Splitting Aces

by Carolina Mac

  SPLITTING ACES

  The Blackmore Agency: Book 2

  Carolina Mac

  Copyright © 2017 by Carolina Mac

  SPLITTING ACES - 1st ed.

  ISBN 978-1-988850-29-0

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.

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  Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com

  To the single dads who don’t take fatherhood lightly.

  Storms make trees take deeper roots.

  -Dolly Parton

  CHAPTER ONE

  Friday, December 1st.

  HEAD BOWED, eyes should have been closed, but they weren’t. Instead, the black eyes were riveted to the grass beneath his feet, but out of the corner of his right one, peripheral vision did him in. His head jerked to the side like a puppet gone postal and his stomach heaved his morning coffee into his throat. He swallowed quickly, balled up his fists and willed himself not to heave.

  Fabiana’s coffin sank into the cold, hard December ground as her mother sobbed and the priest from Cristo Rey held up his hand and incanted the words.

  Blaine turned and bolted towards the gate. Ashes to ashes rang through his brain as he beat it out of the graveyard and jogged the two blocks to his truck.

  Abandoning his whole crew at the gravesite like some immature wussy didn’t sit well with him, but today he didn’t care. He couldn’t deal. They’d understand. Maybe.

  He slid behind the wheel of his huge black Ram and took a couple of deep breaths. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of Marlboroughs’ and lit up a smoke. The sound of big drops splatting against the windshield caught his attention and made him realize he was soaking wet. The tailored black Canali suit clung to his shivering body as he turned the key and waited for the green light to come on.

  It didn’t ease his mind one iota knowing the coffin was empty.

  RACE HELD a black umbrella over Annie’s head as the two of them stood apart from the crowd of mourners clustered near the grave. She’d chosen him and Jackson, the small boy they had together, over her husband and her adopted son. For that he was grateful and would do everything in his power to prove himself.

  The road had been long and hard for him since his release from Huntsville. The only woman he’d ever wanted and ever loved, was Annie. And now he had Jackson—a six-year old boy he never knew existed. The methods he used to get his family back may have been violent and unorthodox, but the end goal had always been the same. He had to have Annie no matter what the cost.

  But the cost was high where Blaine was concerned. Once the kid moved out, Annie carried her pain openly, like a wound that would never heal. Melancholy surrounded her like an aura as gray as her eyes. She hadn’t laughed in months. He’d almost destroyed the only woman he’d ever cared about. Could the damage be undone?

  JESSE STOOD NEXT to Blaine, the senseless forfeit of Fabiana’s life pressing down on the Blackmore team like a dark shroud with the weight of chain mail.

  After the prayer, Jesse lifted his eyes and watched Annie on the far side of the crowd. Still his wife for another week. Would the pain end for him when the decree was final? He doubted it. What was a piece of paper? She’d made her choice and the man she’d chosen wasn’t him. The stress of their relationship had almost killed him. His heart was weak. He had to stand down or die.

  Dressed all in black, a large hat hiding most of her gorgeous face, she stared at Blaine. Jesse visualized the tears on her face. He couldn’t see them from where he stood, but they would be there—for Fabiana—for Blaine—maybe even one tear for him.

  She wants to comfort Blaine, but she can’t. Not the way things are between them right now.

  Jesse clutched at his chest, the pain growing stronger with the stress of the day.

  His brother, Tyler, noticed and took his elbow. “Let’s get you home, bro. You’re wet and tired and so am I.”

  “I should go to the Flores’ house—be there for Blacky.”

  Farrell stepped up to the plate. “Me and Trav will go cover you off, boss. You go on home and get some rest.”

  Enright nodded and didn’t say a word. Tears streamed down his face.

  BLAINE STEERED the Ram diesel through one of the oldest neighborhoods in Austin. Although the wipers worked furiously to slap away the downpour, between the water on the windshield and the tears in his eyes, he almost missed the driveway of the dated Victorian he’d already spent a small fortune on.

  The newly bricked drive was smoother now as he drove past the house where Fabiana had grown up. He parked behind, close to the carriage house to leave room for guests who would soon arrive. His early exit from the cemetery had put him ahead of the others and he was well ahead of the funeral car that would bring Mrs. Flores home.

  After his return from Columbia and his failed mission to find Fabiana alive, Blaine had spent time with Mrs. Flores, and had finally excepted her plea to move into one of the empty bedrooms so she wouldn’t be so alone. The woman had no one without her daughter.

  During the time he’d lived there, his Spanish had improved remarkably. It had always grated on him that he was half Latino and yet couldn’t speak Spanish. Had his parents wanted it that way? They had died in an accident when he was in his early teens and he would never find out what they wanted for him.

  Blaine inserted his key into the upgraded lock on the original carved mahogany door. He’d tried to retain any and all elements of the house that were salvageable. Renovations were still underway on the interior. On his first visit, the condition of the old place had been shocking—leaking roof, broken front steps, and numerous not-so-visible problems like bad wiring and plugged drains, but there was little Mrs. Flores could do on her own. Having no income other than a small monthly payment from her dead husband’s military service, she had nothing left after day to day expenses for repairs.

