Deep Cover

by Rachel Butler

  The woman behind the counter was Asian, spoke with a heavy accent, and answered to the improbable name of Cissy. She needed two looks at Tony, but only one at Simmons, to bring suspicion into her dark eyes and a flat line to her mouth.

  “We just freakin’ look like cops,” Simmons muttered.

  He’d rather look like a cop than a man who had to pay for sex, Tony thought, no matter how little of it he had been getting lately.

  Cissy didn’t want to talk—didn’t want to do anything besides throw them out. “We’re not interested in arresting anybody,” Tony said. “We don’t care what you do here. We just want to know about one client—this man.”

  She didn’t even glance at the photo. “Don’t know him.”

  “At least one of your employees does. He was a regular.”

  “Don’t know him,” she repeated.

  Simmons rested one elbow on the counter and bent so he was closer to her eye level. “You know, maybe we are interested in arresting somebody. Maybe we ought to call our buddies in Special Investigations and get them to come over. Maybe they could bring some reporters from the local TV stations, too. It’s probably been—what?—three, four months since the last story on your kind of establishment aired on the news.”

  She scowled at him a long time, then walked over to the hall that led to the back rooms and snapped out something in her native language. A moment later, another petite, pretty Asian woman appeared. She introduced herself as Tammy without even a hint of an accent, led them into a lounge, then sat down and crossed her legs, swinging one stiletto-heeled foot in the air.

  “Yeah, I know him,” she said in response to the photo. “Carl. Every other Thursday, four o’clock, for two years. Liked to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “Computers. Money. He was always telling me I should invest in this stock or that. I passed his tips along to my investment guy and got some pretty good returns.”

  A twenty-something prostitute with her own investment counselor. And all Tony could manage was an IRA. “Did he ever talk about his personal life? Family, where he was from, his hobbies?”

  Her smile was both sweet and seductive. “I think I was his only hobby. Said he didn’t have any family that he claimed. He came from somewhere back East, but he never talked about it. Colorado—that’s what he talked about.” Her silky black hair swung as she bobbed her head. “Said he was gonna move there someday. He had a little place already, somewhere in the mountains, and even showed me a picture of it—he carried it around in his wallet like you would a picture of your wife and kids. Talked about it like it was some kind of dream house, when it was really just a dirty old cabin in the middle of nowhere.”

  A cabin in Colorado. Jeez, it might as well be a needle in a haystack. “Did he ever mention the name of the town?”

  “Maybe. I don’t remember.” Again with the smile. “Dirty old cabins in the mountains don’t interest me.”

  Tony asked a few more questions, but she had nothing else to add. When he stood to leave, he commented, “You didn’t ask what he’s done.” Most people he interviewed were curious as hell; why or what were the first words out of their mouths.

  She stood, smoothed her snug-fitting dress an inch lower on her thighs, then shrugged. “Unless I’m getting paid, Carl Heinz doesn’t interest me, either. Now, if that’s all you want . . . I have things to do.”

  As they walked through the lobby, Simmons called a friendly good-bye to Cissy, who responded with a scowl. He didn’t speak again until they were outside in the blistering heat. “What are the odds that Carl Heinz bought that dirty old cabin under either of the names you know for him?”

  “Somewhere between slim and none.” Tony rubbed the ache between his eyes before sliding on his sunglasses. “I’m so damn tired of people lying about who they are and what they do.”

  “Then you are in the wrong line of work, son. Everyone lies, and the more sincere they are, or the more polite they are, the bigger the lie.”

  The observation almost made Tony smile. He didn’t want to get too cynical, but he had to admit that the first time each new suspect called him “sir,” he was more than ready to put the handcuffs on.

  “So . . . you want me to try to track down this cabin?”

  “Frankie . . . you’re offering to work?” He feigned surprise. “Jeez, give me a minute. I want to remember everything about this moment.”

  “Fuck you, Chee. I work.”

  “So you say. I’ve just never seen it for myself.”

