Deep Cover

by Rachel Butler

  Unless she took drastic action.

  Tony walked out of a north Tulsa house on Wednesday afternoon and took a deep breath to clear the stench from his lungs. There ought to be a law against killing people during a heat wave, Simmons often groused. After examining a scene that was at least forty-eight hours old—forty-eight hours when the temperature hadn’t dropped below eighty-five— Tony agreed with him wholeheartedly.

  “How’s Selena?”

  He glanced at Marla Johnson as she set her kit down beside him. “She’s fine.” His stock answer. He couldn’t wait for the day when it was really true.

  “You gonna marry her anytime soon?”

  “Yeah.” He gave Marla a sidelong look. “That doesn’t bother you, does it?”

  “That you had no interest in marrying me, then went off and fell in love with the first woman who tried to kill you? Of course not. Why would it bother me?” Then she batted her lashes. “Does it bother you that I just married someone else? Are you regretting letting me get away?”

  Despite the grimness of the morning, he managed a chuckle. She’d been coming on to him ever since they’d met, even after they’d broken up, and he’d never known how to react. Being newly married wouldn’t stop her from delivering on those come-ons, but his involvement with Selena offered him some protection. “Sorry. I think you and your husband got exactly what you deserved.”

  She gave him a pouting look before turning her attention back to the house. It sat in the middle of a tough neighborhood, so run-down that it was difficult to tell the occupied houses from the empty ones. Kids came there to drink and do drugs; occasionally transients bedded down on its floors. The body inside could be either, neither, or both. It was hard to say.

  “Guess I’d better get back inside and help Flint finish up,” Marla said. “Give Selena my best.”

  He nodded as she climbed the steps to the sagging porch. He was anticipating the next opportunity to give Selena his best.

  He was heading for the street when Simmons, in his beat-up old Ford, slowed to a stop, rolled down the window, and held up a folder. “Hey, I ran some checks on Charles Hensley and Carl Heinz in Colorado. Didn’t come up with anything, at least not on our guy. But Charles Hensley has a brother named Norman, and Norman Hensley does own a cabin in Colorado, outside a little town named Granby. He bought it about four years ago, and just had the utilities connected last week.”

  “So Charles might be living with his brother.”

  Tapping the folder on the steering wheel, Simmons shook his head. “Not unless he’s crawled into the ground. Norman Hensley died about ten years ago.”

  “Hell, Frankie, I’m impressed. That’s damn good police work.” And tedious as hell—the kind Simmons, in particular, had little patience for.

  “Hey, I did it for Island Girl—to say nothing of having you in my debt,” Simmons said with a grin. “I called the sheriff’s department up there in Grand County. They’re gonna pick him up.”

  “Thanks. I do owe you.” Tony took the folder, then extended his hand. Surprised, Simmons shook it.

  He glanced around. “You gonna do some knock-and-talks?”

  “I’m gonna knock. In this neighborhood, I’m not sure anyone’s gonna talk.”

  “Ain’t that the truth? I’ve gotta show up in court, but if you find someone you think knows something, I’ll come back when I’m done and beat it out of ’em.”

  “Thanks.” Tony stepped back and watched him drive away.

  By the time he’d questioned neighbors on both sides of the street, the crime-scene unit was gone. He decided to take a break for lunch, then he would head over to the ME’s office.

  He hadn’t driven more than a few blocks when his cell phone rang. He didn’t waste time wishing it would be Selena—she rarely called—but pulled it free from his waistband and answered without looking at the caller ID display.

  “Detective Ceola, this is Kevin Stark.”

  Tony scowled. “What do you want?”

  “Actually, I think it’s more along the lines of something you need. I had an interesting phone call just now—somebody feeling me out on the best way to eliminate a problem.”

  “You mean to put out a hit.”

  “Yeah. Now, I’m not into murder-for-hire, and normally I would’ve just said so and hung up except . . .”

  Except that operating as he did, it was always to his benefit to have a cop who would cut him some slack when his information was good.

  “Well?” Tony prompted impatiently.

