Love Under Two Private Dicks [The Lusty, Texas Collection] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)

by Cara Covington

  “As part of the surveillance that we’ve been conducting on our Mr. Smith, we introduced a couple of high-tech audio transmitters, one attached to his telephone, and the other under his computer desk.” Connor Talbot gave his full focus to this meeting. It was just after noon hour on the Monday after the Fourth of July holiday. The Dancing Pony wasn’t open to the public yet, which suited their needs perfectly. He and Mel preferred to keep knowledge of their business in town restricted to just this handful of people.

  “We’ve monitored a couple of weeks’ worth of mutterings,” he continued. “Mostly, what we have is him talking to the computer generated ‘hostess’ at one or the other of the Internet gaming sites he goes to. That, and words he just mumbles throughout the day that appear to be him talking to himself—words that we more often than not, simply couldn’t make out.” Connor shrugged. “When we could hear what he was saying, his words didn’t always make sense. So that part of our investigation, at least, didn’t bear fruit.”

  Connor met the gazes of each of the people gathered around the large table on the club floor, close to the bar. He’d met everyone there before except the two men Ethan Grant had mentioned the last time they’d met with him here.

  Patrick Owen and Beck O’Malley were paying close attention not only to every word, but, Connor would wager, to every nuance as well. O’Malley was the man who’d been in love with Chloe Rhodes. Connor knew the details, of course. When O’Malley had proposed, she’d surprised him by not only turning him down, but breaking off their relationship and then, shortly afterward, leaving Divine and moving to Lusty.

  Connor felt for the man, because he himself was a man who had so very recently proposed to the woman he loved. But he also understood that what Chloe had done had been difficult and hard on her, too, even though she’d honestly believed they simply weren’t meant to be.

  Chloe’s firemen had told him and Mel in no uncertain terms that breaking things off with O’Malley had torn her up inside. He didn’t know the woman well, but she seemed so kindhearted, he didn’t have any difficulty believing it.

  Chloe had apparently been right about her and O’Malley not being a perfect fit, because now she was engaged to marry those two firemen, and O’Malley and his best friend, Patrick Owen, were in a relationship with another woman—Lucy Carter.

  Since he and Mel were professionals, they’d made inquiries as soon as Ethan had requested the two men be brought into the loop on Ralph Baxter. Both O’Malley and Owen appeared to be solid, hardworking, and honest. And from all reports, both were completely smitten with Ms. Carter. Connor understood that the main reason Ethan had lobbied for their inclusion in this little adventure was because he believed that helping to deliver justice for Chloe and her sister Carrie would be cathartic for O’Malley.

  Connor came to the conclusion that Ethan Grant was a man who really understood people. He had no doubt whatsoever that their participation in the case—no matter how small that role turned out to be—would indeed help O’Malley put that chapter of his life behind him so that he could move forward.

  “So what you’re saying is, you’ve bugged the place?”

  Connor resisted the urge to smile. O’Malley was actually turning out to be a surprise. On first handshake he’d seemed like a quiet, almost-broody sort of man. But Connor suspected Mr. O’Malley ran a lot deeper—and a lot hotter—than the appearance he presented.

  “We did, yes.” He didn’t mind either answering questions or enlightening the two “civilians” among them. “We know that we can’t use anything we catch on tape in a court of law, per se, but if he were to talk out loud about having killed Neil Jackson, or hell, even where he’s got the body buried, we could use that as probable cause to get a warrant. Unfortunately, that didn’t pan out.” Ethan had served coffee a few minutes before. Connor picked up his cup and took a solid drink. His mind wandered briefly to their woman, and what she might be buying for them all right now at Discretion.

  “I have no problem with the concept of bugging his place,” O’Malley said. “The fucker stole from two little orphan girls. He deserves to be some jail inmate’s fuck buddy for that.” Then O’Malley sighed, but Connor could see the twinkle in his eyes. This guy could wind up being a friend. “Sorry, I know that doesn’t help—and I know about the statute of limitations.” Then he looked around the table. “Who’s this guy, anyway? Ethan said he’s been around Divine for a decade or so. Would we know him if we saw him?”

