Dirty

by Debra Webb

  Luther shrugged. “I couldn’t do it without talking to him first. You were his only kid. I knew he wouldn’t like it.”

  I choked on a sound that couldn’t be called a laugh. Kept my mouth shut. Let him talk.

  “He called in that marker. Told me to do whatever necessary to protect you.”

  Emotion crowded into my throat but I swallowed it back. This was the reason everything had changed. This was why my father never seemed to trust me or my judgment after the divorce. Fear had driven a wedge between us. He had known that Luther could have killed me if he’d wanted to. And all this time I’d been certain he was disappointed in me.

  “Since I’m still breathing, I take it you agreed to his request,” I said, hauling my attention back to the matter at hand. This was definitely not the time to let my focus wander.

  “I did what I could.”

  I stilled. “What does that mean?”

  “I was supposed to protect Rayburn too. But his situation was out of my control.”

  I tensed at the possibility of what his words meant. “My father asked you to protect Warren Rayburn?”

  Luther nodded. “But it didn’t work out. The Judge never mentioned it again so I figured we were square.”

  I felt my head move up and down. “I’m sure you were.”

  Those bizarre eyes examined my face long enough to make me uncomfortable before saying, “If I was you, I’d let this one be.”

  Now he sounded like his brother.

  Right now, everything I’d done felt pointless. I was no closer to clearing Rayburn’s name and I sure as hell had no evidence against Brooks. But I couldn’t give up. “I can’t.”

  Our gazes locked in a kind of silent battle of wills, each trying to read the other.

  “What do you want from me?” The fingers of his right hand twitched and I wondered if he was considering whether or not he should kill me anyway. Just now, from his vantage, it probably seemed like the easiest thing to do.

  “I need anything you remember about Disposable. No one will know it came from you.”

  He laughed, an out of practice, bitter sound. “No problem. I don’t know shit about it.”

  “Don’t try to bullshit a bullshiter, Mr. Fraley. You and your brother know everything that goes on in Houston.”

  He analyzed me again with those strangely colored eyes, then he said, “The only thing I know is that I was hired to off you by Peter Reagan. You tell anybody that and I will kill you.”

  Reagan? One of the suspects who was gunned down on the courthouse steps. That made sense since that would certainly have put the right kind of pressure on my father to dismiss the case. From what I’d seen of HPD’s case file, the judge definitely had grounds. Lack of evidence would certainly have been justifiable. Why hadn’t he thrown it out?

  “You didn’t know any of the other players?”

  “I knew things weren’t what they seemed, but not much else.”

  Bob’s words echoed in my head. An illusion.

  “I wouldn’t have known Rayburn was DEA if your father hadn’t told me.”

  “What happened to Rayburn?”

  Luther didn’t respond immediately. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to decide what to say or had gotten lost in the past.

  “I promised your father I would protect you and Rayburn. Lucky for me the two of you ended up together in a motel.”

  Luck had nothing to do with it. Rayburn had sought me out. I knew that now. Had he told my father his plan? Why had my father left Hank out of the loop on that part? That slight only made Hank look guiltier. The pathetic job he’d done in his capacity as lead investigator nudged at me but I refused to give the nag any extra credence.

  “I stood guard all night, but when Rayburn came out alone the next morning I got distracted worrying about where you were. I called the room and you answered so I hung up. The next thing I saw was two men overtake Rayburn in the parking lot. I wasn’t close enough or prepared to intervene without drawing attention. They shoved him into a car and drove away.”

  I sat on the very edge of my seat waiting for his next words, which oddly grew more grammatically correct the longer we talked.

  “I called your father and told him your location and that I was out of it. We never spoke again. I figured he would come to the motel and see after you.”

  Jesus, he was right. That morning, finding myself alone, I’d called a cab to take me back to the bar for my car and I ran into my father at the coffee shop right next door to the motel. He’d been waiting for me to come out of the room. I just hadn’t known it then. He’d claimed he had a breakfast meeting with some attorney about an upcoming case.

