Ava watched New Orleans glide past the window, feeling heartsick and homesick all at once. This city was tainted for her now. She wanted to return to it one day, to have another breakfast at Café du Monde, stroll through the Quarter, have her palm read at Marie Laveau’s, stay in one of the lush hotels and lie down with Mercy on expensive sheets. She wanted a chance to let the magic of New Orleans sink deep into her bloodstream, until they were both infected, until the wall was down again, and they were just them. Finally together, finally free.
But he’d let his demons out of their cages. And she’d put fourteen bullets in the son of the man who’d tried to kill her fourteen years ago.
It was home that they needed now, and that was where they were going. What would happen after that, she didn’t know. She and Mercy had that in common right now, at least: a total lack of knowing.
Fifty-Two
“The key is the name,” Ratchet explained. “Once you have a name, you can find out anything about anyone. For instance.” He clicked two keys on his computer and a web browser popped up. Over his shoulder, Ghost recognized sensitive banking information. “Once I knew that it was William Archer who’s been buying up retail, I was able to hack into his personal finances. From there, I could tell that he was moving large sums into dummy accounts. He had to use his social security number to open them, but was able to use business names for them. Those businesses were listed as being owned by other people – his aliases…”
Ghost made a hurry-up gesture.
“Right. Long story short, he must have friends at the bank who helped cover for him, and he used some creative money-moving to fund all this shit. But I’ve got all the records we need.”
“How does this implicate Stephens, too?”
“Ah. Stephens was less careful. Two months ago, he bought twenty Harleys, five fleet vehicles. He bought all of it with campaign funds.”
Ghost laughed. “Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack.”
“And you have the paperwork to prove it?”
“Printing it right now.”
“Captain WikiLeaks,” Walsh said with subtle, but noticeable affection. “I think he could hack into the Pentagon if you kept him in Slim Jims and Red Bull.”
“I might be able to,” Ratchet said in all seriousness, without a trace of ego, as he stared distractedly at his computer.
The printer chugged away on the table beside him, spitting out sheet after sheet of irrefutable evidence.
Walsh looked to Ghost. “You going to use Ava’s recommendation letter?”
“Nah.” He shook his head. “I don’t think we need to. And I don’t want to drag her into this mess. She’s been through enough.”
Walsh nodded in agreement.
They’d been home for almost a week now. They’d set a TV up on Ava’s dressing table and turned her bedroom into a recovery room. The crutches and the bum leg had sent Mercy into a spiral of furious silence; he spent almost all of every day watching the tube or sleeping. Ava was persistent, though, making him take his meds like clockwork, trying to draw him into conversation, contacting the local doctors and surgeons to ensure his chart had been faxed up from New Orleans so she could talk about his rehabilitation with them. The exhaustion shone in her face, but she refused to let her spirits flag, and every time Ghost saw the glimmer of gold on her finger, he reminded himself that this was her fight, and she had every right to sleep beside the man every night, even if the idea made his skin itch.
He tapped Ratchet affectionately on top of his shaved head. “You’ll have everything ready for the meeting this afternoon?”
“Yes, sir.”
From the clubhouse he walked to the central office, beneath a clear blue sky devoid of all humidity. Each hour he spent back home soothed him. He’d spent days with an elevated pulse, after Collier’s surrender had been chased with the awful phone call from Aidan – the news that Ava and Mercy had crashed. He felt in control again now, confident and capable.
The door to the office stood open, as always, Maggie at her desk, sweater sleeves pushed to her elbows as she sorted through stacks of folders pulled from the open file cabinet beside her.
“There you are,” she said as he entered. “Do you have any idea how many regular customers we lost thanks to all this protest bullshit?” She shot him an unhappy look from beneath her honey bangs. “A lot. A whole lot. I don’t know how we’re gonna cover our expenses for this quarter.”
“We’ll get ‘em back,” Ghost said, dropping into the chair across from her.