  “I didn’t get the target’s name—just a description. A half-Hispanic, half-black woman who’s currently living in that big ol’ fancy house on Riverside Drive. Sound like someone you know?”

  A headache started pounding right between Tony’s eyes. “Did you get the caller’s name?”

  “Nope. Wouldn’t give it. But I did say to call back tomorrow so I could ask around.”

  “Could you recognize his voice? Was there anything distinctive about it?”

  Stark chuckled. “I didn’t peg you for a sexist, Detective. You know people who hire killers aren’t always guys.”

  “It was a woman?” That was a change. So far, everyone who wanted Selena dead was male.

  “Whaddya think?” Stark chuckled. “Wanna be listening when she calls back?”

  It was funny how the mind adapted. Two weeks ago, if someone had told Selena there was a contract out on her life, she would have been surprised first, then frightened. Wednesday afternoon, as she sat behind closed doors in the library with Robinette and listened to Tony repeat his conversation with the private investigator, she felt neither surprise nor fear. One more person wanting her dead didn’t seem that big a cause for concern.

  “According to Stark, it was a woman’s voice,” Tony said, “and she had a Southern accent.”

  “Who’ve you dealt with lately who has a Southern accent?” Robinette asked sourly as he looked at her.

  Selena shrugged. She was the only one who’d chosen to sit. Tony was absently toying with an alabaster carving on the mantel, and Robinette was pacing from one end of the room to the other. “My social life isn’t exactly a whirl of activity these days.”

  He pivoted to face her. “Names.”

  She drew an impatient breath. “Charlize Pawley. Did she and Yates make their flight last night?”

  Robinette nodded. “If it’s her, why not ask Yates to take care of it? It wouldn’t have cost her a thing. Who else?”

  She glanced at Tony. “Kathryn Hamilton. William’s sister.”

  “God—” Robinette broke off and clenched his jaw, no doubt to keep the profanity inside. “I told you you shouldn’t meet with her. I told you it was a bad idea.”

  “If it’ll make you feel any better, I’d be happy to go on record saying, yes, you did.”

  He shot a scowl in her direction as he paced to the far wall again. “Okay, why would Charlize want you dead? Because she could be a part of Yates’s business. Or maybe she’s not a part, but she’s trying to look out for his best interests. Why would Kathryn Hamilton want to kill you?”

  Before Selena could answer, Tony set the carving down, pushed his hands in his pockets, and said, “Gee, her brother goes head to head with Selena and winds up good as dead. I’ve seen weaker motives.”

  Robinette looked as if he wanted to argue, but shrugged instead. “And I’ve seen stronger ones.”

  “Mrs. Hamilton resents my presence in her family home and in William’s life,” Selena said. “She doesn’t like me because I’m black, because he kept me a secret, because he chose me, because he intended to leave me his drug empire, because he treated me like family when I’m not.” The woman had been polite enough, under the circumstances, but there had been an undercurrent to everything she’d said. Not evil, necessarily, or danger—just strong emotion. She’d suffered some great shocks recently, and hadn’t yet dealt with them.

  “Yeah. Well, we’ll keep her on the list.” Finally, Robinette st
opped pacing and faced her, hands on hips. “So our only real suspects are Ms. Pawley and Mrs. Hamilton. Or it could be someone you’ve never met, making the call for someone else, like our friends in Philadelphia and Boston—or, closer to home, good ol’ Damon out in the guesthouse.”

  “How would Long get in touch with somebody?” Tony asked, his gaze narrowed. “You’re supposed to be watching him twenty-four hours a day.”

  “We are, and he hasn’t made any phone calls yet. But who knows? Maybe he had some sort of prearranged deal.” A sly look came into Robinette’s eyes. “Your sister, Lucia . . . she doesn’t have a Southern accent, does she?”

  The outward changes in Tony were minimal—the slight tensing of a muscle in his jaw, his dark gaze chilling a few degrees—but the tension radiating from him was palpable. It was hard enough for him to accept that his baby sister had fallen in love with a multiple murderer. Knowing that others knew, especially the FBI, must be even harder.

