Assassin P.I. (10 page)

“Take that! I can do this all day long,” he taunted the woman.

“Bite me,” came the scathing reply.

“Not interested, sweetheart.” Little Frankie ambled over and took his seat next to Jack.

“Why am I here?” Jack shook his head. He hated bowling. He’d never seen the appeal of hanging out in an obnoxiously loud public location, wearing shoes that only moments before had been on some other man’s sweaty feet. As far as he could see, bowling alleys were nothing more than a breeding ground for germs.

“To talk about the case, so get to it already.”

Denying he was working a case was useless. Frankie and the others would see through the lie.

“All right. Fine. Long story short? I got a victim who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and a taste for the fast life. Rich but no common sense. A junkie who was living a double life. The only thing he was good at . . . was pissing off people.”

What
did
he really know about Trevor Santino? He was a tarnished golden boy who was still riding his daddy’s coattails through life, letting his father’s clout get him a job. Bet that pissed some people off. But enough to kill? Probably not. Trevor paid for his habit by cutting deals with drug dealers. He supposed it made sense, at least to Trevor’s warped mind, to keep the dealers out of jail if they kept a steady stream of blow flowing his way. No one hurt there, except possibly the unsuspecting public. Trevor Santino was an up-and-coming political shark who liked to walk on the dangerous side of life, cut down in the prime of his life. By who?

“Any suspects?”

Good question. “You mean besides the dead kid the cops pinned it on? No.”

If Mr. “Boss Man” Hernandez knew what Trevor was doing, why didn’t he just fire him and expose him for the creep he was? Why keep his secret? Was Big Daddy Senator Santino paying him off? Or just putting the screws on to keep him quiet? After meeting Daddy Dearest, maybe a little of both.

Edwin Doheny was the first obvious suspect. No stranger to the shadier side of life, Edwin wanted justice for his brother. But did justice include murder? His brother wasn’t dead, only locked up, but if Edwin got caught holding a smoking gun, he’d go away for life, maybe even get the death sentence. No one was that stupid.

A year ago, smooth-talking Eddie Hernandez was facing a losing re-election bid, an election he would have won if it weren’t for Trevor Santino standing in his way. No doubt it chapped his hide to know an ungrateful underling was about to topple his twelve-year regime. As a powerful D.A., Eddie would have all the right connections and could have easily had Trevor taken out.

Then there were Trevor’s parents. They didn’t seem too happy to have a screw-up for a kid. Just how far would they be willing to go to keep their fancy high-society lifestyle untarnished? They would have to be pretty cold, unloving even, to have their own flesh and blood killed. An unlikely scenario even to him, but in his line of work, anything was possible.

What about Angie’s former manager? He seemed the violent type and he was clearly in love with Angie. If he viewed Trevor as a threat to Angie’s career or her heart, he would have no trouble resorting to violence. In a physical fight, he’d be no match for Trevor, but if he had a gun to take care of business? A gun would certainly even the playing field.

As he filled Little Frankie and his friends in on all the potential suspects, Jack made a mental note to check into the manager’s background. If he had a criminal record that included violence, he just might have his killer. It was a stretch, but one worth checking out.

“So let me get this straight. You’ve got four different suspects. And they all look good for it?”

Vito piped up. “Five, if you count the girl.”

“Can’t forget about her,” Mo said as he finished his turn and sat back down. “The pretty ones are always the most dangerous.”

Angie? “Absolutely not.”

“What? Men aren’t the only ones who lose control. You never know, she might be a jilted lover who got the last laugh.”

Could Angie have done the deed? Been angry enough to pop two in Trevor’s head? Jack supposed she could have had a lover of her own do the dirty work, but Angie was never one to run when the going got tough. She was a spitfire. He pitied any fool who dared cross her.

“She’s not involved in this.”

“Says the man who only thinks with his penis. If you want to solve this case, you need to put a muzzle on Little Jack, and start thinking with your brain.”

