Knave (Masters of Manhattan)

by Jane Henry

  I didn’t pause to consider; I accepted his instruction and continued walking up the stairs noiselessly.

  “I don’t care!” an unknown female voice giggled from downstairs. “Boss isn’t home, and I’m taking the good shit from the liquor cabinet in the living room!”

  I paused a second as I heard someone cross the foyer and head into the living room, then back across the floor. Whoever the woman was, she was stealthy as a herd of elephants and she didn’t come anywhere near the stairs.

  “Crisis averted,” I said, the second I heard a door close and the television noise fall silent. “Just one of the staff getting into Fletcher’s good liquor.”

  “So hard to get good help.” Xavier’s voice was wry. “But then, I guess they might as well enjoy themselves while they can. They don’t know it, but they’re all going to be unemployed while Fletcher spends his time in much smaller and less comfortable accommodations.”

  Caelan sighed sympathetically, and Ethan snickered. “Are you seriously sighing about the fate of staff who steal liquor from their employer?”

  “You might steal liquor, too, if you worked for him,” Caelan pointed out.

  “Okay, fair.” Ethan paused for a second. “In which case, maybe we should consider getting some staff here at the penthouse. Providing jobs for some of the displaced staff.”

  “Oh, that’s exactly what we need,” Xavier said. “Some people we can’t trust who can report on our activities.” I could practically hear him rolling his eyes as I ascended from the second floor to the third. “There was a reason we let Eugenia Carmichael’s butler go when we took over the penthouse,” he reminded us.

  “Yeah, but if these are the same people we worked with at the party, I think they might just be waiting for someone they can be loyal to,” Sabrina argued.

  And, miracle of miracles, Xavier said, “Alright. If you feel that strongly, we can discuss it later.”

  I wasn’t sure what issue X had with women—who had dropped him as a baby, or broken his heart as an adult, or whatever had made him so mistrustful—but somehow Sabrina seemed to have broken through it. Not only had he not protested when I’d informed him that Sabrina was moving in with me… well, with us, really… he’d been the one to present her with the keycodes.

  “I’m at the bedroom,” I told my crew. “And Jesus. Now I see why he didn’t want the staff up here when he wasn’t around.” The room was absolutely enormous—as big as the living room. In the low light from one burning lamp, I could see the tufted red leather headboard of a bed larger than any I’d ever seen. “He’s got an orgy-sized bed. And a bunch of other... lifestyle paraphernalia.” Whips and floggers were lined up by size along one large dresser, and a sex swing hung in one corner. I didn’t want to admire anything about Robby Fletcher, but the man had a hell of a collection. I wondered idly whether he used them or had them used on him. Either way, it was good quality shit, and I was feeling downright inspired. Maybe Sabrina could sense it.

  “Don’t waste time looking too closely,” she said hurriedly. “Just, you know, finish up.”

  I smiled as I looked at the variety of wooden paddles. I was pretty sure I’d be adding to my stash of implements pretty soon. And I was equally sure that she’d be thrilled with the results.

  “Seriously,” Walker groaned. “Don’t look any closer until we’ve had a chance to get some more soundproofing in this place. It’s bad enough with the sounds coming from that room now. The last thing I need is—”

  “Walk-er!” Sabrina scolded.

  I heard a muffled thump, and Walker’s pained, “Ow!”

  “You don’t talk about Sabrina’s sex life,” Caelan reminded him. “She’s like our sister, man.”

  “But damn it,” Walker protested. “How can I give Anson shit about his sex life if I can’t talk about Sabrina’s sex life?”

  “You can’t,” I told him smugly, swinging the pack off my back. “Besides, you’re all just jealous.”

  “Yeah, no,” Walker denied. “I do just fine with my Friday night hookups. Relationships are more trouble than they’re worth.”

  “Amen,” Ethan agreed. “Present company excepted, of course.”

  I shook my head. I was pretty sure those two were in the same camp I’d been in, until I’d met Sabrina. And that meant that when they fell, they’d fall hard… just like I had.

