Internal Affairs

by Alana Matthews

  * * *

  THEIR COURTSHIP had been short, but fraught with frustration. For Sloan at least.

  He quickly discovered that Lisa wasn’t like other women. Was not impressed by his looks and his money and his standing in the community. And this, Lord help him, made her even more attractive to him.

  It wasn’t until long after their separation that he realized that it must have been a ploy. She had manipulated him into wanting her. Wanting her to the point where he broke his cardinal rule and got down on one knee and asked her to marry him.

  They had been dating several weeks by then. Dates that had started out tentative and full of hesitation on her part. She had told him that she didn’t ever want him to feel that she was taking advantage of him because of the baby. And he had believed her. For no other reason than he was madly, head-over-heels in love with her—an emotional malady that he had always scoffed at.

  The powerlessness he felt when he was around her niggled at him, worried him. Made him wonder if he was losing his edge. He remained on his best behavior around her because he didn’t want to upset her, take the chance of losing her.

  In those first weeks he had even taken a hiatus on bedding other women. And when he finally got Lisa into bed, it was the most sublime experience he’d ever been part of. He didn’t know where or how she had learned to do what she did, but he didn’t care as long as it was with him.

  And when she said “yes” to marriage, it was the happiest day of his life.

  * * *

  IT WASN’T UNTIL the baby was born, five months later, that things began to go sour. After Chloe came into the world, Lisa became less attentive and a lot less interested in taking him to bed.

  At first he blamed it on postpartum depression, but he quickly grew impatient with her. A man should only have to put up with so much.

  And her obsession with Chloe was relentless. Didn’t she realize she had a husband to tend to? Didn’t she understand that it was only his generosity that had allowed her to spend so much time with the child?

  He had offered to get Chloe a nanny, so that Lisa would be free of the responsibilities of raising the kid, but Lisa had balked at the idea. Said she was only interested in raising Chloe herself, and wished that Sloan would be more attentive to the little girl he had promised to raise.

  He didn’t remember making such a promise, but he supposed somewhere in the haze of bedding Lisa and asking her to marry him, he must have made noises in that direction. But surely she had to understand that such promises were never meant to be kept. He was all too happy to support the kid, but he didn’t have time to be developing a relationship with her, any more than his father had had time for him.

  This seemed to be a sticking point with Lisa, however, and he soon realized that she didn’t love him the way she once had. That the freshness of spirit that was there in the beginning of their relationship had all but disappeared.

  And this made him need her even more. He found himself constantly consumed by thoughts of her, wondering what he could to do to regain what they’d lost. He found himself taking out his frustration on the other women he bedded. Had even broken the jaw of one of them when she’d had the audacity to ask if Lisa cared that he had strayed.

  And when Lisa found out about it and confronted him, he had been open and honest with her in hopes that she would realize what she was doing to him.

  Instead, she had gotten crafty. She’d begun sneaking around in his personal files and had told him that if he didn’t grant her a divorce, he would pay the consequences.

  It was only then that Sloan realized he had been used. That she had only pretended not to care about his money. That there was undoubtedly another man out there telling her what to do. How to manipulate Sloan.

  Yet, oddly enough, none of that mattered.

  He still wanted her, more than ever. The year of separation had been sheer torture for him and he couldn’t convince himself that it was over.

  No matter what it took, he would get her back. And this time, it would be on his terms, not hers. He was, after all, the man in this relationship and it was time he made her realize that.

  This morning may have backfired with that nosy maid of hers brandishing a shotgun, but there would be other days. Other mornings.

  And sooner or later, Sloan would have what rightfully belonged to him.

  Chapter Eight

  It wasn’t a surprise that Sloan didn’t live in a house. No, a guy like him only owned houses. Living in one would be far too conventional for him. He was a mover and a shaker who considered himself to be movie-star cool. So what better way to prove it than to live in a hotel suite?