  “Who were the two men you saw?” Obviously they hadn’t known I was with Rayburn or I might have been whisked away as well. Or maybe they didn’t care about me. But I had to know what happened to Rayburn. Dawson had to know.

  Luther rubbed his palms against his denim clad legs. “I followed the car. They drove for about an hour and then they got out. They’d already killed Rayburn. Nothing I could do about that.”

  Shock wobbled through me, shook me hard. I’d known he was dead...or at least assumed he was, but to hear it...to know for certain.

  My reaction apparently expanded Luther’s agitation, he lunged to his feet. “Just get out,” he growled. “I’ve said too much!”

  “Wait!” I kept my seat, didn’t make any sudden moves. “Who were the men who killed him?” I needed to know.

  “I told you to get out.

  “Please, Luther,” I urged, “I need the truth.”

  For several trauma filled moments I wasn’t sure he would answer me, but then he said, “I watched’em dump Rayburn’s body in the bayou. The longer I watched the madder I got.” He banged on his chest. “This was my territory. They had no right here.”

  Comprehension dawned. “What did you do, Luther?”

  “I blowed their fucking brains out.”

  I blinked, told myself not to be startled, or at least not to let him see it. “Then what happened.” I steeled myself, uncertain what would ensue if he told me.

  He shook his head. Forked his fingers through his greasy hair. “I lost it. I shot’em over and over.” His lips twisted in derision. “Then I checked their ID. I had to know where they’d come from, maybe figure out who sent them.” His gaze bored back into mine and I knew whatever came next was even more damaging news. “They were feds. DEA.”

  His words echoed through me but my brain couldn’t wrap around what they meant. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure!” he screamed. He started walking in circles. “They were interlopers. Horning in on my territory.” He glared down at me. “I had a right.”

  I nodded quickly. “Of course you did.”

  “I couldn’t tell anybody. Shit, I wasn’t crazy.” His marching became more frantic. “Then the next morning Reagan and Masters were gunned down. Since Reagan was the one who hired me, I reckoned if anyone found out what I’d seen I’d be next.”

  “So you went into seclusion. Faked a nervous breakdown.”

  He nodded and dropped back onto the box. His fingers twitched and curled with an incessant tic. “There was nothing I could do.”

  But it was different now.

  “There’s something you can do now, Luther.”

  His eyes met mine and I realized that he’d just given me information that could land him in the express lane for old Sparky. He knew that too.

  “What the fuck does it matter now?”

  “It matters to me.”

  He said nothing, just stared at me.

  “I swear on my father’s memory that no one will ever know about this conversation, but I need one more piece of information.”

  His manic expression lapsed into one of wary curiosity. “What do you want to know?”

  “Where did those assholes dump Warren Rayburn’s body?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I sat in the truck for several minutes after p
arting company with Luther. A war was taking place inside me. Go to Dawson and tell him what I’d learned or go after the only other known variable in this equation.

  Brooks.

  Damn him. He had to be the one. The other alternative, my uncle, was unacceptable.

  In order to clear Rayburn’s name and my uncle’s I needed specifics. Details. Names. The whole story.

  I started the truck and headed back to civilization. No offense to Luther, but he seriously needed to reconsider his digs. This was no way for a former hitman to live.

  But then, I guess it beat the hell out of prison.

  I was still on what I considered back roads when I noticed a dark sedan on my tail.

  “Well, well,” I muttered. Looks like my shadow is back.

  I didn’t recognize the car, which, considering the nondescript make and color, was the whole point. But I knew who would be behind the wheel.

  Just to be sure I made an abrupt right on a dead end road.

  The sedan followed.

  Had to be Brooks. There was only one way to find out.

  I slammed on my brakes.

  Gravel cracked and flew as tires slid.

  The seatbelt held me firmly in place when the sedan smacked my rear bumper. Not a big impact, but enough to leave a mark on the other vehicle, startle the driver and to deploy the airbags. Dawson’s truck had one of those big old step-up bumpers. It would take a helluva lot more than that puny car to scratch it.