  But he didn’t respond to Robinette’s question. Locking gazes with the man, he coldly said, “Speculating on who it is, is pointless. All you can do is guess. Tomorrow we should know for sure. We’ve already got a wiretap order for Stark’s phone, and Simmons and I—”

  “Whoa, hold up there,” Robinette said, one hand up-raised. “This is an FBI case.”

  “The FBI has no interest in Stark.”

  “We damn sure have an interest in the alleged victim. Anyone putting a hit out on our witness gives us jurisdiction.”

  Selena could tell from the clenching of Tony’s jaw that Robinette was right. “Stark brought it to me.”

  “And you brought it to us. Now bow out.”

  “I didn’t bring it to you. I’m keeping you informed.” Tony went on even though Robinette opened his mouth to respond. “Right now Stark doesn’t have a clue why anybody’s interested in Selena. That’ll change if I’m yanked off the case and your people come barging in. The FBI doesn’t get involved in murder-for-hire cases without a reason, and it won’t take a genius to figure out that reason.”

  “We’ll trust Stark to keep what he knows to himself.”

  Tony snorted. “I wouldn’t trust Stark as far as you could throw him.”

  If Robinette took the scornful words personally, he gave no sign of it. “If it’s Kathryn Hamilton, she already knows Selena’s working with us.”

  “If it’s Charlize Pawley or anyone else, she doesn’t. Your cover will be blown, and your case will be history.” Tony allowed a faint smile. “So will your career.”

  He couldn’t have chosen a better argument, Selena thought. All that mattered to Robinette was his job. No way was he going to put it on the line for a pissing contest with a cop.

  The silence lengthened as Robinette considered Tony’s words—or, at least, pretended to. She had no doubt he’d seen the wisdom immediately, but was merely waiting so his agreement would have greater impact. Finally, he shrugged. “Fine. You guys run with it—but I want to send one of our people along.” Before Tony could protest, he raised one hand. “Stark doesn’t have to know who he works for. Just pretend he’s another cop. But I want our interests represented.”

  “You mean you want part of the credit when this is done.”

  Robinette smiled thinly. “I want to make sure our witness is protected. Someone will be in touch with you before tomorrow.”

  Tony hefted the carving again as Robinette strode away. When the door closed behind the agent, he shifted his gaze to Selena as his fingers tightened around the heavy, compact piece. “Did I ever mention that I played baseball in high school? I bet I could have knocked that smug look right off his face.”

  “I think that smug look is the only look he has.” Grateful to be alone with him, she crossed the room, removed the carving from his grip, and returned it to its place. He slid his arms around her, pulling her until they could get no closer, then he gazed down at her. He was wearing the smile that had captivated her since the first time she’d seen it—the one that made him look younger, handsomer, and free of worries.

  She raised one hand to his face, gently tracing the curve of his mouth. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Then come home with me.”

  Disappointment stirred inside her. They had so little time together, and she didn’t want to spoil it by arguing. Rising onto her toes, she pressed a kiss to his jaw. “I can’t do that.” Couldn’t walk away from the estate, from the case, from the FBI. Couldn’t put Tony’s life in danger, couldn’t put her own in even more danger.

  “I know.” He brushed his mouth across her ear, making her shiver. “But a man can hope, can’t he?”

  “Sure,” she murmured. Sometimes hope was the only thing that kept her going.

  He slid his fingers into her hair and tilted her face to his. “Just promise me this—you will come home when you can.”

  She nodded, realized that wasn’t enough, and whispered, “I swear I will.”

  Once again he wrapped his arms around her and held her so tightly that she almost missed his own whisper.

  “And I’ll be waiting.”

  “Man, I always wanted to spend my day hanging out in some two-bit PI’s office, waiting for some damn phone call that might never come,” Frank Simmons groused.

  Tony didn’t take his gaze from the traffic passing by outside. Together with Robinette’s agent, a quiet man named Wesley, they’d set up in Stark’s office shortly before his regular opening time of 9:00 A.M. Now it was nearly noon, and so far there had been no call from the unknown Southern woman.

