It was less personal, less satisfying, but he would shoot her with the gun he would take from one of his first victims. She was too damn dangerous to fuck with, and in the long run, dead was dead, no matter how it was accomplished.
Then? William’s cars were in the garage. A stop at a twenty-four-hour Wal-Mart for a set of heavy-duty bolt cutters, take his pick of cars from the surrounding neighborhood, and head south to Dallas.
It was a plan he could live with.
He moved silently down the hall to Robinette’s room, turned the knob, then eased the door open. The room was similar to his own—large, one wall all windows, the furniture looking like something from the damned islands. William had spared no expense redecorating the place for Selena, but she’d refused to live there and refused the job offer that accompanied it.
Why? Because she could.
The only things different between this room and his own were the lump in the bed that was Robinette and the tiny green light that glowed on the nightstand—a cell phone in a charger. During the day, if he wasn’t talking on it, it was clipped to his belt, as much a part of him as the pistol he wore in a shoulder holster. It was his contact with the world.
Considering that his world was now Selena’s world, and Damon’s, there weren’t that many people he should be talking to.
Damon crossed the room, eased the phone from the charger, then retreated into the hall and to his own room. With the door closed and a chair wedged in front of it, he flipped open the phone and called up the OUTGOING CALLS screen. Highlighting the number that appeared most often, he pressed the SEND button. After two rings, it went to a recording that surprised him so damn much, he called back and listened to it again.
When he hung up the second time, he stood motionless, the phone gripped loosely, unsure whether to laugh or swear. Had he been suckered by Selena again? Had she been lying to him from the start? Did she have a clue what was going on, or was she the fool this time?
He didn’t have any idea. But he did know one thing for sure: A lot of people would be damned interested to know what he’d just discovered.
Adam Robinette, advisor and flunky to the nation’s newest drug lord, was making regular calls to the local office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
Robinette had just saved his own and everyone else’s lives. Before Damon committed an act as final as murder, he needed to reevaluate with this new information in mind.
After all, if his reevaluation weighed out in favor of a big diversion and escape, he could always kill them another night.
Selena settled on her bed Monday morning, the folder holding William’s journal on the spread in front of her. Tony had stayed late the night before, giving her a badly needed distraction from William, the case, and her life. Now, though, with her workout and breakfast out of the way and nothing else on her schedule for a while, she picked up the folder with unsteady hands and opened it.
The first entry of substance that hadn’t been blacked out was dated January 14.
I’m back from my second trip to Puerto Rico and have had no luck at locating the Acostas. Of course, after taking my money all these years when they weren’t taking care of the child, I have no doubt that they don’t want to be found, certainly not by me. I’m not discouraged, though. It’s simply a matter of offering the right price. Then someone will give them up. Someone always does.
January 29. The right price was $5000 and a truck worth a tenth of that. It was Rodrigo’s own sister who sold him out. Odd. I’m sure my sister would think I’ve sold her out . . . if she knew. But she knows nothing about who I am, what I’ve done, and she never will. Tomorrow I’ll visit Luisa and Rodrigo . . . and perhaps take a pound of his worthless flesh for each year he took my money after sending the girl away.
January 30. Utterly worthless. The man actually tried to lie to me. He told me she had run away, that their hearts had been broken and still they searched for her. It was a lie, of course. Sending her to them was a mistake; I see that now. He’s a lazy drunk who controls with his fists, and his fat wife is good for nothing but popping out more mouths they can’t feed. Slovenly, slatternly trash. After some . . . shall we say persuasion? . . . he admitted that they’d sold the girl to a couple in Jamaica. Sold her!
Ah, well . . . after I finished with him, I seriously doubt he’ll be getting any more brats on his fat, stupid wife. Thank God for small miracles.
February 1. I’m in Ocho Rios and am planning an excursion to a small village named—
Across the room, the intercom squawked, then Robinette’s voice came through. “Sonny Yates is on the phone for you. Come on up to the ballroom.”
Selena glanced at the intercom, then the journal, before reluctantly folding the corner of the page and closing the folder. She drew a deep breath before leaving the room and turning toward the stairs.
So William had known her—or, at least, known of her— years before they’d met. But how? Was his connection to Luisa, and if so, what was it? She couldn’t think of a single circumstance in which elegant, wealthy, sophisticated William could have ever met—or noticed—poor, uneducated Luisa.
More likely, he’d somehow known Selena’s father— though, thank you, God, he couldn’t be her father. Luisa was Puerto Rican through and through, so Selena’s black blood must have come from her father. Had he been Jamaican, as Luisa had told her? The drug trade had long been active in Jamaica. Perhaps he’d been one of William’s partners in crime.
The possibility made Selena’s stomach knot. She had always known the reality of her mother wasn’t pretty— ignorant, downtrodden, too defeated by life even to care about her own child. But she’d had fantasies about her father. He was handsome, decent, honorable. He came from a large, loving family, and though his one night with Luisa had been an aberration, he would have welcomed Selena into his family if only he’d known of her existence. She’d been too black for her Latino family, but had persuaded herself all too easily that her black family wouldn’t have cared about her Puerto Rican blood, if only they’d known.