  I shook my head and got on with the job, eager to get back to the penthouse and Sabrina. I pulled a paper bag from my backpack, and it made a light, rattling sound. Inside were a variety of illegal drugs—pills of various types—that Ethan had sourced from somewhere. I put my hand on the bag and hesitated for a second.

  Looked like Caelan’s sense of honor was contagious or something.

  It had taken a while for us to come to terms with the contents of the thumb drive we’d found in Sabrina’s father’s picture frame. We now had evidence that Robby Fletcher had been Stuart Fowler’s client, and Fowler had created a dummy corporation called BB Enterprises, Ltd., at Robby Fletcher’s behest. The record of communication between the two included a bunch of emails as well as copies of signed documents regarding the purchase of Silver. And not only did we know that Robby Fletcher owned the bar, we also had copies of the BB Enterprises contracts that named Carmen Bianchi—Alberto Bianchi’s thirty-three-year-old cousin—as the manager of the property.

  It was enough to tell us that Robby was in deep with the Bianchi family, and combined with the conversation we’d overheard the night of Robby’s party, it confirmed that the Bianchis and Fletcher had been behind Stuart Fowler’s death in prison. Fowler had been the only person not on their payroll who knew of their connection to each other… and to Silver.

  It also confirmed, in my mind at least, that the Bianchis had been involved with my mother’s death. She’d been anticipating a big payday from her ‘boss’—likely some misguided attempt on her part to blackmail someone for money. And whether the boss she referred to was Carmen Bianchi, or Alberto Bianchi, or Robby Fletcher, or some other nameless goon who worked for them, I knew they were all involved to some degree. I would bring them all down, one at a time, for what they’d done.

  Problem was, there was nothing in that file that could make a convincing argument in a court of law. The conversations we’d taped wouldn’t be admissible, and likely the information on the thumb drive wouldn’t be enough, especially since Walker’s digging showed that a substantial number of highly-placed law enforcement officers seemed to be on the Bianchis’ payroll.

  After all I’d risked finding out who was responsible for my mom’s death, it was intolerable to know who was to blame and be unable to get justice or to protect anyone else from those assholes.

  This will keep Sabrina safe, I reminded myself as I held the paper bag in my hand. That’s the priority. I blew out a breath.

  “There’s a fucking huge armoire in here. Fletcher seems to love the gothic, ostentatious shit. I’ll stash the stuff there,” I told the team. Everyone was uncharacteristically quiet, but no one protested. It simply had to be done.

  But when I opened the door and saw what was inside the cabinet, I whistled through my teeth. “Uh, guys. Change of plans.”

  “Explain,” Xavier demanded.

  “Uh… we don’t need to plant anything here. Fletcher was kind enough to leave a shit-ton of evidence for us. This armoire is like a fucking armory.”

  There were guns of every description arrayed inside the innocent-looking cabinet: handguns and rifles, giant guns with scopes and others with enormous bores, like they launched rockets, for Christ’s sake. I was not a gun aficionado like Ethan and never had been, but I knew this stuff went way beyond casual use or even collecting. “I swear this stuff is illegal.”

  “Pictures,” Walker demanded. I pulled out my camera and took a couple snaps, then sent them off.

  “Jesus,” Ethan breathed, a second after the ding on the comms announced my message had been received. “Definitely, definitely illegal. That’s a f
ucking GROM. You’d use that to bring down a plane, people. And he has that sitting next to his bed?”

  “Pretty much,” I agreed. “Within feet.”

  “Dude is compensating in a serious way,” Ethan said, still sounding stunned.

  “Or else his friend Alberto Bianchi got him into even heavier shit than we thought,” Xavier said. And it was sobering to think just how big the Bianchis’ operation must be, if they had access to weaponry like this. Despite all the billions at our disposal, it felt like we were the underdogs in a David and Goliath situation.

  And yet, no matter the odds, I knew we were all still committed to this course, one hundred percent.

  “Fine,” Walker said. “I’ll take care of it from there. I found three cops who definitely aren’t on the Bianchis’ payroll, and I’m sending them this image, along with some other confidential information.”

