by Eden Butler
Shadows and Lies
Copyright © 2015 Eden Butler
Smashword Edition 2015
All rights reserved as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the Author. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Author Publisher.
Edited by Sharon B. Browning
Copy Edited by Karen Chapman
Cover Design by Alleskelle
Cover Image by Big Stock Photo
Formatting by Fictional Formats
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of any word-marks and references mentioned in this work of fiction.
If you have a copy of this book that is watermarked or does not have a cover, know that it is stolen property. Please support authors by purchasing their books, not stealing them.
Seriously, karma is real and if you steal books, the Internet Gods will spread their wrath of nasty viruses on your devices and the author will laugh and laugh at the poetic justice.
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
INTERLUDE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO BY EDEN BUTLER
Dear Reader—
The Shadow Series, beginning with this book, Shadows and Lies, is a break from the type of fiction you normally read from me. It is, primarily, a mystery. That being the case, please understand that the romance elements, while still there, (as well as the abundance of smooching scenes) is not the focus of the story.
Ryan and Alex get up to mischief, but it is not solely the sort that happens flat on their backs.
Be forewarned.
Trust me. I know what I’m doing.
Sorta.
~ Eden
For Sharon, who makes all the words pretty and for Sabrina Dixon Rome who lost her battle but who will never, ever lose our hearts. I miss you, friend.
Sometimes things fall into the shadows because they want to be hidden. Sometimes shadows are home to things you didn’t know even existed—or wish you didn’t know. In my four years as a Navy SEAL and five as a cop, it was my job to walk straight into those shadows and either live and let live, or ferret out the corruption that threatens to fester there. During my time on the beat, working for what I thought was justice, something became clear to me. Damn crystal: liars make up the biggest mass in those shadows because untruths come easy, because, after a while, those lies become so convincing that even the asshole telling it begins to believe it’s true. As a cop I’d seen all types of lowlifes, but the liars were the ones that really got under my skin.
The little hip-twisting number a hundred yards ahead of me looked like the liar type. The ballroom was all outfitted with red, white and blue streamers, fine linen table cloths and crystal glasses of the New Orleans Marriott right on Canal Street and I headed into it following those hips. I had a gut feel about this woman, something that niggled at me when I saw the swish of her hips. She walked with a little slump in her shoulders, like she didn’t care that more than half of New Orleans society—those interested in Congressman Montgomery’s 2016 presidential bid, were all looking down their noses at everyone that wasn’t them. Folks like me, just doing a job. Folks like her, playing waitress. But that swish was worked in a tight, black pencil skirt with a busted zipper and there were too many scuff marks on her second hand designer shoes. She didn’t belong among the polished, posture-straight wait staff.
“Sam, sneaky shit at one o’clock. Check your skirt, man. I’m on her tail.”
There was a buzz from my best friend’s radio and then his quick “On it” response before I weaved around the lobby crowd beginning to line up for the Congressman’s fundraising speech. My team was in position and Montgomery was well protected by his own security firm and mine. The man looked like a print ad for GQ—tanned, blemish-free skin and just a peppering of grey at the temples of his dark hair; tailored, black suit with subtle gray pinstripes, a red triangle handkerchief starched and folded, peeking out from his jacket pocket. And the obligatory American flag lapel pin, of course. He wore a smile you only see from politicians and televangelists—teeth too white, too straight, too damn perfect. He looked expensive, unlike the skirt who stopped in the center of the room, her empty tray in front of her chest, hugging it with one hand as the Congressman began with his “thank yous” and “you’re too kinds”.
Skirt made her move to her target, moving right next to him and I grunted under my breath realizing who he was. The guy who hired us, Michael Davidson, Montgomery’s aide, and so I hustled behind them, just as the woman slithered her red painted fingers toward the man’s pocket. SEAL training had taught me stealth and though I had lost my touch as of late, a few tag-and-bag assignments with the new security firm I’d started with my friends had sorted out most of my recent lapse in subtlety and sharpened up my lax skill for listening when my gut told me something was off.
The woman was smooth, I’d give her that. Davidson was too immersed in his phone, his thumbs working across the screen or idly nodding to one well-wisher or another, to realize the small woman next to him was going for his wallet. That wouldn’t be good—the guy that hired us having his shit ganked by a grifter working the event. Her curse was barely audible as I slipped my fingers around her arm and nodded to Davidson.
Something flashed in his eyes, surprise, maybe irritation and he moved his gaze from whatever held his attention over my shoulder then right back at me. “Everything okay, Ryan?” Davidson asked, slowly glancing back at his phone as I moved the woman behind me.
“Yes sir, everyone is in place.”
Sammy came in front of us, smoother than I could ever really manage and offered Davidson a nod. “Mr. Davidson, we’d like you closer to the stage, if you don’t mind.” We didn’t have to say anything, didn’t communicate a word. I’d known Sammy Auciello for going on twelve years. A quick glance at my grip on the woman’s arm and he knew I wanted Davidson distracted.
