A Touch of Deceit (Nick Bracco Series #1) (7 page)

“Please try to think about us. Maybe we could find a small town in the mountains, somewhere in Wyoming, or Montana, somewhere. I don’t know Nick, is that such a crazy idea?”

Nick dropped onto the bed, leaned back onto a pillow and stared up at the ceiling. “Maybe there’s something to that. Maybe if I didn’t know as much as I do about terrorists and all of the plots we’ve thwarted. Some by dumb luck.” He sighed. “Maybe ignorance is bliss.”

Julie curled next to him and nuzzled up to the side of his face. “Come on over to the ignorant side, Sweetie. We could use a good man like you.”

His mouth grinned, but he was already thinking about his next move. Phil may have been somewhat of a drunk and loose with his lips, but he was his brother. After their parents died, Nick became almost a surrogate father to his younger sibling. Phil needed him.

“Hello in there,” Julie said, knocking on Nick’s forehead. “Anybody home?”

Nick pulled her down on top of him and gazed into the deep blue of her eyes. “Look here, miss, I’m leaving town. But that doesn’t mean I won’t miss you every minute I’m gone.”

He rolled off the bed and finished packing. He zipped the garment bag, threw it over his shoulder and bent down to kiss her. “I’ve got to go. See you tomorrow.”

“Is Matt going with you?”

“Of course.”

She smiled.

“You think he’s my guardian angel, don’t you?”

“I do,” she said. “I always feel better when he’s with you. I don’t know why. Intuition maybe.”

He looked at his watch. “Well, I’m meeting him at the airport at seven.”

“It’s only three-thirty. What’s the hurry?”

“I’m stopping at Pimlico on the way.”

“The horse track? You have an itch to bet a few races?”

“No,” he said. “I’ve got to see Tommy. He hasn’t missed the feature race in fifteen years.”

“Tommy? Your cousin Tommy? Why, do you need him to leave a horse’s head in someone’s bed?”

Nick laughed. “Just because he’s connected doesn’t mean he’s not family.”

“Oh, he’s family all right.” She pressed her nose to the side and gave her best mobster face.

“Well, believe it or not I need his help. We can’t find any info on the limo that took Phil from the casino last night. Tommy has Vegas connections.”

“With all of the favors you’ve used up at the D.A.’s office getting him and Silk out of trouble, he’d better help you.”

“He will.”

* * *

Pimlico was the second oldest racetrack in the country. In the 1800s it was considered a nice buggy ride out of town. Since then it had been swallowed up by growth, all 140 acres entirely within Baltimore city limits with houses visible all along the backstretch. Nick’s father first brought him to Pimlico when Nick was ten. His father loved the challenge of handicapping the races. He showed Nick how to read the Racing Form and taught him the significance of pace. He’d tell him which horse would be leading going into the first turn and which horse would come with a late charge. Most importantly, he taught him how to figure out which horse fit the race best. His father was merely a two-dollar bettor, but that didn’t lessen his zeal for the sport. His father’s excitement was contagious and even though they went but once a month, Nick cherished each trip.

Nick pushed through the turnstile and headed for the apron in front of the finish line. After his parents’ death, he used to meet his cousin Tommy there nearly every weekend, back when Nick and Phil stayed at Tommy’s house. Nick’s Uncle Victor was his father’s brother and Tommy’s dad. The house was too small for the seven inhabitants, but no one complained. Uncle Victor and Aunt Ruth always made certain Nick felt like he was at home, and for the most part he did.

Most of Nick’s youth, however, was spent with Tommy Bracco and Don Silkari. The three of them drank and pranked their way through their teenage years with reckless abandon. If someone tried to mess with one of them, the other two were always there to finish the fight. Literally. Eventually they matured and found their lives heading in different directions, but the friendship always endured.

Nick shook his head in amazement when he saw Tommy standing in virtually the exact spot he’d stood for every feature race at the Pimlico meet for nearly twenty years. Tommy wore an Armani suit, sharkskin shoes and a pair of large gold cufflinks that screamed out from the bottom of his shirtsleeves. Next to him, as always, was Silk, using the same tailor as Tommy. Both had colored toothpicks dangling from their mouths.

