Bodyguard

by Suzanne Brockmann

  He also couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept in the bed of a woman like Alessandra Lamont.

  Yes he could. That would have been four years ago, before his divorce. Before—

  He interrupted himself. “So what do you think she knows?”

  George turned on the windshield wipers to clear away the light rain that had begun to fall. “I think there’s definitely something she’s not telling us.” He glanced at Harry. “And I think despite her Ice Queen routine, she gave you one very serious once-over. I don’t know why, but the phrase ‘pillow talk’ keeps popping into my mind.”

  “Oh, no,” Harry said. “Nuh-uh. No way.”

  “You’ve got to admit, it would be a less life-threatening way to blow off steam on your nights off than taking down three armed robbers without any backup.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.” Harry tried to stretch out his legs and hit his already bruised knee on the dash. “Ow. Besides, she’s not my type.”

  “She’s beautiful and she’s blonde. She’s exactly your type. You just said so yourself.”

  “She’s more your type,” Harry countered. “She’s not real broken up over the husband’s death—obviously she married the guy for his cash. She’s nothing but a high-priced hooker.”

  “There’s a big difference between exotic dancers and hookers, thank you very much.”

  “Sorry,” Harry said.

  “Hookers would be going too far. The dancers I can actually bring to office parties, and God, does that make Nicole squirm.” George grinned.

  “How is Nicki? I only caught a glimpse of her yesterday. She was moving too fast even to say hello.”

  “That about describes her.” George had been divorced from Nicole Fenster since before Harry had met him, but not a single day passed in which her name didn’t come up. “Isn’t it convenient, now that we’re no longer married, policy allows us to work in the same area, out of the same building? That’s why I’ve stayed partners with you, you know. Because if I did what everyone else has done and asked for a transfer, I’d probably be hooked up with Nic again.”

  The tires made a shushing sound against the wet pavement as they rode for several long moments in silence.

  “Have you had a chance to check out Griffin Lamont’s file?” George asked. “Did you look at his picture?”

  They’d both seen his body after he’d spent a few days in the river. That was not the same thing as seeing his photograph. “Yeah.” Pale hair, pale eyes, pale face. Relatively handsome if you were into mushrooms who never saw the light of day. Of course, most women wouldn’t look further than the dollar-sign motif the guy was practically wearing on his tie.

  “Can you believe Lamont dumped her?” George laughed. “What was he thinking?”

  “Irreconcilable differences,” Harry said flatly. “According to the divorce papers, he wanted children, she didn’t. Guess she didn’t want to ruin her figure.”

  “Wait—when did you see the divorce papers?”

  “This afternoon. While you were shaving for the second time today. I left the file on your desk. See what you miss by being fastidious?”

  “I thought I’d be spending the evening with Kim.” George glanced at him again. “You know, I bet if you went back to Farmingdale tomorrow and offered Mrs. Lamont a strong shoulder to cry on—”

  Harry shook his head. “Don’t start with that again. I don’t need that kind of trouble.”

  “Where’s the trouble? Two consenting adults who get together for a little dinner, a little intellectual conversation, a little—”

  “Intellectual conversation?” Harry laughed. “She’s not exactly a Harvard grad. In fact, I’d bet my paycheck she had trouble getting through her Mavis Beacon Typing Tutor software.”

  “You just said you thought she was smart,” George pointed out.

  “Smarter than she looks. Which sure as hell isn’t saying much. I bet if you dig underneath those designer clothes, the step-aerobic-toned body, and the five tons of makeup and hairspray she wears, there’s nobody home.”

  “Why the hell would you want to dig deeper than her body?” George laughed. “For God’s sake, Harry, get your priorities straight.”

  By four A.M., the twenty-four-hour emergency service had finished boarding up all of the windows in Alessandra’s house. By five minutes after four, both the repair truck and the patrol car that had been idling out front finally pulled away.