“Very well.” The aide sighed, shuffling his phone in his pocket when Sammy ushered him to the other side of the ball room.
“I didn’t do shit, asshole.” The skirt jerked, voice loud enough to draw the attention of several of the suits and designer-duds-wearing women around us. “Let me go.”
There was a warning in her voice that made me smile. She had fire, but then you’d have to if you thought lifting a few wallets from some rich snobs would be easy, especially with security in every corner of the room. I glanced around, ignoring the woman as she continued to complain, and spotted Sammy’s brother Frank and the five-man team he was directing. Congressman Montgomery had received threats in the past, that was a career hazard in his business, I supposed. We weren’t letting anyone sketchy get past us, not when this was our first real high-dollar gig.
“Hey, asshole, I said to let me…”
“Miss,” I said, voice low but firm, pulling her through the crowd, “it might be a good idea to button your lip.” Eyes alert and shi
fting, I took in the waning crowd as we slipped from the ballroom.
“I swear to God if you don’t let me go, I’m gonna scream.”
“Do that and you’ll land in the backseat of an NOPD cruiser, lady.” I didn’t bother to look at her, keeping my attention on the folks more interested in their drinks than the Congressman’s speech, some congregated around long red couches and the dark mahogany bar at the back of the lobby. The buzz of conversation was loud, made louder by the line of reporters trying to argue with my security team about their credentials. But I still was aware of her tight arm muscle contracting, heard the low grumbles she made since I had mentioned the cops. Funny how criminals quieted when you mentioned the police. Especially in this city.
“Listen,” she started, easing the tension in her voice, shifting her head away from me as though she wanted to make sure no one heard her. “I swear I was just trying to slip that cute guy my number. What’s the harm in that?”
If I didn’t have my game face on, I might have cracked a smile. As it was, that defense got added among the hundreds in my “Stupid Excuses Lowlifes Make” list. I’d officially heard them all. She didn’t seem to like my ignoring her and took to struggling again as I looked straight ahead, moving my chin at one of our men, Nox, a big son of a bitch from New York that Frank had hired just a month before.
“Live wire?” he asked me, not bothering to conceal his smile when I shook my head and ushered the woman into the security office we were using for the event. When I had her inside, Nox scratched his chin, tilted his head at the curses the woman was making. “You want me to call it in?” His gaze slipped to mine, questioning, but I waved him off.
“Nah, I can handle her.” Behind me the woman slumped into a hardback chair next to the desk, scuffling it against the light marble tiles with swirls of dark circles that swooped around the center of the floor. “Go tell Sammy I got this one handled. It was getting stuffy in there anyway. I’ll be back in a minute.”
The plan was to settle the woman up, lock her inside the room after I took a small breather, not needing the hassle of a lowlife pick pocketing. Nox would keep watch over her. But something about her niggling little laugh, the one she kept low under her breath had me turning around.
I should’ve just walked out the damn door. “Holy. Fuck,” I said, my mouth falling open as I recognized her.
“Shit,” she muttered like she’d been caught yet again.
She was taller than I remembered, and thinner, but the last time I’d seen her, I’d been drunk on bourbon and frustration. I couldn’t do more than stare at her, my gut burning with anger as she covered her mouth and started laughing. “This is not funny.”
“No,” she said, falling against the chair. “Oh my God, it’s so not funny.” But she didn’t stop laughing. “This is just not my damn day.”
“You got that shit right.” I pulled out my cell, clicked on the phone icon, then the key pad before she shot up from the chair to grab my wrist. There was something in her touch, a small spark of heat, her fingers against my skin that had me pausing, but I pushed it back, too pissed, too irritated for much thought. One flick of my eyes from her fingers, to her face and any remaining humor she had died. “You’re gonna want to not touch me. I have handcuffs.”
“Please.” There was real fear in her large, dark eyes. Her lower lids curled under the twitch of her cheeks and if I wasn’t wrong, there was a small plea in her voice. “I can’t go back in.”
She was pretty; even as I angry as I was, I couldn’t deny that. She had to be Hispanic, maybe Native American with hair so dark it reminded me of crow feathers. Her cheekbones were high, sharp, and her lips were full, arched deep at the top. She gave off a rockabilly vibe, maybe the hint of punk. Even in that little mock waitress outfit, I noted the thick cat eye on her eyelids, the bright red lipstick and the lift of a pompadour that slicked back into a round bun at the base of her neck. I knew firsthand that she could use that pretty face to her advantage, remembering back when I first caught her sauntering around my house in Tennessee like she owned it. Pretty or not, this chick was going down. Finally. “Well that’s where you belong.”
One blink, and the fear left her face. I could almost see her defenses rising and her fingers tightened around my wrist. “For trying to lift some rich asshole’s wallet?”
“That and for breaking into my damn house.” I tried moving her hand from my wrist, but she tugged on it, as though trying to make me understand that her petty theft could be excused.