  “So now, you just get out and back to the van,” Sabrina told me, and I smiled, shaking my head. The woman was getting bossy.

  “Is that an order, ma’am?” I demanded, and I could hear her breath catch as she wondered if she’d gone too far.

  “It’s a strong, common sense suggestion,” she demurred.

  Sure it was.

  I left the room exactly as I’d found it, and crept back out the way I’d come.

  “Bet you wish you’d gone up the side of the house,” Walker said. “Your Batman routine makes it that much easier to get out when you’re done.”

  I snickered. “Easier. More fun, too. But more dangerous. Remember, I like to keep shit simple.”

  Sabrina’s laughter in my ear was warm and alluring. “Bull! There’s not a single simple thing about you, and you live for the risk.”

  She wasn’t wrong, I reasoned, and I chuckled outright as I closed the house door behind me and broke for the woods. Risk was inherent in any job I’d ever done. I’d understood that from the beginning, and I used to live for the thrill of it. Now I understood that the risk was only worthwhile when you knew what—and who—you were risking yourself for. The best and truest things in life weren’t the ones that could be stolen, they were the ones you earned, and the ones bestowed on you even when you didn’t deserve them at all.

  “We’re on standby in the van,” Caelan announced.

  “Hurry home,” Sabrina purred in my ear.

  I smiled into the darkness. “I’m on my way.”

  HUSTLER PREVIEW

  Thanks so much for reading Knave!

  The Masters of Manhattan will be back in four more books, coming this spring!

  Hustler (Book 2, coming April 2018)

  Outcast (Book 3, coming May 2018)

  Enforcer (Book 4, coming June 2018)

  Mastermind (Book 5, coming June 2018)

  Turn the page to read the first chapter of Hustler, right now!

  Hustler (Masters of Manhattan, Book Two) - Chapter One

  The yellow cab came to a stop outside the limestone building, and I checked the address I’d noted down in my phone. 740 Park Avenue. This was the place, alright. I leaned into the window and stared up… and up and up, to where the fourteenth floor had to be, and took a deep breath, trying to settle the nervous flutter that had begun in my stomach earlier that morning when I’d first contacted Sabrina Fowler.

  This is not a big deal, Haven. Get your shit together.

  The address was swanky, sure, and I wasn’t quite sure who I was going to meet when I got upstairs, but I was pretty sure that had nothing to do with my nerves. As a defense attorney, I’d done much more intimidating things on behalf of a client. I wanted to believe it was just professional worry making me anxious, but I was fairly confident that wasn’t the issue either. In truth, I’d developed a sixth sense over the years - a little tightness in my belly that sometimes warned me when something major was about to happen. I couldn’t deny that I was getting that feeling right now - like the universe was about to throw me a gigantic curveball.

  The cab driver cleared his throat, and I turned my head with an apologetic smile. I swiped my card through the reader and added a generous tip - a little more than I could comfortably afford on my salary, especially given the bills that were due this month, but that wasn’t Montrose the cabbie’s fault. I thanked him politely and slung my briefcase over my shoulder as I stepped onto the sidewalk into the noise and bustle of a Manhattan evening in early September.

  It was warm–Jesus, was it warm–with the sun low in the sky, and not a breath of autumn in the air to justify my structured A-line skirt and suit jacket. I was glad I’d sprung for Montrose’s air-conditioned cab instead of walking here from the office. Within seconds, my thin blouse was sticking to the back of my neck, and my feet were on fire inside my new heels – half a size too small, but shiny, red, and on sale, so naturally I’d had to have them anyway, comfort be damned.

  My office attire was a little bit like a weapon, albeit a defensive one. Graduating at the top of my class in law school and making a name for myself in the courtroom meant jack-shit if people didn’t take me seriously, which they absolutely would not, if I arrived limping and sweaty.

  Appearances were more important than the truth. It was a sad truth I’d learned from Tad Warner, the master of illusions himself, nine years ago.

  I gritted my teeth and crossed the sidewalk to the imposing front door, which was opened by a uniformed doorman before I could even reach for the handle.

  “Can I help you, miss?”

  “Haven Wright to see Ms. Fowler, on the fourteenth floor?”

