Rafe had figured the hits were mob-related. So it made sense that Sloan was somehow involved.
But that didn’t change anything.
“The second?” he asked her.
Kate’s eyes softened. “I’m worried about you, little brother. I know it took you a long time and a lot of soul searching before you decided to join the family business. And I’d hate to see this decision destroy it for you before you’ve really had a chance to prove yourself.”
“If proving myself means what you people seem to think it means, then maybe I’m not cut out for the family business.”
“Just think it over,” she said. “Who knows? This could even mean that bump up to Homicide you want so badly. Take a day or two. I’ll stall the others.”
“You can stall them all you want,” Rafe told her. “I’m not going to change my mind.”
“Believe me, I know how stubborn you can be. And I don’t want you to do anything that would compromise your beliefs. But take the time anyway, okay?”
“Whatever you say, sis.”
Rafe gave her a look, then turned and walked away.
Chapter Twelve
Sloan wanted Rafe Franco’s head.
All he could think about as he sat in that disgusting, foul-smelling jail cell was how miserable Deputy Do-Right was about to be.
This guy Franco thought he had it all figured out. Thought he could come into Sloan’s hotel room, terrorize his woman, slap cuffs on his wrists and actually get away with it.
Hadn’t he gotten the memo?
Nobody messed with Oliver Sloan.
Nobody.
Rafe Franco was about to be educated. You don’t go after a man like Sloan and come out smelling like roses. Instead, you’d be smelling like what those roses are planted in, and the stench won’t be going away anytime soon.
In fact, you’d be very lucky if you weren’t planted along with them.
Five hours, Sloan thought. Five hours he sat fuming in that cell, hours he’d never be able to get back. Hours he could’ve spent boffing that little blond Gloria—if she hadn’t been stupid enough to come trotting out of his bedroom buck naked with a bag of coke in hand.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Then there were Frank and Bobby. Those two were supposed to prevent guys like Franco from getting into the hotel suite.
And what had they done?
Folded like a couple of lawn chairs.
When Franco booked him, the first thing Sloan did was demand his phone call. He pulled his lawyer out of bed and put her to work. Sloan had three things he wanted taken care of by the time they got to court that morning.
First, a nice little payoff arranged for the judge who was scheduled to do the arraignment. Fortunately, it turned out they already had a standing financial agreement with the guy, so the problem was easily taken care of.
Second was to get him a decent suit to wear to court. The clothes he’d managed to put on before the shouting started and the cuffs came out were wrinkled and soiled—partly with Gloria’s cherry-red lipstick. Sloan had a reputation to maintain, and refused to appear in public without a perfectly pressed suit, a crisp shirt and a neatly knotted tie. His old man had always told him that you’re more often judged by what you wear than what you do or say, and it was Sloan’s experience that those words were absolutely true.
The third item on his lawyer’s agenda was to check into this idiot Rafe Franco. Sloan had sensed that Franco hadn’t come to the hotel as an officer of the law, and he wanted to know exactly what the nature of his relationship with Lisa might be.
Was he her boyfriend?
Had he been sleeping with her?
If so, how had he escaped Sloan’s surveillance? Sloan had been putting teams on Lisa since the day they separated. Not every day, mind you, but enough to keep tabs. And he couldn’t for the life of him figure how they had managed to miss her playing nighty-night with a six-foot-two-inch hunk of stone.
So finding out what Lisa and Franco had between them was high priority. Sloan would be damned if he’d let some cop steal Lisa’s heart. For better or worse, that heart belonged to Sloan and Sloan only, whether she liked it or not. It was bought and paid for, baby. Same as her body.
And that was something Sloan was willing to kill for.
* * *
“THERE HE IS!”
The shout came from a punk of a reporter who looked all of twenty years old. A snot-nosed little creep who probably thought he was the next Woodward or Bernstein. Except in these days of blogs instead of newspapers, pretty much anyone could make that claim. Didn’t mean they had what it took to live up to it.
A crowd of reporters and video cameras waited just outside the prisoner processing room, where Sloan had picked up his wallet and personal effects. The crowd wasn’t as big as he had expected, and he was a little disappointed by that. There was no such thing as bad publicity as far as he was concerned, and he planned to spin this disaster in his favor.
As she escorted him outside, however, his attorney—a luscious little number in a tight skirt, named Lola Berletti—told him to keep his mouth shut.
“You can’t be serious,” he snapped.
“You don’t want to give them ammunition,” she told him. “They’ll cherry-pick whatever you say and use it against you.”
Sloan huffed a chuckle. “I didn’t get where I am by being shy, baby. How about you keep your mouth shut and let me worry about the press.”
Before she could say anything more, the reporters surrounded them, hounding Sloan all the way to the limo. His bodyguards—Frank and Bobby’s replacements—made a path as he smiled for the cameras and ignored the inane questions being hurled at him.
But as his driver opened the limo’s rear door and Berletti climbed inside, Sloan stopped and turned, facing the cameras and video cam lenses.
“This is much ado about nothing, folks. Much ado about nothing.”
A voice rang out above the others. “Is it true there were drugs found in your hotel suite?”