  But not just any hotel. Sloan lived in one of the most luxurious establishments in St. Louis. The one with a five-room penthouse suite priced at four grand a night, with a name fit for a king.

  The Palace.

  Rafe had only been here on a couple previous occasions. Callouts in the middle of the night when some of the guests had gotten unruly. The hotel staff usually handled such matters in-house, with their private security squad, but sometimes things got out of hand and the Sheriff’s department was called in to clean up.

  Rafe had always been a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy. Not one for fancy trappings and over-the-top displays of wealth and power. So when he stepped into the Palace lobby, he took in its stark, postmodern decor with a jaundiced eye, thinking about how much meat and potatoes you could buy just by auctioning off its contents.

  You could probably feed a small, developing country.

  Rafe had no problem with wealth—people deserved to be rewarded for their hard work—but such displays got him wondering about the world’s priorities. And it didn’t surprise him that Oliver Sloan would choose a place like this to live.

  What better cover for his thuggery?

  But then Sloan was a new kind of thug. One who used money and power and influence rather than guns—unless, of course, they were absolutely necessary. He wore the finest clothing, dined at the most popular restaurants, smiled for photographs with the elite of St. Louis, pretending to be an upstanding citizen, as he worked his shady deals in back rooms and private offices.

  Rafe knew that if he tried to go through channels to see Sloan, if he went to the front desk and sent up a message, he would be turned away. And if he pressed it, if he insisted on being seen, then Sloan’s cronies would be alerted, management and security staff would appear out of nowhere and Rafe’s boss would be dragged out of bed by a call from someone on high asking how some insignificant sheriff’s deputy had the audacity to show up on Sloan’s doorstep at six o’clock in the morning.

  That was a scene Rafe would just as soon avoid. So the moment he walked into the hotel, he turned to the bellman on duty and gestured abruptly.

  “Follow me,” he said.

  The bellman’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of Rafe’s uniform, but he didn’t balk, didn’t resist. Instead, he nodded politely and came around from his desk and followed Rafe straight to the bank of elevators on the far side of the lobby.

  Rafe pushed the button, waited for the doors to open, then gestured the bellman inside. “After you.”

  As they turned to face the closing doors, Rafe said, “Take me to the penthouse.”

  He had known that getting there would require special access and only a bellman or the hotel manager would have the key.

  But now the bellman balked. He just stood there without moving.

  So did the elevator.

  “Well?” Rafe said.

  “I, uh, I’m not supposed to let anyone up there.”

  Rafe had been expecting this.

  “I feel your pain, but you’re just going to have to steel yourself and make an exception.”

  “But we have strict orders from Mr. Sloan to—”

  “You see this uniform?” Rafe said.

  “Uh...yeah.”

  “You think I’m wearing it just for fun?”

  “Uh...no.”

 
“I’m a deputy with the St. Louis Sheriff’s Department, and I don’t care what Mr. Sloan ordered you to do. When I tell you to take me to the penthouse, you’d better take me to the penthouse or you’ll find yourself facing a possible obstruction of justice charge. Do you want that?”

  The bellman swallowed, said nothing. He just reached into his pocket, took out a key card and slipped it into a slot on the elevator panel, punching a button with his index finger.

  The elevator glided into motion. Rafe put his trust in the numbers that lit up the panel above the doors to be sure they were actually moving.

  When they reached the penthouse, a faint bell chimed and the doors slid open again. Beyond them was a long, richly appointed hallway, bathed in white. There was another set of doors at the far end, two dark-suited guards keeping watch in front of them.

  Rafe thanked the bellman and started down the hall, wondering if he should have brought a pair of hiking shoes for the trek. He once again marveled that Lisa had been married—if only briefly—to a guy this far out of touch with reality, and decided he’d definitely have to get that “long story” on record.

  Not that she owed him any explanations. But he was curious, and hoped she’d be willing to share.

  He was about halfway down the hall when one of Sloan’s guards said, “Excuse me, deputy, but we weren’t informed of your arrival. Do you have an appointment?”