  I cursed myself for framing the simple statement as a question. Apparently, even the most fleeting thought of Tad Warner, the lying, sneaky bastard who’d duped me nearly a decade ago, was enough to call forth the sweet, naïve, needy girl I thought I’d buried the day he left town.

  No way would I allow that.

  As the doorman moved back behind the podium, apparently calling upstairs to get authorization to let me in, I straightened my shoulders. I’d come a long way from the idiot teenager who’d let a handsome face worm his way into her bed and her heart. When Tad and his friend had disappeared, he hadn’t just taken my parents’ life savings, but my naivety and innocence too.

  God. It had been months at least since I’d even thought of the guy, and now that his name had surfaced in my thoughts, it was stuck there like a burr. This was the last thing I needed today. Not when Max was counting on me.

  “Ms. Wright?” the doorman said. “You can go right up.”

  I nodded and smiled, then stepped onto the elevator he indicated. When the mirrored doors closed, I straightened my shirt, tugged down the hem of my jacket until it hung perfectly straight, and ran a hand over the thick, chestnut-colored hair I’d straightened to within an inch of its life earlier this morning. My makeup hadn’t completely sweated off, but I really wished I’d popped in my contacts instead of wearing my glasses; it’d one less thing to fuss with, and I didn’t need another distraction.

  I had a job to do, a client to defend - one who was looking at life in prison on a murder rap, if he lived long enough to testify - and a deal to make on his behalf. Max Pederson was scared to death, and he’d implored me for help. I could save his life, he’d said, with the help of Masters’ Security. And that’s what I would do.

  The elevator doors slid open as noiselessly as they’d closed, and a beautiful, smiling redhead greeted me with an outstretched hand.

  “Ms. Wright?”

  If I were a fanciful person, I might think I’d somehow taken an elevator to heaven. There was white marble everywhere, and late-day sunlight – searingly gold and plentiful – shone down from high windows.

  Even the redhead was wearing a long, gauzy, loose-fitting white sundress, and I had to blink my eyes and grip the strap of my briefcase tightly for a second, remembering who I was and why I was here, before I could return her handshake.

  “Yes. Thank you for meeting with me. BeeBee Fowler?” I asked in return.

  The redhead grimaced just a
tiny bit. “I generally go by Sabrina,” she said, and I blushed.

  “Of course,” I said quickly. “I’m sorry. Mr. Pederson so often calls you by your nickname…”

  “Oh, I know.” She raised an eyebrow and dropped her voice just slightly. “And I don’t mind, truly. It’s just a little bit of a touchy subject for certain people,” she said.

  I frowned. Her childhood nickname was a touchy subject?

  “She means me.” A voice to my right startled me, and I turned to see a man standing in a doorway. He had black hair, an ironic mouth, and dark eyes lit with devilish humor. He walked toward me, holding out a hand, and every movement of his body was like a dance. “Anson. Anson Daly.”

  He wrapped his arm around Sabrina’s waist in a proprietary way that left no doubt who they were to one another, and Sabrina’s lips twitched as she leaned against him.

  “Max has known me for years,” Sabrina explained. “But he’s rather… flirtatious. Anson doesn’t like it.”

  “Ah,” I said, as though I understood, and I was pretty sure I did. Mr. Daly was one of those chest-beating Neanderthal types, all possessive and territorial. I gave Sabrina a pitying glance. I’d gone for that type myself, once upon a time. Trusted and believed in it, like a fool. I hoped for her sake that her trust was better placed than mine had been.

  “How is Max?” Sabrina asked, frowning in concern. “I was absolutely shocked when I heard about his wife. And then when I heard he’d been arrested! God. I wanted to visit him, but…”

  She looked up at Daly, who shook his head slightly, confirming my earlier opinion about their relationship.

  “But I didn’t think it was safe, babe,” Daly filled in for her. “Pederson wouldn’t want you to put yourself on anyone’s radar just for the sake of a half-hour convo through safety glass. And seeing him would only upset you.” Daly turned to look at me, with something like warning in his eyes. “And I still believe that.”