Sloan smiled. “This is simply a case of an overzealous sheriff’s deputy who decided to jump to conclusions and arrest everyone in...”
He paused, and the reporters seized the moment, jumping in with more questions. But Sloan’s thoughts had been abruptly interrupted. Just beyond their heads, directly in his line of sight, was Rafe Franco, standing in the doorway of the processing center, giving him the cold eye.
Sloan gave it right back, thinking how much he was going to enjoy crushing this jerk.
He cleared his throat and returned his attention to the reporters. “Any drugs that were found in my hotel,” he said, “belonged to the young woman I was entertaining and had nothing to do with me. I wasn’t even aware she had them—and the court record reflects that.” He gave them another smile. “I guess this is ultimately a lesson in how to choose your friends.”
More questions came at him rapid-fire, but he again ignored them, shooting Franco one last look as he climbed into the limo and let his driver close him inside.
Berletti was frowning at him. Her skirt was so tight she had to sit at a kind of sideways angle on the seat. She had unbuttoned a couple of buttons on her blouse, revealing that nice mound of cleavage that Sloan had always admired.
“Glad you decided to take my advice,” she said.
“I don’t pay you for advice,” he told her. “I pay you for results. Did you get that information on Deputy Hotshot?”
“Of course. Did you think I’d fail you, O Mighty One?”
Sloan scowled. “Stow the sarcasm, all right? Just give me the info.”
Berletti leaned forward, giving him a better look at the valley between her breasts, and reached into her briefcase, pulling out a small computer tablet. She pressed a button, bringing it to life, then tapped an icon, opening a data file.
Rafe Franco’s Sheriff’s department ID filled the screen, along with a printed narrative.
“Rafael Thomas Franco,” she read. “Twenty-s
ix years old this coming July, graduated with honors from the University of—”
“Now why do I give a flying fruitcake where this guy graduated from college?”
“Because it’s pertinent information.”
“How so?”
“He attended the University of Illinois at Chicago. Which is where he met Lisa Jean Tobin.”
Sloan was surprised. Lisa had never mentioned the guy. Had they been in contact all this time?
“So what are you saying? They were college sweethearts?”
“Well,” Berletti told him, “that’s a little hard to determine on short notice. But take a look at this photo. It’s from the Chicago Maroon.”
She touched the screen and showed him a page from what looked like a college newspaper featuring a color photo of an art exhibit at the school. Standing in front of an iron sculpture were a young man and woman holding hands.
Sloan had to squint, but he had no doubts that the woman in the photo was Lisa. He’d recognize that angel face anywhere. And the guy holding her hand looked about thirty pounds of muscle lighter, but it was definitely Deputy Franco.
“That seems pretty conclusive to me,” he said.
“Well, it’s easy to jump to conclusions, but I’d say it’s a safe bet they were intimate.” She paused. “And the timing is interesting, as well.”
“How so?”
“This photo was taken in the latter half of 2009. If they were intimate before they eventually split, then there’s every possibility that...” She paused.
“That what?”
“That Mr. Franco is Chloe’s father.”
Sloan felt a slow burn coming on. Now that he knew that Franco might well be the guy who had put that kid in Lisa’s belly, he had to wonder if Franco had been behind the scenes from the very beginning. Using Lisa to steal Sloan’s heart and get to his money.
It didn’t seem that far-fetched.
“I want to hurt this creep,” he said to Berletti. “I want to hurt him bad.”
Sloan thought about this. He could have the guy whacked and it would be over and done with.
But where was the fun in that?
No, he wanted this clown to suffer first. Maybe spend some time in a stinking jail cell himself. Get Lisa and every one of his friends and coworkers looking at him as a loser, a no-good. Get Lisa thinking that maybe she was better off with a real man, like Sloan.
Then he’d have him killed.
He told Berletti all this, and, true to form, she came up with a plan.
“You know those two Russians we took care of last night?”
“Yeah. What about them?”
“Turns out Deputy Franco was the officer who handled the call.”
“So?”
“So what if we play with the evidence a bit and make his associates at the Sheriff’s department wonder if he did more than just answer a call?”
Sloan smiled. “You can arrange that?”
Berletti smiled right back, then leaned forward in her seat and kissed Sloan on the mouth. Her breath was hot and her lips tasted like apples.
She took hold of his hand and placed it on one of those voluptuous mounds. “I can arrange anything you want, darling. All I have to do is mention your name...”
Chapter Thirteen
When the doorbell rang, Lisa called out to Beatrice and told her she’d answer it. Chloe was awake now and wreaking havoc on a coloring book at the coffee table, so Lisa patted her head and crossed to the foyer.
“I’ll be right back, hon.”
When she opened the door, she was surprised and thrilled to see Rafe standing there. He was still wearing his uniform, but the car in the drive behind him was a red Mustang.
“Is this a bad time?” he asked.
The truth was, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him. Her mind was a mix of emotions—elation, concern, fear—and she still hadn’t figured out how to tell him about Chloe. Part of her just wanted to blurt it out, but another part knew that such a strategy—if you could call it one—was ill-advised.