She snorted. “Well look who’s Mister Optimistic all the sudden. One Dog shot another Dog in the goddamn high school. How do we get them back after that?”
He shrugged. “People have short memories, generally. And we’re really good at what we do. In all departments.” He gestured to his right, toward the long stretch of Dartmoor businesses that unfolded beside them.
She sighed. “I hope you’re right.” Then: “How’s Operation Smear Stephens going?”
He lifted his brows.
“I named it in my head. It needed a name.”
He grinned. “That reporter Aidan’s piece of tail knows is coming by at three to get the story. It should be all over the papers in the morning.”
“Perfect.”
“What time is it?”
“Ten after twelve.”
He nodded and stood. “I’ve got a lunch meeting.”
“With…?”
He smiled. “Safer if you don’t know.”
She rolled her eyes dramatically. “Isn’t that the story of my life.”
Ghost leaned over her before he left to steal a kiss. “You know I mean it,” he said quietly, as he pulled back. “About keeping you safe. It’s never ‘cause I don’t trust you.” Or because I don’t need you, he added silently.
She reached to lay a hand along his face. Her eyes gentled. “I know, baby.”
Mason Stephens Sr. looked like two-day-old dog shit. That had been run over by a lawnmower. He wore no tie, a rumpled shirt stained with amber droplets that could only be bourbon, going by the smell, and his slacks hadn’t been pressed. His bloodshot eyes further evidence heavy drinking, and he needed a shave. His normally immaculate, paste-slicked hair was unwashed and sticking up in untidy clumps. He sat far back in the chair across from Vince’s desk, hands braced on the arms, legs splayed out like he couldn’t be bothered with decorum.
“She’s leaving me,” he said to the wastebasket he contemplated between his feet. Vince had set it there the first time Mason gagged. So far, there’d been no actual vomiting. “She doesn’t want the house here; she wants the one in Destin. She likes the beach.”
Vince cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said, not sure it mattered that he sounded insincere. “But I’m not a divorce attorney, Mayor Stephens.”
Mason lifted his head, scowling out of mismatched pupils. “Yeah?” he sneered. “Well you’re sure as hell not worth a damn as a cop.”
“Mayor Stephens–” Vince tried again.
“What have you found out about my son? Huh? Why” – he pulled that morning’s paper from the inside of his jacket and slapped it down on the desk – “am I not reading about Kenny Teague’s arrest right this fucking instant?”
“I have a suspect in custody,” Vince said, calmly, “who has admitted to killing Mason, Ronnie, and two members of his own club. Collier Hershel is being charged, thanks to his own statement. I know it doesn’t help the grief” – Stephens made an awful face – “but the case itself is closed, Mister Mayor. You have your killer. It will be in the paper this week sometime, I’m sure.”
“I want my boy’s body,” Stephens bit out. “I want something to put in the coffin.”
“According to Hershel, he dumped it downriver about five miles from here. We can drag–”
“Then drag the fucking river!”
“We’re going to do everything that we can,” he assured.
Stephens didn’t see
m to hear him, shaking his head, fuming quietly to himself. “Collier Hershel. Who the fuck is that anyway? No.” His eyes lifted to Vince again, glazed-over and unfocused. “This was Teague. Teague and his whore wife and his bitch daughter and that giant shithead who hurt Mason so bad when he…” He made a choking sound. “This was Teague,” he repeated. “I want him arrested.”
In a feat of truly cosmic timing, there was a rap at the door.
“Shit,” Vince muttered.
The door eased open and Ghost Teague leaned in, taking in the scene before him with a small, smug smile. “Am I interrupting? You did say twelve-thirty, right?”
Vince wished for an earthquake, a big fault line to open up beneath him and swallow him, desk and all. No such luck.
He nodded. “Yeah. Give me five minutes.”
