by Jordan Dane
Brogan, the bully. A shaved, meaty head atop broad shoulders with no neck. So early in the morning, and the man wore a suit. Diego had never seen him without one. For all he knew, he wore the damned thing to bed, tie and all. But no matter how expensive the label, Brogan wore designer duds like they came off the rack. That about sized the man up. And those were his good points.
He didn't like Brogan's advantage over him, so he got up and moved, using the pretense of refilling his coffee mug. Brogan stood a head higher and outweighed him by fifty pounds, easy. Diego preferred to keep his distance, choosing a spot across a food preparation island to stand and sip his coffee. Besides, the hanging pots and pans blocked his view of the man's fleshy face. A side benefit.
"Who died and made you hall monitor, Brogan? You're just pissed 'cause I ditched you. You had no business following me, especially when you're no good at it."
Brogan had been dropped on his head as a child. At least, that's what Diego preferred to believe. Brain damage explained a lot. No sane mother would've raised a child using Brogan as a prototype.
"You don't know nothin' 'bout my business," he blustered, ready to pick a fight as usual. "As far as I'm concerned, you're some kinda outsider 'round here. You're nothin' but a damned watchdog with a fancy pedigree forced on us by Rivera and Global Enterprises. And those New York boys don't know squat about our operations in Texas unless the old man tells 'em. The way I see it, Rivera needs us a helluva lot more than we need you. So don't push your luck, mutt."
"The merger with Global is working as it should be, for now. And I'm here to see that both sides live up to the agreement. But you cause a blip on Castengra's radar screen, and you'll see how much he needs you. Hell, even worse, I wouldn't want to be the guy that topples this house of cards for Cavanaugh. But maybe you're man enough to take both of them on."
"You threatenin' me?"
Diego shrugged. "Actually, I'm conducting a scientific study on the correlation between abnormally high levels of machismo and stupidity. I think you'd make a perfect test subject."
Brogan tightened his jaw and clenched his fists. But after a long moment, the arrogance evaporated from his face.
"Hey, I'm only lookin' out for boss man's interests, even if the old man is too blind to see through your lone wolf act. You been spendin' too much time off the reservation. Don't think it's gone unnoticed."
Diego laughed and placed a hand over his heart in mock sincerity, trying to downplay his behavior. He didn't need the suspicion.
"Can't a man have a love life without you knowing about it?" He shrugged and shook his head, making light of it all. "But I tell you, I'm touched. I had no idea you were such a concerned citizen, looking out for the welfare of others. All this time I thought you only cared for número uno. I see now I was wrong. Can you forgive me, mi amigo?"
"Cut the bullshit. I don't trust you, Galvan."
The man stepped closer, his eyes no bigger than slits. Diego had seen the look before, but usually rodents didn't come as big as Brogan.
"You're hiding somethin', Mex. And it's only a matter of time before I catch you runnin' crossways of the old man. Then you're mine."
Diego lowered his voice, his eyes on Brogan. "A wise man would turn and walk away."
Brogan sneered. "Yeah, but which one of us is that smart?"
"If you have to ask—" Diego shrugged. In a surprise move, he turned to go, catching Brogan's reaction from the corner of his eye.
"Hey! Don't you turn your back on me, you son of a bitch."
The bigger man torqued his jaw and lowered his chin. He dodged the food prep island and lunged for Diego, yanking at his shirt to throw him off-balance. Brogan punched him in the jaw, making the first move.
That's all Diego needed. All his frustrations bubbled to the surface.
In seconds, Brogan's assault would land another fist to Diego's face. He couldn't let him get the upper hand. He stiff-armed the grip Brogan had on his shirt and broke free, dodging the second blow. Ducking under the punch, Diego let the man's weight propel him forward, prodded by a shove of his own. And a well-placed kick to the man's ass sent him sprawling. Brogan hit the floor, hard.
"Uumpphh."
The man stumbled to his feet, seething from his abrupt encounter with masonry. He came up bleeding. His lip cut.
"It's not too late for you to apologize." Diego knew his caustic remark would lead to round two. He wasn't disappointed.
