Disorderly Conduct (The Anna Albertini Files Book 1)

by Rebecca Zanetti

  Chapter 13

  I went for a black skirt with a taupe silk shirt for Monday morning. Red kitten-heeled pumps and garnet jewelry added some color, and by the time I’d sucked down a double latte and entered my building, I was ready for the day. The office had been put to rights, but a cloud still hung over the premises. The entire floor seemed muted and subdued.

  “You’re here.” Nick came out of his office and straight for me, dressed today in a dark blue suit with red power tie. Was he already running for office, or what?

  “Yeah.” I dropped my purse inside my door.

  “Good.” He grasped my arm and escorted me past the receptionist and back into the entryway for the building, his hold firm and his stride long.

  I pulled free. “What are you doing?”

  He paused near the stairwell and looked down at me. Finally seeing me. “Oh. Sorry.” He shook his head, but each hair remained perfectly in place. Why that was sexy to me, I’d never know. “I get on a roll and forget to take a moment.” His brows drew down, giving him a slightly clueless look.

  “I bet juries love that expression,” I murmured.

  His eyes sharpened, and a slow smile crossed his face. “Yeah. They do.”

  I shook my left arm out so my bracelets fell where they should be. “How about you stop trying to manipulate me and just play it straight?” This guy had more angles than a geometry textbook, and I was getting tired of it.

  His chin lifted. His nicely sculpted, cleanly shaven, dent in the middle chin. “That’s fair.”

  I waited, forcing my feet to remain still and not tap. “Why are we outside the offices?”

  “I set up the war room downstairs.” Gesturing me toward the marble stairway, now he waited.

  Clipping carefully in the heels, I started down the stairs, acutely aware of him at my back. The lawyer let off some heat. “Why downstairs and not in our conference room?” My brain rushed to catch up. “Wait a minute. You don’t trust anybody there.” I turned on the bottom landing to face him.

  He nodded. “They’re all still being investigated. We have no idea if anybody was working with Scot or not.” He moved past me and shoved open a thick oak door. “Except you, of course.”

  Of course. Because I was so new. I followed him down a dingy hallway rarely used. A doorway to the left showed some mats, a couple of punching bags, and mismatched heavy looking free weights. A few of the lawyers in the building still worked out there, but I liked the nice and well-lit gym across town. Finally, we reached the third locked wooden door to the right, and Nick opened it with a key. “Here we go.” He flipped on a light that flickered a few times before strengthening.

  I followed him into a windowless square shaped conference room with wooden table and seventies-style metal chairs. The floor was cracked tile that might’ve been white at one point, the walls were a dingy yellow, and the light cover a beautiful stained glass of green and blue. I studied it.

  “Pretty, right?” Nick asked. “I bet there’s a history with it.” He moved for a stack of manila files and a couple of notebooks already sitting on the table next to several yellow legal pads, pens, and markers. He’d already attached a whiteboard to cover the entire far wall, and right in the center was Aiden Devlin’s picture, with Scot’s over to the right. Then Nick kicked out a chair. “Have a seat.”

  The seat wasn’t too dusty, so I smoothed my skirt and sat, reaching for a legal pad. “What have you learned?”

  He drew out the chair at the head of the table and dug through the stack next to him for a legal pad to read a thick stack of notes. “All right. Aiden Devlin became a Defender, AKA an Enforcer, in the Lorde’s Motorcycle Club about two years ago.”

  I started taking notes. “Just two years?” While what I knew about clubs came from television, I still knew something. “That’s enough time to be a Defender?” We’d get to what he enforced and defended later.

  “Good question.” Nick flipped over the top page. “The Lordes patched over a motorcycle club in Portland called the Diablo Riders two years ago, and it looks like Devlin was with the Riders for a decade. It was a small club, and apparently he rose quickly with this new Lordes group to a position of Defender.” Nick looked up; his gaze somber. “With a group like this, he had to deal some tough shit to rise so quickly. You get that, right?”

  No. None of this made a bit of sense to me. “Why does one club patch over another?”