He wouldn’t need them, though. Stephens pushed unsteadily to his feet. “You,” he said through his teeth, turning toward Ghost. “You son of a–”
“Don’t go insulting my mama now,” Ghost said, and pushed the door wide, so they had a view of the bullpen…and so the officers in the bullpen could see, and hear, everything that transpired within. “You say whatever you want about my dickhead dad, but Mama’s off limits.” He grinned. He knew he had them in a trap, the bastard.
“Mister Mayor,” Vince said with a sigh, “why don’t you and I continue our conversation later?”
Stephens spared him one scowl before he left, glaring a hole through Ghost that was received with another smile.
When he was gone, Ghost heeled the door shut and dropped into the chair Stephens had abandoned, hands clasped loosely, relaxed and in good spirits. He looked younger when he wasn’t pissed off. The resemblance to his son became even stronger.
“You two ladies having a tea party?” he asked.
“Bite my ass,” Vince muttered. “Stephens knows your boy Collier didn’t kill Ronnie or Mason.”
Ghost shrugged. “He says he killed them. What more do you want?”
“The truth would be nice.”
“Oh, you mean like the truth of you turning my guys into rats?”
Vince tried not to flinch.
“You fucked with me. With my club,” Ghost continued. “I may hate your sorry guts, but I don’t come into your precinct and try to turn your uniforms over to my side.” He snorted. “Who’s the real outlaw here, Vince?”
“Andre and Jace knew what they were risking when they came to me,” he defended.
“Came to you?” Ghost made a disbelieving face. “Those two couldn’t take a shit without consulting an instruction manual. No, you went to them.”
“You seem awful comfortable with them being dead.”
Ghost shrugged. “What use have I got with rats? My VP agrees, apparently.”
“What do you want, Ken?”
Ghost sat back and folded his arms, made a thoughtful face. “For starters, I want my daughter to find the drive to go back to grad school in the winter. I want my son-in-law to not be crippled. I want my real son to take more initiative. But right now, I want you to agree to do your job tomorrow. Because when the paper hits your desk in the morning, you’re gonna have grounds for launching a full-scale investigation into Mason Stephens and his cousin, William Archer. What they’ve done to this city is unforgivable, and I want you to do something about it.”
The junior reporter who’d been tipped off about the murder at Dartmoor weeks before – Donald Malory – was in a not-subtle state of awe to have been invited into the Dogs’ clubhouse like this. He sank slowly down onto one of the couches and let his gaze wander around the common room, drinking in every detail, mouth falling open as he became absorbed in his inspection.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Ghost said dryly, and the kid snapped to, fumbling his notepad out of his hands in his haste to pay attention.
“Sorry. Yeah. Just…” He shook his head. “Nevermind.”
Aidan and Tango were grinning.
“No, what?” Ghost said with a sigh.
Malory hitched up his thin shoulders – dwarfed inside his too-large corduroy jacket – and said, chewing on his lip, “It’s just that…when I was a kid I used to wonder what it looked like in here. I kinda had a thing for motorcycles. And you guys are local legends.”
Aidan beamed.
“There’s worse things to be called,” Ghost said with a consenting sigh. “But, let’s keep this strictly business.”
“Absolutely.” Malory nudged his glasses up his nose and said, “You said over the phone that you had a scoop on the mayor?”
Tango produced the folder and spread it open on the coffee table in front of the reporter, fanning out the bank statements and records of transaction. Malory leaned over it, squinting at first, then going goggle-eyed behind his lenses.
“Is this what I think it is?”
“Yes,” Ghost said. “Will you run it?”
“Try and stop me!”
They talked through the article, and then sent Malory on his way, clutching the stuffed folder to his skinny chest as if his life depended on it. His career did, anyway.
Ghost glanced over his shoulder at the security monitors. Malory’s VW was backing away from the front of the clubhouse. He turned to Aidan and Tango. “Where’s Greg?”
All their good humor faded.
Aidan swallowed and said, “He’s in back, pulling housekeeping duty in the dorms.”
Ghost nodded. “Take care of him tonight. He’s our last loose end.”