  I reached for Shorty and was out of the truck in five seconds flat. I crouched low enough to keep my cover and swiftly made my way to the rear of the vehicle. With the element of surprise I had the upper hand; I wanted to keep it that way.

  The driver’s side door flew open and I braced to fire.

  “What the hell are you trying to do, Mercer?”

  Yep. It was Brooks.

  I relaxed my fire ready stance, but didn’t lower my weapon. “I could ask you the same thing?” But then what was the point, I knew he was following me.

  He slapped at the deflated airbag that tried to cling to his lap as he scrambled out of the car. I glanced at the front end of his sedan and winced.

  “Damn, Brooks,” I said, “that left a mark.”

  Having regained his wits he stormed up to me, delayed fury radiating from every square inch of him. I shoved the .38 in his face just in case he decided to get pissy.

  He looked at it then at me. “You do realize you’re aiming that thing at a Federal agent?”

  “Yeah, but you know,” I shook my head slowly from side to side, “I’m beginning to think that in your case, FBI should stand for Fucking Bumbling Idiot.”

  His face turned beet red. Not a good look with the mint green tie.

  A muscle in one square jaw flexed. “What were you doing at Luther Fraley’s?”

  I didn’t lower my weapon. “What’re you doing following me?”

  “Probably the same thing your boy was doing following me.”

  I wondered about Dawson. “How’d you lose him?” I asked bluntly. As good as Dawson probably was I supposed that Brooks did have the advantage of familiarity with the territory on his side.

  His gaze narrowed. “I thought I was following you in your Jeep. Let’s just say we had a little run-in.”

  I glanced back at the front end of the sedan. Shit. “Did he pull this same maneuver on you?” Now that I thought about it that little fender bender we’d just had couldn’t have done all that damage.

  “And you want to know where it got him?” Brooks demanded. “He’s cooling his heels downtown.”

  “Shit, Brooks, did you have to have him arrested?” Just then I noticed that there was a red mark on his left cheek and, I squinted, maybe it was even a little swollen. I probably didn’t see that before because his face was so red. “Did Dawson slug you?”

  Okay, this was getting a little surreal. Plus I couldn’t help wondering how much damage Dawson had done to my Jeep and whether or not my insurance would pay.

  Brooks’ nostrils flared angrily. “You don’t get it, Mercer. I’m not the bad guy.”

  I shrugged, noticed that he avoided my question about the slugging. “Maybe you’re not the bad guy,” I fired back, “but I gotta be sure. You were involved with Disposable. Appear to be eyeball deep in it now.”

  The effort it took to control his temper was visible. And if it hadn’t been I still knew he was pissed off because his face had gone all red again. I’d heard once that when a man gets aroused and all the blood rushes from his head that it takes the brain cells with it, I wondered vaguely just now if the opposite were true.

  “This is my case, Mercer. I’ve been watching you since Dawson arrived in Houston. I knew who he was when he got here. I just needed to find out what his intentions were.”

  I set aside the question as to the current location of Brooks’ brain cells and the concept that Dawson was in jail and let my full attention swing back to the case as my suspicions stood up and took notice. “Is that supposed to make you look less guilty, Brooks?” This was my damned case. Brooks was the suspect, certainly not me or Dawson. But something felt...off. Way off. This encounter wasn’t what I had expected out of someone who had something to hide.

  “I’ve waited ten years for the right leverage to get HPD for what they did,” Brooks said crossly. “Don’t think I’m going to let your interference stop me. Your boy Dawson woke up sleeping dogs. I’m taking it from there. I was glad to let the two of you stir the pot, but I can’t let you blow this.”

  Whoa! I laughed outright. “You’re trying to nail this on HPD when the Feds are the ones who bungled it in the first place?” Oh, this guy was good. Almost had me believing he was completely innocent.