  “Do you want me to track down the damn cabin or not? ’Cause if you don’t do some work on your own cases, the boss is gonna be awfully pissed.”

  Tony sobered as he stopped next to his car. “Yeah. I appreciate it, Frankie.”

  Simmons opened his car door, grimaced at the heat that rolled out, then shrugged out of his jacket. “Yeah, well, my dead folks won’t miss me. And the boss doesn’t expect results from me like he does from you.” He shoved a pair of mirrored glasses into place, then turned a shit-eating grin Tony’s way. “Besides, I figure once Island Girl’s safe, you can show your gratitude by solving a few of my cases for me.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that.” Once Selena was safe.

  If she was ever safe.

  “Where the hell are you going?”

  Damon stopped halfway to the stairs and slowly turned to face Robinette. They’d spent a few boring hours in the ballroom, four of them tediously discussing every goddamn aspect of this deal they were going to offer Sonny, to the point that Damon had wanted to strangle them all. If he and William had done one-tenth as much talking as these fuckers did, they never would have accomplished a damn thing.

  “I’m going to the john,” he said sourly.

  Robinette nodded toward the matching doors that opened off an alcove nearby. “Bathrooms are over there.”

  “I want privacy. I’m gonna be a while.” Damon gestured with the magazine he’d rolled into a tube, then headed toward the stairs again. Robinette, the prick, was so damn antsy, like he was afraid of what Damon might do if he was out of their sight for five minutes.

  He should be afraid.

  Damon took the stairs two at a time to the second floor and went into the master suite at the north end of the hall. He locked the door behind him, went into the bathroom, and locked that door, too. The toilet sat in its own private room between a Jacuzzi tub and a shower big enough for four. Once he’d secured that lock, he dug the cell phone from his pocket and sat down.

  He’d spent part of the day figuring out who to trust with his information, and the rest waiting for a chance to act. He’d settled on the one person whose loyalty to William was beyond reproach. “J.T. This is Damon. I need some information.”

  “Damon Long. I heard the new boss is leading you around like a puppy on a leash—that she’s got you wearing one of those electronic collars like you use to keep a dog in the yard.”

  The fucker thought it was funny. Well, hell, so what? Damon didn’t give a damn what anyone thought. “Yeah, yeah. Listen, this guy who’s working for her—Adam Robinette. Says he used to work for Hector Gonzalez down in Miami. You know if that’s true?”

  “Mr. Gonzalez and I weren’t exactly friends.”

  “Can you find out?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “I just want to know if he is who he says he is.”

  “You think he isn’t?”

  “The guy’s been making calls to the FBI. He could be an agent working undercover, or he could really be Gonzalez’s man who’s sold out to the feds. I don’t know. But I want to.”

  The humor was gone from J.T.’s voice. “I’ll look into it. You want me to call you back?”

  “No.” That was all he needed, for the phone to ring when he wasn’t supposed to even have the damn thing. “I’ll call you.”

  He hung up, stuck the cell back in his pocket, then leaned back and opened the magazine.

  Selena checked her appearance in the dre
sser mirror. Her dress was linen in a deep salmon hue, simple, sleeveless, and her hair was loose around her shoulders. She wore a choker of coral beads and matching earrings, and smelled of jasmine and passionflower, and wished she could give it all up for one of Tony’s old T-shirts and a few hours alone with William’s journal . . . or a few hours alone with Tony.

  She put the journal away, stepped into a pair of sandals, then left her room for the gentlemen’s parlor downstairs. They would have drinks there, it had been decided, and dispense with the social pleasantries before moving to the sunroom for dinner. Long would join them for the meal. Robinette wouldn’t, though he would remain nearby. Jamieson was likely shut away with his computer somewhere, and Gentry was upstairs in one of the guest rooms, all set up to monitor their conversation.

  Like the second-floor study, the parlor held bad memories for Selena, and the coming evening wasn’t likely to improve them. Frank Simmons had brought her there after the shootings that Sunday. He’d read her her rights, questioned her about William, Tony, and Damon Long, and treated her like the suspect she’d been. Left to him, she would have gone from there straight to jail . . . but Tony hadn’t left it to him.