  Nick exhaled. “The Diablo Riders got caught trafficking drugs and guns, and the DEA put away who they could. There was no evidence on at least five of the members, and the Lordes patched them over quick, meaning they assimilated the remaining Riders into the Lordes.”

  I rubbed my chin. “So the DEA followed the former Riders to the Lordes?”

  “No. The DEA was already watching the Lordes as well as the Riders. The two clubs worked in tandem, which explains the bloodless patch over.”

  Heat spiraled down my throat. “You’re saying that Aiden has been trafficking drugs and maybe guns for more than ten years.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Nick said, his voice low and calm. “The Lordes own an apartment complex in Idaho, near the Washington border, on the prairie close to the freeway, where many of the members live, and the DEA raided it a week ago, finding guns and drugs ranging from heroin to marijuana.”

  “That’s how Aiden ended up in our jail,” I murmured.

  “Yeah,” Nick said. “They had enough to distribute—especially meth. The DEA lab will break it down and find out where it came from. The guns included several sawed-offs, Mk 14s, and handguns with the registrations filed off.” He leaned back in his chair, his voice softening just enough to provide warning. “And you let Devlin go free.”

  There he was. The trial shark. Finally, I could see it. Frankly, it was a good look on Nick. Sexy, strong, and sharp. “I was pretty much frisked by the DEA on my way to court, and there was nothing in the case file.” My voice remained clear and surprisingly steady. “If you’re doubting my abilities, I’m more than happy to step down.”

  He steepled his fingers together beneath his chin, his expression smoothing right into thoughtful. “This case, taking down the entire Lordes organization, could be a career maker for you.” He leaned forward. “Come on, Anna. I’ve read your entire personnel file. You’re as ambitious as I am.”

  Yeah, I was. But my fight was for justice and maybe a bit of revenge against predators. His was for, what? Power and prestige? Or was there more to Nick Basanelli? “Why did you become a prosecutor?” I asked.

  One corner of his mouth ticked up. “That’s a conversation we’ll have over drinks. Several.”

  I tilted my head, my attention grabbed. Was Nick asking me out? Or was it a colleague type of comment? Tons of colleagues went for drinks after a trial. What did I want it to be? “Every time I ask you a question, you evade,” I murmured.

  “Yeah.” He looked back at the stack of case files and research sheets. “I probably do. Have a drink with me tonight after work, and we’ll talk.”

  That wouldn’t do. I had a spa appointment, and for what, I hadn’t even asked. Probably a facial or a massage. I’d be mellow and greasy and probably not prepared for drinks. Or I’d be pumped up with more intel on Melvin Whitaker, the drug trade, and how Aiden was involved. “I’ll have to take a raincheck on that,” I said.

  Surprise flashed across Nick’s face to be quickly banished. “Sure.”

  Triumph filtered through me, and I hid the accompanying amusement. Most women probably didn’t turn down an invitation from the handsome attorney. I cleared my throat and got back down to business. “What’s the connection between my former boss and the Lordes?”

  Nick dragged a case file from the bottom of the stack. “Aiden was pinched in an effort to answer that very question.” Nick handed over several eight by ten photographs.

  I pulled the first one closer to see Aiden and Scot meeting in a red booth in a darkened room. “Where is this?”
<
br />   “Dunphey’s Bar over on Oakwood,” Nick said, sliding that picture out of the way. “This is down at the marina.” The second picture had Aiden on a sailboat at the lake and Scot leaning over the rail, their expressions intent.

  I fought the urge to run my finger over Aiden’s angled face. “Who was under surveillance?”

  “Devlin and the Lordes,” Nick said, showing yet another picture of my dead boss and Aiden together—this one at the park. “The DEA caught sight of these pictures and had Devlin taken in the drug raid with the hope of getting him to talk and implicate Scot Peterson. They asked for assistance from the local cops, so they wouldn’t tip their hand and show they were making a federal case. The local cops practically coerced your former boss to charge Devlin, hoping it would force a situation.”

  I shook my head. “Why did the DEA raid our offices and arrest Scot? Aiden hadn’t had a chance to talk, or it looks like he didn’t, so why tip their hand?”