In tight quarters, Brogan came at him again, shoulder lowered like a linebacker. He pinned Diego to the kitchen counter, grappling him in a bear hug. He saw stars with the exertion. The edge of the tile counter cut into his back. He had to make a move, fast. A man as big as Brogan could do some serious damage. Diego let his instincts take over. He shoved the man's head back and punched Brogan's nose. Once. Twice. On his third attempt to break free, Diego felt the man's cartilage give way.
Brogan cried out in pain and released his grip on Diego. With eyes watering, the man bent over in agony, hands to his face.
"Shit, you broke my—"
Before Brogan got his bearings and tried something else, Diego shoved him back and swept his legs out from under him, toppling him to the floor. He held the man down, pinning his throat with an arm to cut off his air, a powerful persuader.
Brogan had tested Diego on other occasions, picking his spots. So far, the results had been the same. He never learned from his mistakes, but Diego couldn't let his guard down for a second. He had to stay sharp. And on top of it all, he suspected Brogan had his own agenda. The man wouldn't hesitate to kill if he got the chance. That made his counterpart very dangerous. Within Cavanaugh's organization, Matt Brogan had earned his number one ranking.
Diego reminded himself of this fact as he watched Brogan's face turn purple. He still cinched the man's throat in a viselike squeeze. In a generous concession, he eased up on his chokehold. And Brogan collapsed to the floor, sucking air into his lungs.
That gave Diego time to assess the damage as he stepped back. Blood spattered the man's tie and white shirt. A trickle came out his nose and smeared through the sheen of sweat on his skin. His lower lip was cut and swollen, fatter than usual. Seeing Brogan this way had one bonus. Up 'til now, Diego couldn't imagine the man any uglier. Now, he could.
"You're done marking my territory. Quit pissing on my turf."
Brogan clenched his jaw but never said a word. No sign of gratitude. The man took another gasping breath and pulled himself up from the floor, unable to look Diego in the eye.
It was over, or so Diego thought.
Diego turned to leave, but as he got near the doorway, he heard the hiss of metal. He turned back around to see Brogan threatening him with a butcher knife. The man taunted him, daring him to come closer.
"Come on. We ain't done yet."
Diego had no choice but to prove the bastard wrong. He reached for a ten-piece knife set on a nearby butcher block, taking the four-inch paring and the five-inch serrated utility knives from their slots. He flipped one of the knives in his hand end over end, grabbing it by the blade tip.
High-carbon steel, good balance. This would do.
Diego took aim. Without hesitation, he launched the knife. It happened so fast, Brogan had no time to react. His jaw dropped and his eyes grew wide. The paring knife whizzed by his head and landed with a thump on the kitchen cabinet behind him. And in case he hadn't gotten the message, Diego hurled a second knife. This time, he nicked the man's ear to drive his point home.
"Aaarrggghh. Damn it. Okay, okay, knock it off." Brogan cupped a meaty hand over his ear and reached for a dish towel with the other. The kitchen staff would have a mess to clean before they heated the griddle and flipped eggs.
"I'm done talking. And I don't want to have this conversation again. We clear?"
Although Brogan nodded in agreement, Diego knew it wasn't over—not by a long shot. As he headed up the back stairs to his quarters, leaving Brogan to lick his wounds, Diego knew he hadn't done
himself any favors.
Next time, Matt Brogan would come at him with a short fuse and a taste for getting even.
Cavanaugh's seductive henchman had plagued Becca's thoughts all night. If she intended to keep Diego Galvan at a distance, her libido never got the e-mail. She hadn't slept a wink. All too soon, her alarm clock buzzed, a demonic grating sound. She had allowed enough time for her usual workout at the gym. But this morning, she had hit the snooze bar and yanked the covers over her head instead. One of those days. If a positive attitude measured up to a tank of gas, she'd be running on empty.
Now, in the harsh light of day, Becca drove to the Cavanaugh estate in a daze, no better prepared for the appointment she had made. Dosed up with caffeine, she hovered at cruising altitude, primed and pumped to see Hunter Cavanaugh and Diego Galvan.
Primed and pumped? Who the hell was she kidding?
Becca turned off Citadel Drive onto the estate and stopped to show ID to a security guard. Cavanaugh expected her. The impressive front gate and pristine grounds zipped by without notice. Too much on her mind. But as she drew closer, butterflies the size of vultures battered her insides.