  “It’s six o’clock in the morning,” Rafe said. “Who makes an appointment at six o’clock in the morning?”

  “Then I can only assume you got off on the wrong floor.” The guy may have looked classy and all in his suit, but the tenor and tone of his voice betrayed him as just another thug.

  “You can assume all you want,” Rafe told him. “But I’m here to see Mr. Sloan about his early-morning activities. So wake him up if you have to.”

  The thug smiled as Rafe came to a stop in front of him. “I’m getting the impression you don’t know how this works.”

  “You should be getting the impression that I don’t care. Tell Sloan I’m here.”

  “You aren’t too smart, are you?” the other guard said.

  “Smart enough to make it through college, for what it’s worth. What year did you drop out?”

  “Hey, Frank,” the first one said, apparently addressing his partner. “We got ourselves a comedian.”

  “I think you’re right,” Frank said.

  “Remember that funny guy out in Vegas? The one who kept cracking jokes about your crew cut?”

  “The guy who kept calling me G.I. Joe? Yeah, I remember.”

  “Wasn’t he a fed or something?”

  “Narcotics detective,” Frank said. “And come to think of it, he tried to get in to see Mr. Sloan without an appointment, too.”

  “You ever find out what happened to him?”

  Frank shrugged. “Last I heard, the brace was off, but he was still in physical therapy.”

  Now they both turned their gazes on Rafe, their faces abruptly hardening, their eyes full of quiet menace. These were two men who took their jobs very seriously and answered only to one master.

  And it wasn’t Rafe.

  He said, “Come on, guys, why the hostility? All you have to do is open that door and step aside and let me talk to your boss. I’ll even apologize for the ‘dropout’ crack.”

  Rafe knew he was wasting his breath, but he was simply waiting for one of them to make the inevitable move. They were done talking and ready to introduce Rafe to their fists, and he was trying to decide which one would take the lead.

  As is turned out, they moved simultaneously, like a well-choreographed dance duo, one reaching for Rafe’s jacket as the other took a swing.

  But Rafe hadn’t spent the past few years just lifting weights. A month after joining the department, he had signed up for a self-defense class, led by a guy who specialized in Krav Maga. He had gotten so good at it that he now led the class himself, every Tuesday and Thursday night.

  It took four precise moves to put Frank out of commission and pin his partner to the floor, all without breaking much of a sweat.

  Now Frank was unconscious and the other one was looking up at Rafe with eyes that were no longer filled with menace, but with the kind of desperation that only a man fearing for his life can produce.

  But Rafe wasn’t a sadist. He gave the guy a polite warning, then released him and stepped toward the hotel suite doors.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll announce myself.”

  * * *

  RAFE HAD BEEN EXPECTING more thugs inside the suite, but was pleasantly surprised when no one came rushing forward.

  The suite, which was triple the size of his apartment, looked like something out of a lifestyle magazine, with a flawless white carpet and a handcrafted sofa and chairs that were clearly more expensive than the pieces he sat on at home.

  Off to his right was a full kitchen featuring a state-of-the-art espresso bar. Being a Franco, Rafe was a sucker for a good shot, so it immediately caught his attention.

  To the left were two open doorways that he assumed led to bedrooms. And judging by the sounds emanating from one of them, and the long trail of male and female clothing leading directly to it, his assessment was accurate.

  He didn’t doubt that it was Sloan in there. The guy had worked up an appetite with Lisa and was now quenching it with someone who would give him what Lisa hadn’t been willing to. They were making quite a racket, those two, so Rafe went to the espresso bar, made himself a shot, then settled in on the sofa to wait for them to finish up.

  Chapter Nine

  “Who the hell are you?” Sloan barked.

  He stood naked in the bedroom doorway, his muscular body bathed in sweat, a scowl on his face as he stared at Rafe with eyes full of rage. He was about thirty-five, with short dark hair, and held a pair of boxer shorts in his right hand—which he had scooped up from the floor before realizing Rafe was there.