  Nick tapped a pen on the table. “Because Scot was going to rabbit. He’d purchased a first-class ticket to Jamaica and was leaving first thing Saturday.”

  I just couldn’t see Scot being part of anything illegal. He’d been the prosecuting attorney for years, winning the election every time he came up. I tried not to stare at Aiden’s mugshot on the wall. All right. “Does the name Melvin Whitaker mean anything to you?”

  “No. Why?” Nick leaned toward me.

  I told him about the elderly ladies, Randy Taylor possibly selling drugs to the blonde girl from the spa, and the scribbled note in Scott’s case file for Aiden that had Melvin’s name written down.

  Nick listened intently and took notes. “When the private investigators you hired get back to you, let’s chat. The county will pay their fee. I think you might be on to something here.”

  Maybe. “I have an appointment at the spa.”

  He paused and leaned back, his eyes thoughtful. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  I shrugged. “I’ll be careful. If Randy’s blonde friend gives me an opening, I’ll just ask about drugs.” I gave up and looked at the mugshot. In it, Aiden’s hair was mussed and needed a cut, his jaw was whiskered, and his blue eyes pissed, even in the black and white photo. “You and Aiden are the same age, and both grew up in Silverville. Were you friends?”

  “I’m a year younger,” Nick said. “And no. I was the golden boy, and he was the rebel.” Pure fact leveled out his tone.

  “It looks like things haven’t changed,” I said, my heart hurting a little.

  Nick followed my gaze. “Tell you what. Assist on this case, give it your all, including your connections, and I’ll help you help Devlin if I can.”

  I swung toward Nick. He’d finally zeroed in on how to motivate me. “I owe him.”

  Nick grimaced. “I’ll be here when you learn the painful lesson about blind loyalty and how destructive it can be.” He held out his hand. “Deal?”

  I slid my smaller hand into his, surprised by his warmth. “Deal.” The satisfaction that filled his eyes should’ve given me pause.

  It was too late for that.

  Chapter 14

  A spring storm hit late morning. Tessa picked me up right after lunch, and we drove through town and around the south end of the lake to a brand-new building covered in sleek river rock. As we entered the copper accented lobby, the sounds of flutes in the rainforest filled the air. Did anybody really ever play the flute in the jungle?

  “What do I do?” Tessa whispered in the elevator as we lifted to the third floor.

  “Just be Tessa North and keep your eyes open,” I whispered back. “If there’s a way to talk about pot, do it.”

  She nodded; her eyes alight. I grinned. This going undercover was kind of fun.

  We checked in, donned thick white robes, and headed into the Zen room, which had more flutes playing. Frogs croaked, and birds chirped along. Tess poured us some ice-water colored with lemons and cucumbers, and we burrowed into thick, fabric-covered chairs. A wall of glass showcased rain battering the dark grey lake outside. I sunk deeper into the silk cushions, slowly exhaling. My breathing evened out and I sighed.

  A small blonde named Mandy silently entered the lounge and then asked me to follow her. She wore a tidy cream outfit that looked like hospital scrubs.

  Hopefully she gave massages. I still hadn’t asked about my appointments when we checked in.

  We entered a tiny room with a table draped with crisp white sheets. The walls were smooth stone, and a copper fountain gurgled on the granite counter. Flutes tinkling around us, I turned around to face her, feeling a little vulnerable in my robe.

  “Have you had a Brazilian before?” Mandy asked.

  I coughed. “What?” That couldn’t be right. No way.

  She nodded her head to the table. “A Brazilian. The ‘Summer Special’ promotion? Have you had one before?” She stirred something in a small pressure cooker held on a narrow metal tray.

  “God, no.” She was between me and the door. “Um.”

  “It’s no biggie, you’ll love it,” she said with a smile. “Have a seat.”

  Okay. It was almost bikini season. But a Brazilian? “I, ah, just thought I had an appointment with Cheryl.” I sat gingerly on the table.

  “You do, after this. She does a wonderful pedicure. Now just lay back and relax.”