  He paused in the wide foyer to admire the new marble floor. A step up from the worn linoleum the marble had replaced. He flicked on the chandelier and risked a glance in the hall mirror. His long ebony hair almost touched his shoulders. Maybe he should get it cut, but what for? He had no one to impress. Dark smudges under his eyes told the story. He was miserable and looked like hell—had he slept since he left Annie? He didn’t think so. They’d been so close, he had never imagined being separated from her.

  Maybe it was time to grow up.

  He shook his head, strode down the hall, chains clanking on his Harley boots, and made a right turn into the kitchen. A huge room, but out of touch with reality when he arrived. After weeks of coaxing and hours of browsing through brochures, Mrs. Flores had given in to the idea of an updated kitchen. The room had been gutted and the new fixtures, cherry cabinets, granite counter tops and stainless-steel appliances had been installed. Now the kitchen was a source of pride for her. It brought
her happiness to cook and bake and without Fabiana, she had precious little happiness left in her life.

  Blaine started a pot of coffee and placed the trays of cookies and tarts Mrs. Flores had baked on the dining room table, like they’d discussed that morning. She’d covered the table with a white cloth and set out her best china, silver, and crystal.

  She wanted him to call her ‘Carm’, short for Carmelita, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. At least, not yet. They weren’t family. He had a mother. Even thinking about Annie and their separation made him short of breath. He had to do something.

  JESSE AND TYLER arrived home at Quantrall, the seventy-five hundred acre spread they owned and operated with their younger brother, Paul. Their father, Lou Quantrall had established a successful horse business and Quantrall Appaloosas were known all over Texas. The oil side of the Quantrall fortune had slowed slightly, but prudent investments kept them in boots and beer.

  The massive Spanish-style edifice they called home appeared more dark and oppressive than usual in the midst of the afternoon downpour. Jesse had never felt that way about his home in the past. Maybe it was the aftermath of the funeral pushing him into a dark place—darker than usual.

  What the hell was wrong with him lately?

  “Maybe we should repaint the shutters, Ty. I’m tired of black.” Jesse stared up at the upstairs windows, secure behind their wrought iron grills. From this angle, it looked more like a prison than a home.

  “Sure, whatever,” said Ty. “You take care of it and hire a painter if you like. The barn should be repainted too. It’s been a while.”

  “Yep, I will.”

  “Do you know whose car that is?” asked Tyler. He parked the blue Quantrall truck in line with the others against the fence next to the barn. “Who drives a big, black Lincoln?”

  “Never saw it before,” said Jesse. “No clue.”

  Ty pressed the lock button on his key fob as they strolled towards the house. “Guess we’ll soon find out.”

  “Daddy used to have a lot more company when he was alive,” said Jesse. “We must be hermits, or something.”

  “Must be,” said Ty.

  In the great room, a woman with long dark hair pulled back and clipped at her neck, sat on the sofa talking to Brian, the oldest Quantrall brother, and a doctor to boot.

  Brian looked nothing like his brothers. Shorter, with a round moon face and close-cropped brown hair, he looked like neither of their parents. Bobby and Paul—blond and blue-eyed—strongly resembled their mother, whom they had lost to cancer, while Jesse and Tyler were dark, swarthy skinned with dark hair and eyes—both the image of Lou.

  Brian bounced to his feet as they entered the room. “Jesse, this is Alicia Shaw. She’s an attorney from Austin.”

  Why’s a lawyer here, and why is Brian introducing her like it’s something to do with me?

  The attorney was tall and dark, not pretty, but nicely dressed in an expensive black suit. She may have been forty or older. Jesse was no good guessing the ages of women.

  “Sit down here, Jesse,” said Brian, steering his brother to one of the big overstuffed chairs near the fireplace.

  Jesse took a step towards the chair and that’s when he saw her for the first time. He smiled at the baby as he sat down thinking it belonged to the lawyer and she had no one to take care of her child.

  Brian kept talking. “Jesse, Miss Shaw has some news she needs to share with you.”

  “Why are you hovering, Brian?” Brian wore the expression he always wore when he thought Jesse might be heading for another heart attack. He turned to the lawyer. “Is it bad news?”

  She nodded. “Some of it is, I’m afraid, Mr. Quantrall. But not all of it.”

  “I can’t imagine why you’re here, ma’am. Just go ahead and tell me. Get it over with.”

  Tyler leaned on the door frame, a curious look on his face.

  Miss Shaw opened the leather briefcase on her knee and took out a document. She handed a copy to Jesse. “This is the last will and testament of Lacey Vincent.”

  The words were barely out of her mouth when Jesse felt the breath leave his body. He gasped for air and Brian was right beside him with a shot of bourbon.

  “Drink this, Jesse.”

  Jesse tossed back the liquor and tried to focus. “How could Lacey be dead? She’s a young girl.”