  Pushing the numbness that had encased her that day to the back of her mind, she crossed the room to stand near Robinette, meticulously rearranging William’s exquisite antique decanters on the ancient cherry table that stood duty as a bar. “Charlize Pawley came with him,” he murmured, his voice pitched low so that Long, across the room, couldn’t hear.

  He’d probably known that from the moment Yates had left Savannah. It reassured her that they were keeping the enemy under close watch. “She said she would like to visit Oklahoma sometime.”

  “Yeah, it’s such a popular tourist destination.”

  “I don’t know. I came for a short visit, and I’m still here.”

  “You came to kill someone. Let’s hope she doesn’t have the same intent.”

  She gave him a dry look. “What should I tell Mr. Yates about our partnership?”

  He set a glass of wine in front of her. “The truth. The accounting for such an extensive enterprise is complicated. Jamieson needs a little more time.”

  She nodded once, then picked up the glass. It trembled sharply as the doorbell echoed through the foyer. With a smile lacking in warmth, Robinette circled the bar and headed for the door. She watched him go, then became aware of Long watching her.

  “How much do you know about that guy?” he asked with a gesture toward the door.

  “Mr. Robinette? I told you, he used to work for Hector Gonzalez.”

  “Yeah. How’d he come to work for you?”

  “He was looking for a job, and I was looking for help. He came very highly recommended.”

  “By who?”

  She stiffened her spine. “By someone I trust. Why the questions?”

  Shoving his hands into his pants pockets, he lifted both shoulders in a shrug that was as relaxed as she was rigid. “Just curious. You bring strangers into my life, I wonder about them. I wonder about him.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, the mistrust is mutual.” She studied him a moment, then quietly asked, “Is there something I should know about Mr. Robinette? Do you think he has an agenda?”

  Long laughed. “Everyone’s got an agenda.”

  “And what’s yours, Mr. Long?”

  “Staying alive and out of prison. What’s Robinette’s?”

  “Meeting his employer’s expectations.”

  Long made a rude sound, but approaching footsteps stopped him from going further. As Selena turned to the door, she wondered what was behind his questions. Had Robinette said or done something to make him more suspicious than usual? Or was it merely dislike? If she was sharing quarters with the man, she was certain she would like him even less than she did at the moment.

  Robinette came into the room first, heading for the bar. Yates and Charlize Pawley were a few steps behind him. There was no sign of Devlin or LeRoy. Had they come along but been stopped at the gates, or had they stayed behind at the hotel? Or was this vulnerability supposed to be a sign of trust?

  “Nice place, Selena,” Yates said, walking straight toward her, hand extended.

  Though she wished she could have avoided it, she shook his hand. “Uncle William had exquisite taste, and the money to indulge it. I’ll give you a tour later if you’d like.”

  “I would.” He reached back and drew Charlize to his side. “I hope you don’t mind that I brought a guest. You intrigued her with your description of the city, so she seized the opportunity to see for herself.”

  “I don’t mind at all. It’s a pleasure seeing you again, Charlize.” She’d said Oklahoma was a lovely place. That was hardly a description to intrigue—hardly a description at all.

  The woman murmured something appropriate, Yates and Long exchanged greetings, and Robinette served drinks all around. Selena sat in the chair nearest the fireplace, wishing for a blaze there to chase away her chill.

  After waiting for her guests to settle on the sofa, Selena crossed her legs, swirled the wine in its delicate stemmed glass, then casually asked, “What about the task I assigned you, Mr. Yates? Have you made any progress?”

  In spite of his smile, she caught the twitch of a muscle in his jaw. He gave Charlize a nod, and she removed an envelope from her purse, laying it in his hand. In turn, he leaned forward and tossed it on the coffee table in front of Selena. Though she was careful not to look at Robinette, peripherally she saw him move, coming around the bar as she set down her wine, picked up the envelope, and opened it.