  Alessandra went into the garage then, searching for the charcoal barbecue grill Griffin had stored there for the winter, all the way back in October. Nearly six months ago. Only six months ago. It seemed like an entirely different lifetime now.

  She’d tried so hard, and for so long, first to please her parents and then the husband she’d married much too young. She’d tried to make herself exactly what they’d wanted, with no regard to her own wants and needs.

  And now, with her parents long since passed on, and Griffin dead, she was adrift, clinging to her old life out of fear and this awful sense of uncertainty.

  It was going to take getting used to—no one telling her what to do. There were no expectations. No rules. And for the first time in her life, a life that might have been viewed as very pampered by some but was in truth smotheringly restricted, she was going to do exactly what she wanted, simply because she wanted to.

  She found the grill, found the bag of charcoal Griffin had neatly sealed. And beside it, she found what she was really looking for.

  She took the lighter fluid into the kitchen, turned on the back-porch light, and stepped out into the night. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the cold spring air.

  The garden was starting to bloom. The trees had young, fresh leaves and they seemed to glisten and shine.

  The azalea, Griffin’s azalea, right by the steps leading up to the porch, was covered with small, pink buds.

  Alessandra squeezed the plastic container, lit a match.

  And then she stood in the predawn darkness and watched Griffin’s azalea burn.

  Two

  ALESSANDRA HAD JUST picked up her clothing from the dry cleaners and was glancing at her watch, wondering if she had time to visit Jane, when the limousine pulled up behind her car.

  It was following closely, too closely, and it stayed behind her as she approached the street that led to home.

  She didn’t turn, heading instead toward the grocery store. Maybe the limo wasn’t following her. Maybe …

  Her car phone rang.

  She pulled up to a red light before she answered, taking a deep breath to calm herself. This was just a coincidence. It was the Realtor calling. Or the man from the insurance company. “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Lamont.” The voice was heavily accented, but soft, cultured. “Pull into the shopping area across the street to your right and park there, please, in the front of the bakery.”

  “Excuse me?” The light changed, but she had to put on her brakes right away as an oncoming car turned left, crossing in front of her. “You don’t really think I’m just going to—”

  “Mr. Trotta wants to see you,” the man told her. “We can do this nicely. Friendly. Or we can do this not so nicely. Not so friendly.”

  Alessandra pulled into the lot and parked in front of the bakery.

  It was four o’clock in the afternoon, but inside the windowless Fantasy Club, time had no meaning. Four P.M. or four A.M., or any other time of day or night, a woman was onstage, dancing, and men were in the audience, watching.

  George took a seat at the bar in the back of the room, smiling a greeting as Carol, the bartender, gave him his usual—a vodka and tonic with a twist of lime.

  “Will you tell Kim I’m here?” he asked, and she moved to the phone.

  He took a sip of his drink and lit a cigarette as he looked around the room. He recognized quite a number of the faces in the audience. And of course, he knew all the girls by name. Monique had the stage. She was rolling and gyrating in ways that defied descriptio
n, doing what George liked to think of as her floor routine. He smiled, imagining an entirely new adults-only category for the Olympic gymnastics competition filled with competitors named Trixie Devine and Bunny LeFleur.

  “Kim’s up next, Mr. Faulkner,” Carol came over to tell him. “She says she’ll be out to see you after.”

  “Thanks, Carol.” He took another pull on his cigarette, reaching for an ashtray as he watched Monique dance.

  The limousine pulled up outside a warehouse. They were in a part of Queens that Alessandra had never seen before, down near the river, by the docks.

  The man with the accent, the one who’d spoken to her on her car phone, opened the door, gesturing for her to get out. He was tall and broad, with sandy blond hair and a distinctly Eastern European face. Flat, Slavic cheekbones, slightly flattened nose, broad forehead, pale blue eyes.

  “Where are we?” Alessandra asked.

  He looked at her with complete dispassion in his eyes. There was absolutely nothing there. No registering of her beauty, no interest, no humanity. It was as if she were invisible.

  Or as if she were already dead.