  Connor opened his briefcase and pulled out a print of the photo he’d taken of Smith a few weeks back. Since Beck O’Malley and Patrick Owen were both late to the party, more or less, he guessed no one had had the chance to point Smith out to them.

  Connor gave them the photograph. “I took this a few weeks ago. Take a good look, so you’ll recognize him if you do see him.”

  Beck O’Malley held the photo so that he and his friend could both see it. They stared, unspeaking for just a couple of moments. Then O’Malley blinked, and swore.

  “Sonofabitch. I told you there was something wrong about that guy. We’ll have to tell Lucy about this.” O’Malley was speaking to his friend, Owen. “Let her know our suspicions were spot on about him, and not just sexist bullshit…whatever.”

  “I take it you’ve seen the man?” Ace Webster asked.

  “Yeah.” Patrick Owen ran a hand through his hair. “He came into Lucy’s place a couple of months back, looking for his computer. I guess he’d left it with Marvin and didn’t know the guy had changed locations. This asshole made an insulting comment to Lucy about her ‘massage parlor.’ Jackass.”

  “Well,” Ethan said cheerfully, “at least you’ll recognize him when you see him.”

  “No shit.” O’Malley handed the photo back to Connor.

  “So, our audio surveillance failed to turn up anything that we could use to help us get a warrant. Smith does, however, seem to be talking to himself more and making sense less. Is he going off the deep end? I don’t know. But this makes him more unpredictable, and therefore probably more dangerous.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” Owen said.

  “None of us does,” Mel said.

  “I’ve also been able to discover a few things about the man’s finances,” Connor said. He took some papers out of his briefcase and handed them over to Ace Webster. While Ace and Kemp looked them over, Connor continued with his briefing. “He has safe-deposit boxes almost every damn where. I’m beginning to understand about that mitt full of keys he always carries with him.”

  “Now, there’s nothing illegal in having a lot of safe-deposit boxes,” Mel said. “Except we think those boxes might actually hold cash—some of the cash he took from the Rhodes girls. We were able to track the money Baxter stole to an account in the Cayman Islands—it had ended up there from the bank in Austin through a wire transfer. After that, it vanished—withdrawn in person, with no traceable paper. We suspect he went there and took it out in cash, and somehow brought it back into the country with him.”

  “The thing about keeping big dollars hidden like that,” Connor said, “is that if all of the boxes were opened and the money counted, I’d bet he’d be hard pressed to explain where the funds came from, without confessing to what he’d done. Yes, the statute of limitations has passed. But we’re thinking the IRS could find a way to make his life a living hell.”

  Ethan chuckled. “When all else fails, charge the man with tax evasion. I like it.”

  Connor smiled. “So do we, but that is not our if-all-else-fails plan.”

  “So our top priority is what?” Patrick Owen asked. “You can’t break into those boxes and see what he has in there, can you? And then report him to the IRS? Like an anonymous tip?”

  “No,” Connor said. “What goes into the official record of this case has to be completely above board. We don’t mind a little clandestine planting of listening devices, or even a little illegal searching of his premises. But we can’t sanction breaking into a bank.”r />
  “The first thing we have to do,” Mel said, “is prove beyond a doubt that Bruce Smith is in fact Ralph Baxter, and the best way to do that is through fingerprints.”

  Ethan nodded slowly. “He comes in sometimes—usually on Monday and usually around three, or so, and orders a couple of beers. He doesn’t have a particular place he likes to sit—but I’ve seen him mostly at the bar rather than one of the tables. He doesn’t talk to anyone, and he doesn’t have more than two glasses of beer, ever. Then he gets up and leaves. If I get you his glass would you be able to get his prints from that?”

  “Yeah. Especially if one of the four of us bags it. We could testify, if necessary, that it was collected evidentially, according to protocol. I can send it off to the crime lab in San Antonio—I still have friends on the force down there—and they could run the prints for us. He’ll pop, since he’s likely to still be in the system. Ralph Baxter is still officially listed as missing.”