  Lisa had said he was drunk when he came to her house, and the effects of the alcohol—and whatever else he was ingesting—didn’t seem to have worn off.

  Rafe set the espresso cup on the coffee table and got to his feet, nodding to the scattered clothes. “You want to get dressed, Mr. Sloan? I can wait.”

  But Sloan obviously wasn’t embarrassed by his nakedness. He made no move to cover himself. “How did you get in here?”

  “Your guards let me in.”

  “What?”

  “I was as surprised as you are,” Rafe said. “I guess my people skills are a lot better than I thought they were.”

  Sloan finally started pulling the boxers on. “Do you have a warrant?”

  “For what? I’m not here to search the premises. I just want to talk.”

  Sloan scooped up a pair of dark slacks. “Then make an appointment. I want you out of here. Now.”

  Rafe smiled. “You know, it’s funny. I’m pretty sure that’s what Lisa Tobin wanted when you paid her a visit early this morning. Yet it took a shotgun to get you to leave.”

  “Lisa?” Sloan said incredulously. “You’re here because of Lisa?”

  “You assaulted her, Mr. Sloan. Physically.”

  Sloan scowled again. “I didn’t do any such thing.” He started jabbing his legs into the pants, angrily punctuating his words. “My ex-wife is a pathological liar. And you’re an idiot if you believe a word she says.”

  “Oh? What about the housekeeper? Beatrice. Was she lying, too?”

  Sloan scoffed. “Do you know I hired that ungrateful witch? She’s as nutty as Lisa is.”

  “Maybe so, but Ms. Tobin seemed very upset, and I have a hard time believing she was lying about what happened.”

  “Lisa Tobin is very good at manipulating men into thinking she’s some kind of victim. But what she really does is use them, then discard them when they’re no longer useful to her.”

  “Or maybe she just doesn’t like being cheated on,” Rafe said. “By men who brutalize their mistresses.”
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br />   Sloan was in the middle of buttoning his shirt now, but stopped abruptly and looked at Rafe. “You’re gonna want to watch your step, deputy.”

  “Or what?”

  Sloan moved toward him and Rafe instinctively dropped his hand to his Glock.

  “How old are you?” he said. “Twenty-five, twenty-six? You’re barely out of diapers and you think you know it all, don’t you? Think because you wear that fancy uniform and that star on your chest that you can barge into a man’s home and make accusations about his character.”

  “You can’t be that clueless about your reputation,” Rafe said.

  “My reputation? I’m a businessman.”

  “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

  Sloan raised his right hand and held his thumb and forefinger in a pinch, leaving less than a quarter-inch of space between them. “You’re that close to getting your butt kicked, hotshot.”

  “By whom? Frank and his girlfriend in the hall? They’ve already tried and it didn’t work out so well.”

  Sloan studied him a moment. “I’ve got to admit you’ve got brass in your pants, deputy. But I can’t help wondering why you’re really here.”

  “Just to tell you to back off. Leave Lisa alone.”

  Sloan smiled. “So it’s Lisa now, is it? Did she bat those baby blues at you and get you all aquiver inside?” He paused. “Or maybe it’s more than that. Maybe she gave you a little taste of the goods and you came up here to play knight in shining armor.”

  “You really like to hear yourself talk, don’t you?”

  Sloan shrugged. “I can think of worse ways to spend the day.”

  “Well, maybe you should listen for a minute. If you think you can walk into a house, a house with your own child in it, and—”

  “My own child?” Sloan chuckled. “You don’t know anything, do you?”

  “I know it’s my job to butt heads with jerks like you,” Rafe said. “And if you think you can terrorize women without consequences, keep pushing, buddy. I’m all too happy to push back.”

  Sloan stared at him and Rafe returned the stare, the tension between them palpable. Volatile. Part of Rafe hoped that Sloan would make a move. Give him a reason to bring out the cuffs.