“What’s with the clothes?” Nick asked.

“Hey, Nicky, what’s goin’ on?” Tommy reached for Nick’s extended hand and pulled him into a bear hug. “Good to see ya. How’s that beautiful bride of yours?”

“She’s fine. School’s out, so she’s taking it easy for the summer.” Nick motioned to Don Silkari. “Hey, Silk.”

“Hey,” Silk said, his head buried deep into an open Racing Form.

“So, what’s with the gear?” Nick asked.

Tommy pulled on his lapels. “Oh, this stuff, well . . . you see we’re stockbrokers now.”

“Stockbrokers? You two?”

Tommy shrugged. “Hey, that’s where the money is these days, Nick. And we gotta be where the money is.”

Nick stuck an index finger in each ear. “I’m not listening. The less I know, the less I can testify to.”

Both men broke out into wide grins. Tommy handed Nick a folded Racing Form opened to the eighth race. “Nicky, look at this race. I can’t understand why the four horse is going off at five-to-one. I mean he just won his last two races at the same price, he oughta be the chalk. You’re the investigator. Tell me what I’m missing here.”

It took Nick less than a minute to see what Tommy had missed. It wasn’t something that was likely to get by his cousin. Tommy had a knack for appearing slow-witted. It went along with the way he talked and his mannerisms. He would lure you in, encouraging you to underestimate him. This was his most prized talent. Like a snake pretending to be slowed by injury, all the while waiting for the right moment to strike. Tommy had no motive to pull something on Nick, it was simply habit.

Nick slammed the form into Tommy’s chest. “He’s not a he, that’s why. The horse is a filly, Tommy. It’s her first time against the boys.”

Tommy didn’t bother to review his alleged oversight. He turned to Silk with pride. “See, that’s why he’s the law. He spots every little detail. That’s why he’s got the cutest wife in town.”

“Hey,” Nick said, “easy with the wife comments. I’m beginning the think you’ve got a thing for her.”

Tommy held up his hands. “Hey, Nicky, don’t insult me like that. I mean you’re like family to me.”

“Tommy, you’re my cousin. We are family.”

“See, you’re making my point for me.”

Nick’s face turned serious.

Tommy said, “What’s up?”

“I need your help.”

“Anything,” Tommy said.

“What I tell you two is confidential and—”

“That’s enough,” Silk interrupted. “We know the drill.”

Nick paused. He was uncomfortable with what he was about to do, but there was still a slim chance he could save his brother’s life. In Tommy’s world, information was a currency, like cash, only more valuable. Las Vegas, limos and kidnapping were all staples in his domain. If there was a weak link somewhere in the Nevada desert, Tommy would find it.

Nick said, “Phil’s been kidnapped.”

Tommy’s face grew severe. His lip curled up in disgust. “Who done it?”

For the first time since Nick got there, Silk put down the Form.

“A terrorist.”

“Who?” Tommy repeated, his jaw furiously working on a bright orange toothpick in the corner of his mouth.

Nick hesitated, wary of the eagerness on Tommy’s face. “I can’t tell you that right now, but Phil was gambling at the Rio late last night and was taken away in a limo. We’re running into a wall trying to find this limo. Whoever rented it probably paid cash. Lots of cash. The kind of cash that shuts people up.”

Tommy nodded.

“Do you think you could make some calls and find out something about this limo?” Nick asked.

Tommy took the toothpick from his mouth and twirled it between his fingers like a baton. “No problem. But you gotta promise me something.”

Nick winced, bracing himself for the can of worms he was about to open. “What?”

Tommy pointed the orange toothpick at Nick. “When this is over, you gotta promise to tell me who done it. I want a name.”

Nick tossed the idea around in his head. If Phil ended up dead he’d gladly throw Kemel Kharrazi to the wolves. If his brother lived it would more than likely be because of Tommy’s help. Either way, he could live with the trade-off. “Okay.”