  “Okay, good. We could probably grab Mr. Smith’s glass later today,” Ethan said. “I expect he’ll be in.”

  Ace nodded. “I agree. If he follows pattern, he should already be in town, on his way to the cleaners to pick up his laundry. His route doesn’t change much from week to week. From the cleaners, he then heads over to eat at Rudy’s, and then he stops in here. Mr. Smith has his regulation two beers and is on his way again in less than an hour. His last stop is always Batson’s Grocery Store.”

  Connor thought he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned his attention toward the area beyond the bar. One sign pointed to the bathrooms and another, an exit sign, indicated there was a point of egress, just out of sight from where he was sitting.

  Ethan Grant noticed where his attention was directed. He looked at his watch and said, “That’s likely just the soda delivery. The guy doesn’t know how to move quietly. I can go tell him to keep it down, if you like.”

  “No, it’s fine,” Connor said. “I just didn’t realize there was anyone else around, is all.”

  “This is the time for deliveries, or repairs, whatever I need done before we open at three. In anticipation of this meeting I called in one of my waitresses to help. Corinna is back there subbing for me.” Then he grinned. “It’s like a different place in the daylight and with the lights on and the music off, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” Connor agreed. He turned his attention back to the meeting.

  “I’m confused,” O’Malley said. “How’s getting his fingerprints going to help us? You said he couldn’t be charged because of the statute of limitations.”

  “It eliminates supposition,” Mel said. “So that we know for certain the man we are dealing with is Ralph Baxter.”

  “That’s only going to be our first step,” Connor said.

  “You want him to implicate himself in the murder of that lawyer,” Patrick Owen said. “That’s what you’re going after him for. Not for theft or misdirection of funds.”

  “That’s right. And if we can’t do it by the book, we’ll be sneaky and underhanded,” Mel said.

  “Sometimes you do what you gotta do,” Kemp said. Then he smirked. “Remind me to tell you a story sometime about duct tape.”

  Connor had actually heard a story about the somewhat laconic investigator and duct tape. He fought his smile.

  “Is that why we’re here?” O’Malley asked. “To do something sneaky and underhanded?” He didn’t look too displeased by the prospect.

  “In a way,” Mel said. “First we positively identify Smith as Ralph Baxter. Then, the next time he’s in town, we need to keep him here beyond the time he usually spends running his errands. We have to come up with a stalling tactic so Connor can work his magic.”

  “It will take me at least as long as he’s usually here in town to search his house. When I planted those bugs, I was just in and out. But I also want to cover the outbuildings. Hell, it would probably take me at least a half hour to pick all the locks of the sheds he has out there.”

  “Sheds?” O’Malley looked from Connor to Ethan. “What kind of sheds?”

  “Jack said they were fancy-ass garages.” Ethan looked over at Connor. “You met Jack Warner, one of my best friends and a partner in the Divine Creek Horse Ranch, when you were here a while back with Miss Bancroft. Jack is a contractor, and the man that Mr. Smith hired to erect a shed not long after he moved into his place. Jack took the job because, back then, he was hungry to get himself established and was happy enough to take any job. The man paid cash, that wasn’t a problem. Jack just said the guy never took his eyes off him, gave him bad vibes. Then a couple of years later, he hired Jack to build three more sheds. Jack said he did it, but he wouldn’t work for the guy again.”

  “I take it you jogged your friend’s memory about Smith?” Connor asked.

  “Yes, but it didn’t take much jogging,” Ethan said. “Jack has a good memory, and Smith really stood out. Adam’s also been out to his place a couple of times, to repair the A/C.” Then Ethan grinned. “Sorry, Adam Davis, my other best friend and partner in the Ranch. Adam said the same thing. Guy watched him like a hawk, then paid him in cash. Adam didn’t mind being watched. He says it happens sometimes, because he works in people’s homes.”

  “Smith, or Baxter, sounds like a man with a reason to worry about people snooping around,” O’Malley said. “Maybe you’ll find the reason why when you go out there. It’d be good if Chloe and her sister could get some justice.”

  “What are you going to do if you don’t find anything?” Owen asked.