The main house loomed ahead, a massive sprawling mansion of Mediterranean design. A cobblestone drive circled an imposing fountain with colorful flowers at its base. Vivid red awnings encased an ornate front door and custom windows across the facade. And a terra-cotta roofline accentuated stucco walls with imported stonework to match, a distinctive Italian influence.
Becca parked her Crown Vic short of the front door, feeling unworthy to block the main entrance. With one last look in the rearview mirror, she checked her hair and makeup and took a whiff of the white rose pinned to the lapel of her charcoal gray pantsuit jacket. Normally, the floral boutonniere would be too natty for her taste, but she wanted to send a clear message to Galvan. His midnight FTD service hadn't intimidated her in the least.
Yeah, right, if you didn't count the whole sleepless night thing.
A stern-faced butler answered the front door, looking like a member of the Addams family. The man sported a major combover of gray hair, his eyes the color of pewter. But heaping insult on top of injury, the butler's suit looked like it cost more than a month's salary for a civil servant. So far, her day had warped into a peachy keen affair.
"Right this way, Detective. Mr. Cavanaugh is expecting you."
As Becca listened to the high-pitched strains of a violin, she followed the butler through a magnificent rotunda. Her shoes echoed on the tile floor in the foyer, staccato time. With the butler keeping his eyes straight ahead, she walked behind him, sneaking a peek at every detail. Becca had never seen anything so lavish.
Subtle recessed lighting reflected anteroom walls of muted green. Marble columns, veined in black and gold, supported archways of carved ivory. Beyond the dim light of the foyer, a mahogany-and-beveled-glass doorway marked the entrance to the salon. As a focal point, inside the entrance to the chamber, a crystal chandelier hung low over a massive center table braced by gilt lions. Hunter Cavanaugh had extravagant taste. It must feel good to be king.
After Becca crossed the threshold, she heard a man's voice from across the room.
"Please . . . join me, Detective Montgomery."
In a lavish chair covered in leopard skin and framed in curves of bronze and black, an older man in his fifties sat with chin raised, like royalty holding court. She recognized Hunter Cavanaugh from her research. With a backdrop of gilded walls, his pale skin and white blond hair gave him the appearance of a statue, his pale blue eyes a stark contrast. Cavanaugh wore a crisp white shirt and black slacks, with a vintage smoking jacket in blood red. The guy either had a flair for drama, or he had a thing for Vincent Price.
Diego Galvan stood by his side. It took all her discipline to ignore him.
"These are my associates." Cavanaugh gestured with a hand. "This is Mr. Diego Galvan."
"A pleasure to meet you, Detective."
What the hell? Diego acted as if they had never met. A complete departure from the other day. But more to the point, it didn't look as if he had told Cavanaugh about their little encounter outside the Imperial, an even bigger curiosity. That and the bruise on his jaw. The man could even make a bruise look sexy.
Diego smiled, warm and genuine, the cockiness gone. Yet his eyes shot her a clear message—play along, Rebecca. How generous did she feel? And why would he assume she'd cooperate? But when she returned his smile, he added a wink, meant for her alone. It stopped her cold. Her smile dissolved into an awkward businesslike nod, a move that amused him.
Despite the clandestine greeting and his subtle flirtation, she couldn't help but notice. Diego looked elegant in his gray suit and black cashmere turtle-neck, the picture of confidence and style. Bruise or no bruise. Why does he have to look and smell so good, damn it?
Cavanaugh's voice intruded, "And this is Mr. Matt Brogan."
If Diego had all the qualities of a charming and intelligent Dr. Jekyll, Matt Brogan had to be his alter ego, Mr. Hyde. The guy's face looked like it had spent some quality time pressed to a George Foreman grill. Streaks of red skin appeared swollen to the touch. And his ear had a major gash in it. Brogan nodded, no real greeting. And he barely made eye contact.
A falling-out among thieves? Apparently, Diego had won the argument. A tiny voice in Becca's head told her to keep her mouth shut about his raw appearance, but her host noticed her reaction.