  One hand moved toward his waist and I pressed the muzzle of the .38 a little closer to his nose. “Keep both hands where I can see them.”

  Outrage crackled in those gray eyes. “I could haul your pretty ass in for this, Mercer.”

  I had to smile. Well, whaddaya know. The G-Man thinks my ass is pretty. He’d said last night that he was enjoying the view. Apparently liked my legs. I cocked one hip just to draw his attention there. It worked. I got another little surge of glee. “So arrest me, Mr. Fed, and I’ll tell the whole world how you’ve got something to hide.”

  More of that unadulterated rage tightened the features of his face. “You’d better start trusting your instincts, Mercer. If they’re any good at all, you’ll know I’m on the up and up. If they’re not, you’re going to get yourself killed.”

  Now he’d done it. Pissed me off. What was with all these men assuming I couldn’t take care of myself?

  “You know what, Brooks,” I said, my tone dripping with venom, “you’re right. I should start trusting my instincts better.”

  I reached beneath his jacket, felt around for the shoulder holster I was confident he wore and retrieved his weapon all while he stared, stunned at my audacity. He didn’t even flinch or attempt to stop me. I ejected the clip and tossed the .40 cal as far as I could into the open field flanking the road. His lips formed a grim line as I reached into his jacket pocket and fished out his cell phone and did the same. “Give me the car keys,” I ordered.

  He shook his head. “No way.”

  “Do it.” I twitched the barrel of the .38 for emphasis.

  “You’re going to regret this,” he said as he reached inside and dragged the keys from the ignition.

  “Maybe I will.” When I grabbed the keys his fingers curled around my wrist and held on tightly, sending a distinct high-voltage charge up my arm. He looked as surprised by the electricity that crackled between us as I did. I blinked, snatched back my hand and mentally kicked myself for letting that annoying little zap of static happen. I eased back toward the door of Dawson’s truck. “But I won’t be the one hitching a ride back to Houston.” I tossed the keys in the same manner I had the phone and gun.

  I didn’t look back when I drove away. Refused to analyze what had just happened between
the Fed and me. Sometimes I wondered if I’d been a man in another life. Or maybe an overactive libido was simply in my genes. I definitely needed to ask my mother if there was something I should know. Then again, there was nothing wrong with a healthy sexual appetite. Like any good diet, it was all in what you chose to eat.

  Putting off the inevitable moment of having to tell Dawson the truth about his brother, half an hour after the encounter with Brooks I walked into the Cow Palace, ignored the hostess and went straight to where Bob Fraley sat, like a king on his throne surveying his kingdom.

  “Why, Jackie, how nice to see you.” He flicked a two-inch line of ash into the ashtray. “You’re looking quite lovely this afternoon.” He visually measured the length of my legs. Obviously he and his brother shared that fetish.

  I plopped unladylike into the chair opposite him and took a moment to beat my temper back before I spoke. “You know, Bob, I hate being lied to.”

  He sucked in a lungful of tar and nicotine, then blew it out, taking care not to send it my way. “I can honestly say that I’ve never lied to you, Jackie. Not once.”

  I leaned forward and gave him my best Jack-Nicholson-from-The-Shining-over-the-edge glower and said for his ears only, “You withheld, Bob, that’s even worse.”

  “Ah, you’ve been to see my dear brother.”

  As if he didn’t know. I should have known Luther would call him the instant I walked out the door. “That’s right and I am fully aware that you know more than you’ve told me.”

  “You do realize that my brother is mentally unstable and one can’t depend on a thing he says.”

  “Save it for someone who doesn’t know better.”

  The waitress paused at the table and Bob waved her off. “Are you sure you want the whole truth, Jackie? I’m not entirely certain you can handle the whole truth.”

  Trepidation slid deep into my chest like a sharp blade. I ignored it. “No more games, Bob. Tell me what you know.”

  He smashed out his cigarette, took a moment to assess the high and mighty seated around the dining room and then settled that all-seeing gaze on me. “Ask your uncle. He knows that truth you’re looking for.”