  “It’s best if you don’t ask many questions,” he said in that voice that so reminded her of Arnold Schwarzenegger playing a high-class art dealer.

  Taking a deep breath, she gathered all her nerve. “I thought you said Michael Trotta wanted to talk to me. I don’t know why you dragged me all the way down here when he lives not too far from—”

  “You will follow me, please.”

  This was ridiculous. She had no real reason to feel so utterly afraid. She’d known Michael and his wife, Olivia, for seven years. And even if the rumors she’d heard for all those years were true, and some of the business Michael did was illegal, that still didn’t mean she had to be afraid of him. He liked her.

  Just last Christmas, she’d attended a holiday party at his house. He’d fixed her a drink himself, telling her a very corny joke about a rabbi, a priest, and an alligator.

  Yes, Michael Trotta liked her, but then again, Alessandra had always thought he’d liked Griffin a whole lot, too.

  The man with the accent opened the warehouse door, and she followed him inside. The space had been subdivided and partitioned. Instead of one vast area, she was in a long corridor that stretched all the way to the end of the building. Her heels echoed on the cheap tile floor.

  There were no doors off this part of the corridor and only one other dimly lit hallway that led to the right. It was spooky and silent and not at all where she wanted to be.

  God, what if she were wrong? What if Michael Trotta were behind the destruction to her home and that frightening phone call she’d received last night? Where’s the money? Find it. Fast. Or you’re next.

  What if he was responsible for Griffin’s death?

  The accented man paused outside a door—the only door in the entire expanse of the hallway. He knocked, and it opened a crack. A man peeked out, but no one spoke, and the door closed again.

  “What—” Alessandra started.

  “We wait. Quietly.”

  “I knew I’d find you here.”

  George closed his eyes. That wasn’t his ex-wife’s voice. He refused to let it be his ex-wife’s voice. But when he opened his eyes, Nicole was slipping onto the bar stool next to him. “I called you at home, and when you weren’t there, I figured you’d be here.” She fanned the air between them. “God, when did you start smoking again?”

  He took another drag on his cigarette, then put it out in the ashtray. “About four months before we split up.”

  Nicole was wearing khaki slacks and a sweater, but despite the fact that she was dressed down in Saturday clothes, she still looked every inch the efficient federal agent. Her short brown hair was neatly pulled back behind her ears, and she wore just a touch of makeup. A little bit of lip gloss, something on her cheeks to give her face a little color.

  George focused his attention on Monique. “This is my first day off in weeks. There better be a really good reason this couldn’t wait until Monday.”

  Onstage, on her knees, Monique released the front catch of her bra, slipping it off. She threw back her head and arched her back, letting the stage lights catch the full glory of her naked breasts, her absurdly large nipples standing at full attention.

  “Whoa,” Nicole said. “Is that all real?”

  George nodded. “Real enough for me.”

  “Is this Kim?” she asked.

  He turned to find her watching him as intently as he’d been watching Monique, her light brown eyes tinged with just a hint of sadness. He turned back to Monique, refusing to acknowledge it, refusing to think about the way their still-too-recent divorce might’ve affected Nicole.

  Because it hadn’t affected Nicole. She was as heartless as she always accused him of being. Whatever he’d just thought he’d glimpsed in her eyes was nothing but an act.

  “No,” he said flatly. “Kim’s up next. You’ll be gone by then.”

  Monique was moving now, her breasts nearly perfectly shaped, two firm hemispheres of flesh. Nicole’s skepticism was well-grounded. The dancer had to be surgically assisted. Had to be.

  “I’m going to be working with the Trotta team,” Nicole told him.

  “In the field?” George’s voice cracked, and he couldn’t keep the horror from his eyes. “With me and Harry?”

  Her smile was tight. “Relax. I’ll be working out of the office most of the time. But you’ll be answering to me.”

  “Oh, that’ll be fun.”

  “Actually, one of the things I wanted to discuss with you is Harry O’Dell. How much of a liability is he?”