She had no idea where Rafe’s head was right now, and was terrified by the thought that he might not consider this welcome news.
What exactly was she supposed to say?
Oh, by the way, you see that little girl who looks a lot like a cross between you and Shirley Temple? The one with the blond curls and the blue eyes and the cute little dimples? The one you said was beautiful?
That’s your daughter, Rafe.
Your daughter...
Sorry I never mentioned her to you.
“Leese? Is this a bad time?”
Lisa pulled herself from her thoughts and smiled at him. “No, of course not. I’m just a little distracted by everything that’s happened this morning.”
He nodded. “I can’t blame you. That’s why I’m here.”
Lisa eyed him hopefully. “You got Oliver to back off? To promise he won’t bother me anymore?”
Rafe’s expression said he’d done anything but. He looked crestfallen and maybe just a little angry.
“May I come in?”
“Sure,” she said, gesturing him into the living room. “Would you like some tea or something? Bea’s in the kitchen as we speak, and—”
“No, I’m fine,” he told her, then followed her to the sofa.
He looked down at Chloe decimating the coloring book and the anger seemed to melt away. He smiled. “I see she’s got her mother’s talent for art.”
Lisa laughed. “I’m afraid so.”
The memory he’d invoked was a warm one. In college Lisa had taken several art classes but was woefully bad at every single one of them—a running joke in their relationship. For a while he had called her Picasso, a good-natured dig and a term of endearment.
That was something she had always cherished back then. His affection. He gave it freely and without expecting anything in return. Especially in bed. He was the most attentive man she had ever been with, and she still remembered, with great clarity, their nights together.
Ah, but that was then and this is now. And while she felt a certain warmth from Rafe, there was also a reserved, almost professional politeness to it. Something he had no doubt learned on the job.
She watched as he crouched next to Chloe and seemed to take great interest in her task.
“What’re you coloring there, kiddo?”
Chloe barely looked up at him. She wasn’t normally a shy child, but she was too busy working her blue crayon to be bothered with some stranger in a uniform.
“A kitty cat,” she murmured.
“A kitty cat with blue fur,” Rafe said. “I like it. I wish I could have one just like that in my apartment.”
She looked up at him now, and as Lisa watched, her heart was breaking.
Tell him, you idiot.
Tell him.
“You can have this one, if you want,” Chloe said. “He’s almost done.”
“Are you sure?” Rafe asked. “I wouldn’t want you to miss him. And he might get lonely at my place.”
Chloe seemed confused for a moment, then squinted at him. “Do you live all by yourself?”
“I’m afraid I do, kiddo.”
“Then you can be friends and he can live with you,” she said, then went back to coloring.
Rafe smiled again, tousled her head, then got to his feet, turning to Lisa. “Where were we?”
Trying to keep from bursting into tears, Lisa thought.
She said, “I’m not sure. You wanted to talk about Oliver?”
Rafe nodded solemnly. “I’m afraid things didn’t go as well as I hoped they would. In fact, it was a disaster. Your ex isn’t exactly an agreeable man.”
“I’m pretty sure I warned you about that. Did he try to hurt you?”
“I only wish he had. I might’ve been able to make the charges against him stick.”
“Charges? What charges?”
Rafe told her about his early-morning confrontation with Oliver, about the woman in Oliv
er’s bed, the bag of cocaine, the arrest and court, and by the time he was done, Lisa’s head was whirling.
But she wasn’t surprised by any of it.
Nothing about Oliver surprised her anymore. She just wished he was out of her life for good.
“So why are you here?” she asked. “To warn me?”
“Emphatically,” Rafe said. “I got the distinct impression that Sloan is not happy with you right now, and I’d bet a year’s salary that he’ll be back here, late one night. And you may not be able to get rid of him this time.”
A feeling of dread worked its way through Lisa’s bloodstream. “You think I’m not safe here?”
“Not in the least,” Rafe said. “I think you should pack some things and get out. You, your daughter and your housekeeper. As soon as you possibly can.”
“But where will we go? A hotel?”
“I wouldn’t advise that. As I told you, your ex has some very powerful associates and they’d undoubtedly find you at a hotel.”
Something caught his eye and he reached to the end table and picked up the photograph Oliver had shattered when he broke into the house. The one with her and Chloe standing in front of the lake house.
“Nice photo,” he said. “What about this place? Looks like Carlyle Lake.”
She nodded. “We spent a lot of time there before we moved to St. Louis.”
“A rental?”
She shook her head. “No, it’s Oliver’s. He kept it in the divorce settlement. He’s pretty attached to the place. I think because it was the only time in our marriage that we were actually happy.”
“Scratch that idea, then.” He set the photo back down. Then he said, “You remember back in college, when we came out here for the weekend?”
She nodded, the pictures flooding her mind. “We stayed at your grandmother’s house.”
“That’s right. Grandma Natalie. That house is way too big for her now, and she’s all alone, so I’m sure she’d be happy to have the company.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Lisa said.
He shook his head. “Don’t worry, I’m her favorite grandson. She’ll be more than happy to do me the favor.”
Internal Affairs Page 7