  “He couldn’t have told her to call at a specific time,” Simmons went on. “No, that would’ve been too easy. We could’ve been outta here at 9:10 if he had.”

  “You know, you don’t have to stick around,” Tony said at last.

  Simmons gave him a dry look. “You’d be here if it was Suz . . . though I can’t imagine the fool in the world with balls big enough to put out a hit on Suz. She’d make ’im damn sorry.”

  Tony smiled faintly. To hear Frankie tell it, Suz wore big hair to cover her horns, breathed fire, and ate young linebackers for breakfast. Truth was, she wasn’t much bigger than his ten-year-old niece, and neither looked nor acted much tougher. She did have an attitude, but he figured that was necessary, what with her being married to Frankie. She definitely made him toe the line.

  “I’m gettin’ hungry,” Simmons announced. “Why don’t you run across the street and get us some burgers?”

  Before Tony could answer, the phone on Stark’s desk rang. He crossed to it in three strides, put on a pair of headphones, waited while Wesley put on his own headphones, then gestured to Stark to answer.

  “This is Kevin Stark,” the man said, his tone curt.

  “Hello, Mr. Stark. Do you have the information you promised me?” The voice was female, the accent definitely Southern. Tony was disappointed to acknowledge that it very well might be Kathryn Hamilton. He wasn’t sure why, but he’d hoped . . . What? That the lust for blood was an aberration in Henry? That it didn’t run in the family?

  Stark nodded, signaling that it was the same woman. “I’ve got a name or two for you, but first I need some information.”

  “What kind of information?” she asked guardedly.

  Tony watched as Simmons wrote down the number on the caller ID, identified as a pay phone, then went outside to place a call on his cell phone. The dispatcher would contact telephone security, find out the location of the phone, then dispatch the nearest officer in an unmarked unit to attempt to make an identification, and the crime-scene unit would collect prints from the phone. With any luck, before the day was out, they would know exactly who Selena’s latest enemy was and have enough evidence to prove it.

  “Like how you picked me to do business with.”

  “I was referred to you.”

  “By who?”

  A hesitation, then . . . “My lawyer.”

  Stark was skeptical. “You called your lawyer up, and said, ‘I wanna put out a hit,�
�� and he told you to call me?”

  “I told my lawyer I needed assistance in dealing with a problem. He made a few inquiries and I was referred to you.”

  “And who is this lawyer?”

  “No one you would know,” she said dismissively. “He’s located out of state.”

  “Funny thing—I know people out of state. I just might know him. What’s his name? What state is he in?” Stark pressed.

  “Patrick James. New York.” Lies snatched out of the air. “What does it matter, Mr. Stark? This business is between you and me, no one else. Now, do you have the information for me, or must I go to one of your competitors?”

  The manner definitely fit Kathryn. Like Henry, she was used to getting what she wanted when she wanted it with a minimum of hassle.

  “It matters,” Stark said. “What you’re asking me to do can land us both in prison for the rest of our lives. I don’t know about you, but I’ve got other things I’d rather be doing. You don’t like me being cautious, then you go find one of my competitors, but they’re not gonna be any less careful. Now . . . who’s this woman you want taken care of? Where is she? What does she look like?”

  There was a long silence before she answered tersely. “Her name is Selena McCaffrey. She’s tall, slender, black, has long curly hair and dark eyes. She’s very lovely.” The bitterness in the last two words was sharp, brittle. “You’ll find her at this address.” She rattled off the street number for Henry’s house with ease.

  “I know that place. Iron fence, electronic gates, armed guards. Man, that’s gonna affect the price. I’m thinkin’ . . . jeez, five thousand.”

  “That’s all?”

  Stark chuckled at her surprise. “You wanna pay more, I’d be happy to take it.”

  Tony had worked plenty of murder-for-hire cases where the payment was five hundred, eight hundred, a thousand dollars. Hell, there were people in Tulsa who would kill a stranger on the street just for fun. But Selena wasn’t a stranger on the street; getting to her was a hell of a lot tougher, thank God. The extra security justified the higher price.