Nick handed him a blank business card with a handwritten name and phone number on it. “I’m flying to Vegas tonight, but I want you to call this number if you find out anything. It’s the number of an FBI agent in Vegas. He won’t ask questions, just tell him anything you can that might help us track down the limo.”

Tommy placed the card in his pocket, “Done.”

Nick saw the horses approach the starting gate. “I’ve got to go. I’ve got rush hour traffic to deal with.”

“Hey, Nicky,” Tommy said, pointing to the Racing Form. “What about this four horse? I got three large on her nose. You think I should change my bet?”

“Nah,” Nick said, “she’s the only speed in the race. She’s liable to steal it.”

Tommy winked. He loved asking questions he already knew the answer to.

By the time Nick reached the parking lot he could hear the track announcer’s voice rise with excitement as he described the final furlong of the race. The crowd roared as he declared the only filly in the field a wire-to-wire winner.

Nick smiled. Just like riding a bike, he thought.

“Will you look at this beauty,” Matt McColm said, holding up a magazine at arms length. He sat at the window seat while Nick sat on the aisle, an empty seat between them.

Nick gave a furtive glance for spectators, then leaned toward Matt for an eyeful.

“Oh, baby, the places I could take you,” Matt said, his eyes racing up and down the glossy photo.

Nick followed Matt’s stare. He took a long moment examining the image, finally squinting for confirmation. “It’s a gun.”

“That,” Matt said, “is no gun. It’s a Slimline Glock 36. She’s so sleek, she just begs you to wrap your fingers around her.”

Nick rolled his eyes.

While Matt flipped pages of Gun Magazine, Nick sifted through files of terrorists known to have any link to the KSF. He groped for something, anything that might give him a clue why so many of them were spreading themselves across America’s landscape. Why would they appear to be moving in such a diverse pattern? He found himself staring at pictures of Kurdish rebels as if the power of his glare could evoke an answer from them.

The flight was long and the closer they got to Las Vegas, the quieter the conversation became. Both agents readied themselves as the night closed around them and reduced their world to the few dozen people on board the jet. Finally, Nick broke the silence. He held up a surveillance photo of a grizzly looking man with bad teeth and wild eyes. “They should lock this guy up just for taking a picture like this.”

Matt placed his forehead up against the window. Flying west at such a rapid pace extended twilight unnaturally, suppressing nightfall as the plane chased the setting sun. Looking down at a tiny sprinkling of lights covering the Midwest, he said, “It looks so peaceful down there.”

“Why can’t we have that?” Nick asked.

“Have what?”

“A peaceful, uneventful life. Go to work, punch the clock, type up a few reports and drive home. It sounds so calming.”

“You mean boring.”

“Yeah, boring. I like boring.”

“I don’t.”

“That’s because you’ve never tried it. Boring could be good for you. I hear the survival rate at AT&T is very high. A lot less stressful too.”

Matt shook his head. “That’s where you’re wrong. There’s just as much stress working for a big corporation as there is with the Bureau. Just a different type of stress, that’s all.”

“You’re probably on to something there,” Nick mused.

“Besides,” Matt said, “you had it a lot worse when you were trolling West Baltimore in a cruiser five nights a week.”

Nick knew he was right, of course. He wondered if he would find the world so pressing if he were a bank teller or a teacher, like Julie. Her concerns must seem just as disturbing to her, yet she rarely showed it. Apparently it wasn’t the profession so much as the professional. He looked over at Matt, who was leaning back in his seat, eyes closed. The picture of serenity. He respected Matt’s composure. He was cool, placid, skillfully poised.

As if Matt felt the weight of Nick’s stare, he said, “I know what they’re doing.”

“Who?”

“The Kurds,” Matt said, head back, hands folded on his lap.

“Tell me about it.”

“Obviously they’re planning a bombing. That’s why it’s so important for them to spring Rashid. He’s the best bomb expert they have. Probably the best in the world. They’re inundating us with enough riff-raff so we can’t cover them all. My guess is, most of them are decoys. Spread us thin so we can’t possibly give them the attention they deserve. A good tactic.”