Then Jerome, he says you can be free."
She gaped at him, certain she'd heard wrong. "Free—? Did—did you say free?"
"You remember that, chère, the next time you think about running away."
Adrienne's heart pounded in her chest. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Tony twisted her arm slightly, just enough to send a pain shooting up through her shoulder. "You think you can make a move without us knowing about it? You think nobody will notice when you buy a set of luggage because you pay cash? Where were you planning to go, chère?"
She closed her eyes, unable to stop the helpless tears that slipped down her cheeks. She stood rigid as a stone until Tony finally let go of her arm.
He laughed. "You take care of your mother and play with your boyfnend. But remember, Jerome, he controls everything, including you."
He touched the side of her face with that hand that had killed people. She jerked away, glaring at him through her tears.
His dark eyes glittered with sadistic triumph. "Here is a tip about your boyfriend. Do you know that Jerome's first wife ran off with their gardener seventeen years ago? Do you know that the gardener's name was Lewis?"
Stunned, Adrienne fought to keep her surprise from showing. Lewis. She remembered Seth's questions about Jerome's house, and how tense he'd been when he first saw it. It made sense now. He'd have been around eleven or twelve at that time. He knew the house. He'd probably helped his father, Senegal's gardener.
"Jerome believes Lewis, the big shot, is nothing more than the gardener's son. It is your job to assure that he will stick around until we find out for certain."
So you can kill him, Adrienne thought dismally.
Chapter Seven
Adrienne faced an impossible choice—Seth's life or her mother's. She couldn't abandon her mother, but neither could she lead Seth into Jerome's deadly trap.
As the day waned, she stepped out the kitchen door, too tense to stay cooped up inside. In the shaded courtyard, the sunset gave a rosy glow to the tiny waterfall that bubbled into a stone pool filled with golden koi.