Cavanaugh raised an eyebrow, a glint of amusement in his eyes. He crooked his lips into a smile. "It seems Mr. Brogan had a dispute with the chef this morning." He leaned toward her and whispered, as if the man in question stood out of earshot. "I'm afraid his kitchen privileges have been suspended."
Cavanaugh stood and walked to a console table. "May I pour you some coffee?"
A silver coffee service had been arranged. An elaborate setup.
"Yes, sir. I'd love some."
Cavanaugh poured two cups and gestured for her to sit on a velvet divan, midnight blue with gold piping. He brought the coffee over and served her. The whole idea was to get him to feel comfortable with her—not a difficult task if she set her mind to it. But today, with this man, Becca would have to force the mindless banter.
"You are a striking woman, Detective Rebecca Montgomery. But I suppose you hear that a lot."
"Oh, I don't know. I find a man says just about anything to a woman with a gun." She smiled. "But in my line of work, it's hard to gauge sincerity without a lie detector."
"Well, unfortunately, I've found honesty is a rare commodity these days. Wouldn't you agree?"
His face remained stoic, unreadable. But he coerced a smile from her again. Cavanaugh had either seen through her strained cordiality or the man had informed her that he rarely told the truth.
"I must say you were a little cryptic on the phone. What is this about, Detective?"
"I do appreciate you seeing me like this, Mr. Cavanaugh. I'd like to ask you a few questions about the Imperial Theatre."
"I was disturbed to hear it burned down. Pity. But I'm afraid I no longer own the building. Sometime back, I donated it to charity as a historical site." He smiled and sipped his coffee.
"Yes, I remember reading about that in the paper a year or so ago. As a young girl, I visited the theater. Magnificent original architecture. Who handled the last renovation design work?"
For an instant, she glanced toward Diego. Becca hadn't intended to do it, but like a compass compelled to point north, she caught herself drawn to the man. Diego narrowed his eyes, seeing through her subterfuge. Idle chitchat had never been her forte.
"Hans Muller, a local architect. He gained national recognition for that renovation project, I'm proud to say." And with a wink, he added, "For specialty work, I hire it done."
You hire out specialty work, as in murder? Becca got the distinct impression Cavanaugh was toying with her. The man was in his element, feeling cocksure. Could he be hinting at a truth only he knew, daring her to find it?
And were Diego and "No Neck Boy" nothing more than hired thugs? Becca's gut twisted, her cop instincts on the blitz.
After a sip of her coffee, she asked, "And did Muller handle all the renovation work?"
"Yes, he did. Of course." He leaned toward her. "Why all the interest in architecture, Detective?"
"Actually, I loved that old building. When, specifically, did you relinquish ownership of it, sir?"
He gave her a date she already knew. Becca kept her eyes on him, watching for a change in body language. Up until now, they had chatted, idle conversation to establish a "baseline" of his normal behavior. Enough time for her to get a read on his mannerisms, his voice, his thought processes. Now she'd hit him with the real reason for her visit.
"I'm sorry to say that we are investigating more than a fire at the Imperial. It seems that seven years ago, a body was buried in a wall during the last renovation."
"What? I don't understand."
"Skeletal remains were found after the fire, Mr. Cavanaugh. And I'm sure you'd like to get to the bottom of this as much as I would."
Slick as black ice, the man tried to suppress his reaction, but Becca caught something all the same. His eyes were jumpy, like a suspect's. With a man like Cavanaugh, the best she might get is a slip-up on his part, a careless word that would give her a clue to chase. But the man salvaged his composure in two seconds flat.
"How dreadful," he said. "Do you happen to know the identity of this poor individual?"
"We're working on it. But in the meantime, when was the last time you saw this young woman?"
Becca handed Isabel's photo to Cavanaugh. The way she posed the question, she made it appear as if Cavanaugh already knew the girl. A deliberate ploy.
"Sorry, can't help you. I don't recognize her at all."
Cavanaugh waved a hand and gestured for his men to come over. "No Neck" shook his head and shrugged. A cold response. He hadn't even glanced at the photo of Isabel for more than two seconds. Becca suspected the guy would react the same way if someone asked if he were lactose intolerant. Talk about a poker face. A dead girl would hold no more significance to this whack job than that bloated feeling after eating dairy.