  “An accident, sir. I’m sorry.”

  Jesse felt burning behind his eyes and emotion overwhelmed him. He and Lacey hadn’t dated for long, but she was a sweet girl and deserved a life. “I don’t know what to say.” He shook his head. “Of course, I’m shocked and saddened to learn about her passing, but how… why does it concern me? I haven’t seen her for almost a year.”

  Miss Shaw pointed to the baby asleep in her carrier. “It concerns you greatly, Mr. Quantrall, because of your daughter.”

  AFTER FABIANA’S FRIENDS and colleagues from the DEA field office offered condolences and left the house, Blaine helped Mrs. Flores clean up the dishes. The woman was only in her mid-fifties, but today she could have passed for eighty. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and she appeared to be exhausted from the strain of the day. Blaine suggested, in Spanish, that she go upstairs to bed.

  “Si.” She nodded, finished putting the good china into the old buffet and headed upstairs.

  Blaine emptied the carafe, readied the coffee maker for the morning and pulled a Corona out of the shiny refrigerator. He glanced around at the new look thinking Fab would have been pleased. In the past, every dime of her paychecks had gone into trying to fix this old place. A money pit, but one she couldn’t part with.

  Three bouquets perched on the small round table in the window alcove. The mixed aromas of roses, lilies and carnations filled his senses as he moved them to the sideboard in the dining room, so he could sit down. He’d purchased the pine table in Annie’s shop and he always felt closer to her when he sat there. He slouched into one of the wooden chairs and the sadness of the day overtook his body. Without an ounce of energy left, it was all he could do to lift the bottle to his mouth.

  “As soon as I drink this, I’m going to bed.”

  His cell jangled on his belt and he groaned, “Please, not tonight.” He checked the screen. Austin homicide.

  “Detective Lopez, what can I do for you?”

  “They want you on this one, Blacky.” He gave the address and Blaine jotted it down.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Saturday, December 2nd.

  BLAINE LEFT the house as quietly as possible, setting the alarm on the way out—another thing he had insisted on—he wasn’t always there to protect Mrs. Flores. Most of her time was spent alone.

  He took East Cesar Chavez to I-35, crossed the bridge and headed north up the west side of the lake on East Riverside. When he got to Zilker Park he didn’t have to look too hard to see where the action was.

  No media, at least not yet.

  He pulled in behind a long row of police vehicles and shut off the engine. Before leaving the house, he had called his team and before he got out of the truck, he texted Travis.

  “Where are you now?”

  “Almost to the city. Fifteen minutes.”

  He sent more specific directions, jumped out and locked the truck. Good thing he’d worn a jacket. The temperature had dropped into the fifties. Cold for Austin.

  Two uniforms were stationed at the road to ward off media or looky-loos—not that there would be too many spectators after midnight, but the TV wolves never slept. They’d be on the prowl soon.

  One of the officers shone a Maglite in his face. “ID, sir?”

  “Uh huh.” Blaine flipped open his cred pack and the uniform pointed.

  “Take this path and keep to your right, Mr. B. She’s a long way from the street.”

  “Thanks. My boys will be along soon. You know them?”

  “I know Farrell,” he said, “I’ll show them.”

  Everybody knows Farrell. He’s a socializer.

  B
laine smiled as he strode into the blackness. Thinking of Farrell always made him smile. His foster brother was his best friend.

  JESSE HAD NO HOPE of sleep. How could he sleep when something might happen to this perfect tiny person the second he closed his eyes? What if she rolled off the bed? What if she stopped breathing?

  He had said her name over and over to himself a hundred times at least and still it didn’t seem real. Charity Jessica Quantrall. Lacey had named her after him—at least her middle name.

  Why hadn’t Lacey told him? He would have helped her any way he could. She knew that and that’s why she didn’t call. A very independent girl, with her own ranch and her own way of looking at things.

  Moonlight shone through the drapes and offered just enough light to see her lying on the bed beside him, wrapped up like a little sausage in her pink blanket. Wendy had changed her and put her sleeper on before she went home with Paul. She wanted to take the baby to her house until the crib and all of Charity’s belongings arrived by Fed-ex, but Jesse insisted on keeping her. Something inside his heart told him he could never lose sight of this little angel—ever.

  The lawyer had taken care of everything on her end and now it was all up to him—a lifetime of responsibility—her lifetime. I need to take better care of myself. He laid his head on his pillow, closed his eyes and tried to relax. He had almost dozed off when the bedroom door opened.

  “You asleep?” asked Tyler in a whisper.

  “Not quite,” said Jesse. “I can’t stop watching her.”

  “I can’t sleep.” Tyler stood at the end of the bed. “Can I look at her?”

  “Sure. The moonlight makes her look like a little angel.”

  “Can’t believe we have a baby, Jesse.” Tyler sat down next to her. “Must be the best day ever.”

  Bobby came into the room in his boxers. “I heard you guys talking. Is there something wrong with the baby?”