Aidan’s face was pale. “Yes, sir.”
To his immense surprise, it smelled like food when Ghost walked into the back door of the house. The kitchen was warm, the window panes steamed against the cool afternoon outside, and the air was redolent with the scents of herbs. Not just food, but good, edible food.
Ava stood at the stove, stirring something in a skillet, sleeves of her sweater folded back, socked feet lined up together on the tile, one hand tucked behind her back as she studied whatever she stirred. She looked very thin and young to him, in that moment, more like her little girl self than the grown woman she’d become.
She glanced up, distractedly, as he closed the door. “Hi.”
“You’re cooking?” He went to look over her shoulder. The skillet was full of a bubbling red sauce flecked with chopped herbs.
“Tomato sauce,” she explained. “I used fresh tomatoes and everything.”
“It looks…good, actually.”
She made a face. “How encouraging.”
Ghost stepped back, went to the fridge for a beer. “Where’d you learn how to make that?”
“Mercy taught me. While we were in New Orleans.”
He twisted the cap off the Budweiser and flicked it onto the table, took a sip. “That’s some exciting honeymoon. Culinary school.”
She turned to give him a smirking glance over her shoulder. “I don’t figure you want to know about the other things we did.”
“Nope. Where is the beast anyway?”
He saw the shadow move through her eyes, the way her throat contracted. Her voice was light as she said, “In the bedroom.” But she couldn’t hide the hurt.
“Hm.”
“Where’s Mom?” she asked, returning to her sauce.
“Working still. She wanted to get caught up on paperwork. I’m heading back there in a few to follow her home.”
“Crap,” she said, “I started cooking too soon, didn’t I?”
“It doesn’t matter. You and Merc eat. Mom and I’ll heat some up later.” He took another sip and set the bottle on the table. “I’m gonna go say hello before I leave.”
Ava turned back to him, frowning. “Dad, you never just say hello. You say words, but they aren’t anything like hello.”
He challenged her with his usual dad-look. “The man’s still in my club, isn’t he? I can say whatever I want to him.”
She made a disagreeing sound as he left the kitchen.
Mercy was exactly where he always was, on Ava’s bed, le
aning back against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him, barefoot, in ratty gray sweats and an undershirt, looking like a great big waste of meat as he stared blankly at the TV. It was a WWII documentary, Ghost saw, as he eased into the room and took a seat in the desk chair. Mercy’s eyes touched him briefly, just checking who’d entered, but then went back to the screen, devoid of all color or life.
The prescription bottles were lined up on the dresser in front of the TV, along with a stash of bottled water and Gatorade. A bottle of something labeled as lavender. Mercy’s wallet and keys; a tube of Ava’s chapstick. Little assorted odds and ends of sickbed domesticity. Ghost didn’t know how Ava stood it, to be honest, sleeping in here every night with this hulking lump of disgruntled silence.
“Ava’s making dinner,” Ghost said. “It doesn’t smell half-bad.”
Mercy’s nostrils flared as he inhaled. “Tomato sauce. She does okay with that.”
“She said you taught her how to make it.”
Mercy nodded.
“You’re good with her that way,” Ghost said, sighing, leaning sideways against the desk. “I never had any patience. Not for anything, really. Not like you. You’ve always had all the time in the world when it comes to Ava.”
Mercy’s eyes slid over, narrow and suspicious this time. “Giving me your blessing?”
“Recognizing the work you put in,” he corrected. “You’ve always taken a real interest in her. That’s the sort of thing a father appreciates.”
“Once you get over how much it disgusts you, you mean.”
Ghost frowned. “That doesn’t matter anymore. You two are married now. I have to respect that.”
Mercy twitched a non-smile.
“So I’m not coming to you as your president, but as your father-in-law right now. Because as my son-in-law, you’re pissing me off. Yeah, your leg’s fucked. We all get that. Have the second surgery, go through your physical therapy and get the fuck over it.”
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