  There were photographs inside—glossy, full-color, a man lying in the dirt. With his eyes closed, his jaw stubbled with beard, and his hair tousled, he looked like a drunk sleeping off one too many . . . if she managed to overlook the gaping hole where the upper right quadrant of his face should have been.

  “I remember him,” Long said, giving her a start. She hadn’t been aware of his rising from his seat. “I figured someone would put a bullet in his brain long before this. He was always careless.”

  Keeping her hand steady through sheer will, she gave the photos to Robinette, then turned an icy gaze on Yates. “I assume that’s Mr. Tarver.”

  “In the flesh . . . though it’s rather cold at the moment.”

  “I told you to find him and bring him to me. I told you not to—”

  “I’m not responsible for that,” Yates interrupted.

  She filled her lungs though her chest was so tight that breathing actually hurt. “Then who is?”

  His look, his manner, his tone, were all condescendingly patient. “The logical answer is the man who sent him to Savannah in the first place. He took money to do a job. He failed at that job. That”—he gestured toward the photo—“is one of the consequences of failure.”

  Death was one of the risks of the business. Selena understood that. She shouldn’t even feel any sympathy for Buddy Tarver. He was dead because she was alive. He didn’t know anything about her, didn’t have any sort of grudge against her, and yet he had intended to kill her for no reason other than greed. She had meant nothing to him. His death should mean less than nothing to her.

  But it didn’t. It sickened her.

  “Why would Mr. Taylor—or anyone else—send a hitter who was always careless?” Robinette asked.

  Long shrugged as he dropped back into his seat. “Maybe he was pressed for time. Maybe Tarver’s gotten better since I knew him.”

  Or maybe whoever hired him had wanted someone less than competent. Maybe the intent had never been to kill her, but to merely make it look as if someone wanted her dead— to cast blame elsewhere and create a rift in the organization.

  Robinette directed his next question to Yates. “If you weren’t responsible, how did you get the photographs?”

  “You know how it goes—someone knows someone who knows someone . . . Our particular ‘someone’ works in the police department lab. He knew we were interested in Tar
ver, so he got us copies. So . . . mission accomplished.”

  Selena forced herself to shrug carelessly. “Though not as directed. I wanted to talk to Mr. Tarver. Clearly, that’s impossible now.” And that, more than his failure to kill her, was probably why he was dead. Whoever had hired him hadn’t wanted any loose ends that led back to him. It could have been Barnard Taylor, as the evidence suggested. Or it could have just as easily been Yates. With Tarver dead, she would likely never know.

  “We can talk about the bonus you promised me later,” Yates said, settling back on the sofa, his drink in hand.

  “The deal wasn’t to kill him.”

  “No, it was to identify him. I did that, and I would have turned him over to you as directed if someone hadn’t killed him first. You can’t blame me for that.”

  If she discussed rewarding him for the man’s death, she was going to be ill. As it was, she couldn’t imagine doing justice to the excellent meal laid out in the sunroom. “You’re right,” she said coolly. “We’ll discuss the bonus tomorrow. Right now, dinner awaits us. Shall we move into the sunroom?”

  14

  It was easy to fall into a routine, especially when a person had as much practice at it as Kathryn did. She’d had her routines in school, in college, in her marriage. Routines were comforting. They made everything seem all right— usually.

  Up every morning at eight, breakfast on the patio, a drive to the hospital, a tedious morning at Henry’s side. Lunch at Utica Square, more tedious time with Henry, then back to the bed-and-breakfast. Every third day she bought pastries for the nursing staff; every fourth day she stopped for fresh flowers. In the first days after the accident, as she preferred to think of it, the intensive care unit had been flooded with flowers, but as time passed, the deliveries had trickled off to nothing.

  That had been her life for more than three weeks. Might be her life for much longer. Dear God, she couldn’t stand it.

  That morning happened to be both a pastries and flowers morning. She balanced the bakery box in one arm, the vase in the other, as she stepped off the elevator. Her heels clicked down the hall, and the staff she passed greeted her by name. They thought she was a dedicated, loving sister, and she was.