“That was months ago. Besides, the New Orleans cops can’t do shit to me for a B&E in Tennessee.”
“No, but they’ll get a head’s up from me about the BOLO I had my buddies on the force to put out on your ass.”
“What?” Finally she dropped my hand, looking pathetic with small traces of fear coming back onto her face. “You think I’d let you take my property and get away with it?”
The look she gave me was focused and I didn’t get it. She tried to read something in my features that I wouldn’t give away. Then, the little shit smirked. “I think you’re just mad because I sucker punched you.”
“That,” I started, stepping back, my temper rising quick, “is not what happened.” I cleared my throat, annoyed that this woman was making me forget that I was supposed to be a professional. I nodded toward the door. “Hands up, feet spread apart.”
“What?”
When she didn’t move, I tapped her back, urging her forward, anticipating that she’d fight me, shocked when she only lowered her shoulders and stood facing the door. “You carrying any weapons?”
“You aren’t seriously going to frisk me,” she said, moving her hands up as I nudged her feet apart. “You’re not on duty, hell this isn’t even your city.”
“I’m on the job and we do this.” When she glared at me over her shoulder, I exhaled, tried not to sound like too much of a prick then nodded again. I was getting tired of the eye roll. “No gun? Weapons of any kind?”
“Just my charming personality.” The smug grin returned, exaggerated by her shrug, but I didn’t smile back or do more than wait for her to face the door again.
“So nothing then.”
This wasn’t exactly my favorite thing to do. Most of the time suspects are armed and like to keep their weapons hidden—in the most disgusting places you can imagine. But this woman was wearing a tight skirt and starched Oxford knock-off, unbuttoned so that I caught a quick glance at bronzed skin and deep cleavage. Not too many places to hide a weapon. This was not a woman I wanted to touch—I wasn’t into cops and robbers, not like that. But a job is a job and I took a breath, filled my lungs and tried to get the pat down over as quickly as I could.
I should have waited for Sammy or one of the other men so she couldn’t say that I’d gotten too handsy, but there was a camera in the corner of the ceiling recording everything I did and I used the back of my hands so my fingers wouldn’t come near certain areas of her person. Still, it was hard to ignore that her body was strong—muscular arms that were defined rather than bulky; when I moved my hands over them, up to her triceps, across her shoulders, I caught a whiff of her perfume. It made me a little light headed. She had no weapons, no knife or gun, nothing concealed under her waistband or strapped to her thigh, but when I tapped across her chest, I felt a card, plastic, square. “Empty whatever that is from your bra.” I’d find out this brat’s name and commit the details to memory.
She took her time, shaking her head while I waited for her to step back from the door. Another excuse was coming, I saw it in the look she gave me, as though she was preparing a defense and I nudged her, tried taking her arm again to put her back in the chair and secure her in cuffs. She batted my hand away, glaring at me. “Watch it, pig.”
The attitude seemed like habit, so did the stupid scowling frown and I thought this woman had no clue what a mess she’d stumbled into. I wasn’t some beat cop worried about offending a beautiful woman. She wasn’t the first suspect to cro
ss my path with the same attitude, the same skill at looking scared and pathetic. That shit wasn’t going to work on me. Not again. “Yeah, I bet the cops will just love your smart ass mouth.”
“They know me. I’ll be out in an hour.”
“I’m sure you will.” She was full of shit. There’d been fear in her eyes when I started to call the police. A nudge of my head toward the chair and she sat, still glaring, but curled her arms around her stomach as though she’d caught a chill and a lot of that attitude dimmed as I sat down behind the desk and picked up my phone.
“You’re still calling them?”
I wasn’t, not just then, but she didn’t need to know that. “What’s the problem? You said you were old buddies.” She didn’t deserve my attention, which was focused on the background check app on my phone and the contents from her bra—a can of mace, her driver’s license and one brass key all lay on the desk. The I.D. was worn around the edges, frayed at the corners and I quickly typed in her name and license number into the app.
Alex, the license read, shot her gaze to the door when it opened and her eyes widened, moving from Sammy’s size twelve feet, up his trunk legs and all over the black suit he wore. I was used to it. That pretty boy always had women panting after him.
“You straight, man?” he asked me, stepping inside with Nox right behind him, then he stopped to smile at Alex like she wasn’t a thief, chuckling at the glare she gave him. “Did I interrupt something?”
“Just me doing my job.”
“In the wrong city, asshole,” Alex said, bringing Sammy’s attention back to her. She’d taken to tapping her heel against the floor again, birthing a small headache at the base of my skull. “You have zero jurisdiction here and I didn’t take anything.”
“I might not be a cop anymore,” I told her, sitting back in my chair with my arms crossed, “but I know what I saw. You were two seconds from lifting Davidson’s wallet.” In my peripheral, Sammy’s head volleyed back and forth between me and the suspect. God only knew what fiction that jackass was creating in his one-track mind.