  Famous last words. I lay back on the plush table. Mandy pulled the bottom of my robe apart. What had I been thinking? I recited exceptions to the hearsay rule in my head. Some woman was now looking at my hoo-hoo.

  Going undercover wasn’t as fun as I’d thought, but I’d better get to it. “So. This is going to be painful. I don’t suppose you have a sedative or anything?” I croaked.

  “There are numbing agents in the wax.” She used a tongue depressor to spread warm wax across my private area. The heat irritated but didn’t quite sting. Her hands were steady as she covered the wax with a piece of paper and pushed down.

  All right, that was no big deal.

  “Take a deep breath,” she chirped. Then she yanked, and pain ripped into me.

  “Holy Mary Mother of God!” I leaped off the table, away from her and into the wall. My foot tangled in my flapping robe. I struggled to regain my balance before going down on all fours to hit the cold floor with the hard slap of skin on stone. The healing scrapes on my hands from the other day screamed in reaction. With a gurgle, I lurched to my feet and backed against the smooth wall, clutching my robe together with trembling hands. Forget going undercover.

  Mandy stumbled back in shock, steadying herself and the metal tray. I stared at her, the table between us. She gave a high-pitched giggle and eyed the door. I eyed the door, too.

  “Okay,” she said softly, soothingly. She stretched both hands out at me, much like she would to a rabid animal. “It’s all right. The first pull is always the worst.”

  I whimpered, and a bit of drool slid out of my mouth. I kept my gaze glued to her, my heart pounding beneath the robe. Fire lit my hoo-hoo, and adrenaline flowed freely through my veins. I didn’t care about being a lawyer any longer.

  “Um,” she blurted out, “you probably don’t want to leave it like it is.”

  Biting my lips, I leaned forward and opened my robe. Oh no. There was one huge strip missing. It looked like I was wearing half of a toupee. A minor one. I wasn’t all that hairy to start with, but it really didn’t look good. I thought quickly for a moment. This pain had to lead to something. “This would be easier with a pot brownie, if you know what I mean. Have one?”

  She blinked. “Um, no. That’s kind of illegal.”

  I looked back down. There was a good chance no one would be near the area before the missing hair could regrow. “How long can it take to grow back?” I wiped my nose on my sleeve, my hoarse voice echoing around the peaceful room.

  “Up to eight weeks.” She glanced again at the door.

  Yeah, lady. Freedom was on the other side—for both of us. “Eight weeks?” There was
a good chance, a really good chance, that nobody would be anywhere near this area of my body. But still. “Do you know where I could get something to mellow me out?” I tried again.

  “No.” She gestured to the table.

  Fine. I barely kept from glaring at her as I climbed back onto the table. My head hit the pillow, my hands covering my face. I had to find some sort of information on drugs, or this was so not worth it.

  “Though I’m sure you can find brownies across the state border.” Her deep breath echoed around the room as she moved back into place. Warm wax blanketed me again. Then the paper. She yanked.

  “Holy crap!” I kicked out a leg. The metal tray shot across the room. Mandy leapt into action, grabbing the crockpot before it could hit the floor. Her elbow flew out, knocking into the light switch by the door.

  I reached forward to help just as the room plunged into darkness. Startled, I tumbled in a heap to the hard floor, and Mandy’s legs tangled with mine. She landed on top of me with a muffled ‘oomph.’ The breath whooshed out of my lungs as pain flared along my chest.

  We sat motionless in the darkness for a couple of beats.

  Her sigh filled the silence. Then she scrambled to her feet, and light flooded the room again. I climbed back onto the table, my robe parting in the middle.

  I leaned up, taking a good look. I wasn’t done yet. “Sorry,” I mumbled as I lay back down.

  Mandy’s giggle was full of nerves as she pulled the tray back into place. She made quick work of the remaining areas. While I swore quite a bit, I managed to stay still and not kick anything else. When she had transformed me to billiard ball smoothness, she sighed, her relief apparently greater than mine. Hard to imagine.

  I stumbled bowlegged back to the Zen room, wanting to kill somebody—pretty much every man I knew. There I sipped ice water, waiting in the plush chair. My nether regions smarted painfully.