  “He’s the best partner I’ve ever worked with.” George met her eyes, daring her to bring up the fact that they’d been partners once. A billion years and a christload of aggravation ago.

  Nicole didn’t take the bait. “The psych department thinks he’s on the verge of becoming unreliable. He’s got a pretty serious rep as a wild man. There’s talk his obsession with Trotta is personal.”

  “It’s all personal to Harry. He’s completely insane,” George agreed. “But he’s the best. I’m serious about this, Nic. Don’t pull him off the team.”

  She held his gaze for several long moments, then nodded. “All right. He stays. For now.”

  “Mrs. Lamont. What a pleasure it is to see you again.”

  Michael Trotta sat behind an enormous oak desk. The first glimpse Alessandra had of his office was a surprising one. She’d imagined all dark wood and black leather, but the walls were light, and despite the lack of windows, the room was bright and airy. There were fresh flowers and plants everywhere.

  But then she didn’t see anything but the huge dog, teeth bared in a snarl, straining against its chain, held by a silent man standing beside Trotta’s desk.

  Alessandra moved behind the man with the accent.

  “I’m sorry,” Michael said. “Down, Pinky. Sit.”

  The dog sat, but his ears were up, lips still pulled back, his eyes watching her relentlessly.

  Alessandra’s heart was beating so hard she could barely breathe. Still, she forced a smile. “It’s one of those childhood fears I never quite grew out of. Even friendly dogs scare me a little.”

  “I know,” Michael said. “But Pinky’s not friendly. In fact, he’s been trained to kill.” He smiled. “Won’t you have a seat?”

  The only chair in the room was within a few feet of the dog. Pinky. What a ridiculous name for an attack dog.

  “I’ll stand, thank you,” she told him.

  “Please sit,” he said. “I insist.” He turned to the man with the accent. “Ivo?”

  Ivo took her arm, but she pulled free, stepping forward herself. She took the chair and dragged it several feet farther from Pinky’s still-bared teeth.

  Amusement and something not quite as funny gleamed in Michael Trotta’s brown eyes. “Do you know why you’re here?” he asked.

  There were times in life wh
en a woman might get further by playing dumb, but this was not one of them. “I assume it has something to do with Griffin’s death.”

  “There’s a connection,” Michael admitted. He sat back in his chair. “My dear Mrs. Lamont, you have something that belongs to me.”

  Nicole glanced at the Fantasy Club stage, at Monique, who was coming to the end of her dance routine, legs spread, hips gyrating wildly.

  “She’s good, isn’t she?” George asked.

  Nicole laughed. “You’re such an asshole.”

  He slid down off the bar stool. “Come on, I’ll walk you to the door.”

  “My oh my, you’re in a hurry to get rid of me. But I’m not done. We’ve got a little more to discuss.”

  George glanced toward the stage as Monique exited to the sparse applause. He sat back down with a sigh. “Nicole. Darling. It’s my day off.”

  “It’s my day off, too, but this couldn’t wait.” She reached for his drink and took a sip. “You and O’Dell went to Long Island last night, right? Checking into that B&E and vandalism report called in by Alessandra Lamont?”

  He took the glass away from her. “My report will be on your desk on Monday. No sooner.”

  She waved that away. “I got a call this morning from a reliable informant,” she told him. “According to him, the word on the street is that Alessandra has something that belongs to Trotta. A substantial sum of money, to be exact. The story goes Trotta found out Griffin was double-crossing him by doing business with a competitor. He had him snuffed as a punishment, you know, as a ‘this could happen to you’ visual aid for the rest of his people. It was only after Griffin had two bullets in his head that Trotta found out there was a million dollars missing.”

  As awful and macabre as that was, George had to laugh. “Oops. Kind of hard to get a dead man to tell where he hid a million dollars.”

  Nicole’s mouth curved up into a smile, too. “Yeah. The stupidity factor here is off the scale.”

  “And that’s why Lamont’s house was trashed?” George asked. “Trotta’s men were searching for the million?”