But if he’d been one of William’s associates, he was neither decent nor honorable.
And if he’d been one of William’s associates, and William had been paying Luisa and Rodrigo to raise her, the most likely reason was that he was dead.
And his family hadn’t wanted her.
No one had wanted her.
She was cold, empty inside, as she climbed the final steps to the ballroom. Everyone had gathered there—a scowling Gentry slathering lotion onto her hands, Long lounging in a comfortable chair with a motorcycle magazine, Jamieson off to one side, his laptop computer turned to give him some privacy. Robinette handed the phone to Selena, then pressed the button to connect the call.
“Mr. Yates.”
“Don’t you think you could call me Sonny once in a while?”
She smiled faintly. “I’ll consider it. What do you need?”
“Just wanted to let you know that I’m on my way to Tulsa.”
“Of course you are. Those were my orders.”
The silence hummed with tension for a moment, then he continued as if she hadn’t set him in his place. “I’ll be there this afternoon. I booked a suite at the Renaissance. Perhaps you could invite me to William’s legendary mansion for supper.”
“Perhaps I could. What about the task I gave you?”
“I have news. I’ll tell you when I see you.”
“Call me when you arrive.” She hung up without waiting for his agreement.
“Well?” Robinette prompted.
“He’ll be in Tulsa in a few hours. He suggested I invite him here for dinner.”
He considered it a moment, then shrugged. “That’s not a bad idea. We know the place is secure, and if we need to put the fear of God into him, no one will interfere.”
Selena glanced at Long for his opinion. William hadn’t done business at home—not because it was sacred territory, but because his public life had been associated with the
house. Anyone who knew William Davis lived there would have eventually discovered that Henry Daniels did, too, and that discovery could have meant ruin for William or death for the unfortunate one who figured it out.
It had almost meant her death.
But the only response Long offered was a shrug that mirrored Robinette’s. “You don’t have a public life to protect,” he pointed out. “Nothing to hide.”
“All right,” she agreed. “Throw some money around and find a caterer who can handle a dinner party on such short notice.”
Robinette’s bristling was almost imperceptible—the slight tightening of his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes, the degree or two of frostiness in his voice when he spoke to his left without taking his gaze from her. “Take care of that.”
Jamieson and Gentry exchanged glances. Since the odds of Gentry’s taking on the job willingly were somewhere between nil and none, Jamieson gave a shake of his head. “I’ll do it. Anything in particular for the menu?”
Selena shrugged. “Whatever they want. Tell them price is no object.” The government would claim most of William’s assets, as well as Yates’s, Taylor’s, and Munroe’s, when they got to them. Let them spend some of it to support the charade. “Do we have an offer for Mr. Yates yet?”
Robinette looked at Jamieson, who paused in flipping through the Yellow Pages long enough to shake his head. “Soon,” Robinette said. “If not by tonight, then in the morning.”
Acknowledging him with a nod, she wandered across the room to the easel and painting supplies set up near the south wall. Under normal circumstances, if more than a few days passed without a brush in her hand, she was literally aching to get back to work, but that day she wasn’t even tempted. Who knew what might appear on the canvas if she tried? Surely something far removed from the idyllic views of paradise she was known for. Something dark and menacing, that might hurt to look at.
“What’s up? You were white as a ghost when you came up here.”
Selena fiddled with rearranging her worktable without looking at Gentry. “Considering that I’m half-black and half– Puerto Rican, I believe that would be a physical impossibility.”
“You know what I mean. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Or maybe everything. If William had known her father, why had he never told her about him? Easy answer: because he liked being in control. He had let her know what he wanted, and he’d hidden the rest. It would have suited him to keep that little secret, reserved for the time it could be best used to his advantage. Was there anything she would have refused if he’d offered everything he knew about her father in exchange?
She would like to think her scruples and honor weren’t for sale, but she’d already proven they were. Hadn’t she come to Tulsa to kill Tony to protect her own freedom? Hadn’t she agreed to the FBI’s scheme, again to protect that freedom? What would she have agreed to, to learn something— anything—about her father?
Looking as if she intended to pursue the subject, Gentry opened her mouth, but Selena spoke first. “Are the dishes done?”
“Washed, but not dried. I don’t believe in drying them.”
“You don’t believe in washing them, either.”
“Hey, rock-paper-scissors is a stupid game. If they’d taken my suggestion of a shooting competition on the side lawn, I’d’ve won and Jamieson would have been washing instead.”
“You had one pan, a few plates, and some silverware. It didn’t kill you. Besides, if I’d gotten in on the shooting competition, you wouldn’t have won.”
“Maybe, but you can’t have a gun.”
Selena thought of the weapons secreted in her room and shrugged.
“You expecting lover-boy back tonight?”
She shrugged again, aware of the faint heat in her cheeks, and redirected the question. “You have someone in your life?”
“If I did, he wouldn’t be sticking around until this job is finished and I could see him again.” Gentry smiled ruefully. “The men in my life never stick around.”