  Connor looked at Mel and then over at Ace and Kemp. All three were smiling. Ace nodded, which meant he was sure both O’Malley and Owen would keep their mouths shut.

  “All right then.” He rubbed his hands together because there was a part of him that really hoped they got to enact this particular part of the plan. “Let me tell you what Mel and I have come up with, just in case all else fails.”

  Chapter 22

  “Hey, buddy, do you want to make a fast twenty bucks?”

  Bruce Smith looked around, trying to figure out who’d called out to him. There, in the parking lot behind The Dancing Pony, a large refrigerated truck had been parked close to the building. By the back of the rig, with the door only half-open, stood a young man who motioned to him.

  Normally, Smith would just ignore anyone calling out to him, and in fact almost just walked away.

  But what if that brought him under even more scrutiny? What if this delivery guy bitched to the man who ran the place? Then that guy—Grant, Smith recalled—would likely tell everyone what a rude bastard he was. Then folks would start watching for him, looking at him with their eyes narrowed, and their lips curled up in a snarl.

  Lately, Smith had been feeling more and more paranoid. He knew his thinking was paranoid, too, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Something was up. He just had to try and figure out what the hell was going on.

  The last thing he needed was to draw even more attention to himself by acting like a rude asshole.

  So instead of ignoring the summons from trucker boy, which he really wanted to do, he nodded and walked over to him.

  “Hey. What can I do for ya, buddy?”

  “The fucking wheel came off my large dolly at the last delivery. Asshole pub owner and his fucking pothole-covered parking lot. I’ll pay you twenty if you help me unload these canisters of soda syrup and lug them inside. Usually I can do it on one trip with my dolly, but hell, that’s busted and if I have to carry them all myself, I’m going to be even more late for my next delivery.”

  Carry a few canisters for a twenty? Kids sure as hell didn’t know the value of money these days. “Sure. I could use a fast twenty.”

  “Great. I figure just a couple of trips for each of us, and we’re out of here. Here.” The man handed him the bill, and Smith stuffed it in his pocket.

  He loaded Smith up with two stainless steel canisters, and took two himself. The kid hit the door buzzer with his elbow. The door
swung open. But it wasn’t Mr. Grant standing there, it was one of the waitresses. “Hey, Corinna! How’re ya doing? Where’s the boss man?”

  “I’m doing just great, Tommy. Come on in. Ethan’s out front having some sort of a big meeting with those two detectives from out of town. Just put the canisters in the usual spot, and hand me the invoice when you’re done, please.”

  “No problem. It’ll just take us a couple trips. We have to carry them because the dolly broke.”

  Smith got an anxious feeling in the pit of his stomach. What detectives from out of town? Likely, it was just some business to do with the club, but still.

  He carried the canisters in and tried to get a look into the bar area. Or were they meeting in Grant’s office? He couldn’t shake the feeling that if he could just have a look at what was going on, then he’d know if he had anything to worry about, or not.

  He thought back to all the times in the last few months when he’d felt as if someone was watching him. He’d done his best to shake it off as just irrational fear. But the voices in his head would not be quiet any longer.

  What if it those voices had actually been right all along? What if he really wasn’t being paranoid? What if he really was in some sort of danger?

  One thing Smith knew for certain, the cops wouldn’t be after him for the money he’d taken. The statute of limitations had passed on that. They wouldn’t waste their time and taxpayer dollars when he couldn’t even be charged with anything.

  But taking money wasn’t all he’d done, and for the other thing, there was no statute of limitations.

  And if they were the other kind of detectives…he didn’t think about it often but he knew he still owed that bastard Brody Carp a lot of money. Hell, did loan sharks even hire private dicks in this day and age? Would Brody Carp go to so much trouble just to get his quarter of a mil back? Smith worried his bottom lip. It had been a lot of years, more than fifteen, since his payment deadline had come and gone. Loan sharks didn’t write off outstanding balances. Not unless the person they’d loaned the money to was dead. And sometimes, he knew, not even then. Figuring in the rate of interest Carp charged and it was a fuck of a lot more money than a quarter mil by now.