“If the job is so tough on your personal life, why don’t you find something else to do?”
“Where else can I work long hours, deal with scum on a daily basis, get shot at, and make slave wages while doing it?” Gentry picked up a dry brush and drew it over the canvas. The half-finished painting showed a beach scene, but not the tropical islands Selena usually favored. This was a small man-made beach laid out along an otherwise rugged shore, and the placid water beyond was a lake, its shores heavily wooded with oaks, red cedars, sumac. It was Tony’s uncle John’s place at Keystone Lake, a short drive west of Tulsa, where they’d had incredible, hot, breath-stealing sex for the first time . . . and the second. She didn’t need a tangible reminder—the memory would remain forever in her mind—but she wanted one.
“Besides”—Gentry put the brush back on the table— “you’re a fine one to be talking. This job’s been hell on your personal life, too, but I don’t see you walking away.”
“The FBI’s not going to kill you for quitting. These people I’m dealing with want me dead whether I’m in or out. At least if I’m in, I stand a chance of getting them first.”
“True,” Gentry agreed, fixing her gaze on Selena. “But at what cost?”
Some things never failed to surprise Tony—such as the ability to run down to the local strip center, buy a hot dog, rent a video, pay your electric bill, and visit a prostitute—but that was the case at one particular strip center off Sheridan. The hookers masqueraded as massage therapists, but everyone with half a clue knew what really went on inside.
He parked next to a shit-box Ford, then joined Simmons, who was leaning against the front fender.
“I haven’t been here since the last time I busted the place,” Simmons commented. “You think they’ll hold a grudge?”
“Aw, Frankie, everybody holds a grudge against you.”
“What’re we doing?”
“Looking for anyone who knew this guy.” Tony pulled a copy of both photographs from his jacket pocket and handed them over.
“Who is he?”
“Charles Hensley. Better known around here as Carl Heinz.”
“The guy you think shot at Island Girl.”
Tony nodded as he studied the space on the end of the shopping center. Its broad windows were blocked with blinds. A sign overhead announced KIM’S THERAPEUTIC MASSAGE, and stickers on the door displayed the hours, along with the credit cards accepted. It didn’t look any different from the dentist’s office at the other end, except the dentist was legit.
“Christ, Chee, don’t you have enough to do without going out and investigating other people’s cases?”
“He worked for Henry. That gives me an interest in him.”
“And the fact that he might have tried to kill your girlfriend puts him off-limits. If the boss finds out—”
Tony looked at him sharply. “He’s a principal in a freaking organized crime/dope/multiple homicide case in which I’m the lead detective. I’m just doing my job.”
“Yeah, right.” Simmons looked skyward. “Just doing his job. That’s what he said when he went after the fuckin’ chief of police. Doing his job, and taking me with him.”
“Hey, you volunteered to come along. You want to go back to your own cases, feel free.”
“Nah. All my people are dead. They ain’t goin’ anywhere.” Simmons looked at the photograph, then handed it back. “What do you know about this guy?”
“Not a lot.” Tony had spent a tedious day, starting with an appointment with the lawyer who’d hired the PI—who had, predictably, claimed attorney/client privilege and shown him the door. He’d tracked down Heinz’s cell phone provider and gotten his phone records, done the paperwork to get his financials, and had a records clerk digging up everything she could on both names. He’d talked to a detective in Philadelphia who said they’d watch for him and to a detective in Savannah who said they’d seen no sign of him. “He averaged four deliveries a week from the sam
e pizza place in Brookside. He had an allergist, and called him more often in spring and fall than summer and winter. He made regular calls to this massage service, every two weeks like clockwork, and charged it to his credit card.”
“Yeah, that number-crunching’s hard work. Lots of stress to relieve. Any personal stuff?”
“I think the massage service pretty much sums up his personal life.” Every call on the phone records was to or from a local business. Nothing personal, nothing long-distance. If he’d kept in touch with family or friends back in Philadelphia—or with anyone in Savannah—he hadn’t done so with this cell phone.
But that was what pay phones were for, wasn’t it?
“So we’re gonna go ask the girls what they know, and you think they’re gonna tell us.”
“I’ve never had trouble getting information from prostitutes.”
“Yeah, and they probably offer to do you for free,” Simmons grumbled as they started across the parking lot. “How is Island Girl? The feebs haven’t gotten her shot yet, have they?”
“They came close.” Tony skimmed over the two incidents in Savannah.
“Jesus. They might as well paint a bull’s-eye on her back.”
“That’s what I told her.” But she’d ignored him and taken their deal anyway. Hard as he was trying to deal with it, that still rankled. “I can’t even blame them. To do what they want her to do, she’s got to be visible. She’s got to meet with these people.”
“Daniels never did.”
He was right, of course. Henry had never met any of his employees. But Selena wasn’t Henry.
“It’d be nice if this was like TV, where the police go in and the girls are sitting around in skimpy undergarments,” Simmons said with a leer as he held the door open.
“Suz not letting you near her again?”
“Wait till you get married. You’ll never get it as much as you did before.”
Now there was a discouraging thought.
Deep Cover Page 23