Sloughing off the insult, Jack let the lists of suspects steep in his mind, rolling each one around, weighing their motives. The more he thought about it, the less likely each one seemed. Angie could easily find a new lover. Her manager could hire a new girl, though not one as beautiful or talented as Angie, but still. Hernandez could flash that dazzling smile of his and win the vote in a landslide.

No.

He was grasping at straws and he knew it. There were plenty of people who had motive enough to hate Trevor, but kill? No, this murder was cold-blooded. Emotionless. A professional hit. This was definitely no gang hit by an initiate. He was missing something.

By the time he left the bowling alley, the Kingpins had taken the lead but Jack was no closer to finding his killer.

He burned the midnight oil reviewing Trevor’s case until he was nearly cross-eyed with fatigue. Stifling a yawn, Jack forced himself to walk away and crawl into bed. When he finally did catch a few winks, he tossed and turned, restless. Something was gnawing on the edge of his conscience, like a grain of sand in an oyster. Only there was no pearl of wisdom waiting for Jack, only nightmares. The faces were fuzzy but other details, odd details, were crystal clear, like the hands on the watch strapped to his father’s wrist, and the glint of a .22 caliber gun pointed at his face.

Chapter 10

The loud, insistent knocking at her door in the middle of the night dragged Angie from bed. She tossed on a robe and flicked a light, bathing the house in a gentle glow. The clock read eleven o’clock on the dot.

What the hell?

After the fifth knock, she managed to disengage the lock and open the door a crack, the safety chain preventing the door from opening any further.

Ugh. A drunken Marco leaned against her door. He was the last thing she needed in her life at the moment.

She closed the door again and released the safety chain.

“I messed up, babe, I messed up big time.” Marco pushed his way into Angie’s apartment and started pacing the floor. He raked a hand through his hair. “You gotta come back to work. We need you.”

“Marco, you shouldn’t be here.” She stepped back to put more space between them. Her hand touched her thigh where her dagger should be.

Damn.

The dagger, her one treasured belonging, wasn’t there. She’d taken it off and placed it on the nightstand before she’d slipped between the sheets.

Double damn.

Fat lot of good it did her now. Maybe she could defuse the situation. Play nice until she found a way to get him to leave by his own volition. Or maybe she could make her way to the bedroom where she could get her hands on her trusty blade.

Marco suddenly stopped pacing, turned, and cocked his head to the side, all his focus on her.

Under his intense scrutiny, her skin crawled. Forcing herself to stay still and control her breathing, despite the loud erratic thudding of her heart against her ribcage, Angie feigned a smile.

“How about a nice nightcap?” she asked. “Maybe a dirty martini?” Better yet, how about a martini laced with the strongest sedative she had stashed in her cabinet? He’d be out before he knew what hit him.

“I only want you.”

“You’ve had a really hard day. How about you let me make it all better.” Her stomach roiled at the thought of consoling him, but pissing him off by antagonizing him wouldn’t be a smart move on her part.

“I need you. You’re my star attraction.” He rushed her, throwing his arms around her, clutching her in a bear hug, his hands coming to rest just above her backside. He gawked at her, hope shining in his eyes. “Say you’ll come back to work. Please?”

Playing nice wasn’t going to work. Not tonight. Not with this drunken oaf. On to Plan B.

“I can’t.” Disengaging herself from his gasp, she moved a few feet away and tugged her robe closer around her body. She swiped a hand across her disheveled hair.

“I won’t,” she amended.

Drawing back, his eyes narrowed to angry slits. “It’s him, isn’t it? It’s that guy you’ve been hanging around with. He put you up to this, didn’t he?”

Wild-eyed, he scanned the room for any sign of Jack. “Your boy-toy’s here, isn’t he? He’s here right now.”

Even in a drunken stupor, Marco had a penchant for violence. Angie had seen him nearly break a man’s arm after the man leapt on stage and fondled one of the performers. Until tonight, his protective nature gave her a sense of security knowing he could keep her safe if need be. But with his common sense dulled, the Marco standing before her now scared the hell out of her.

He barreled off down the hallway, shouting obscenities at a man who wasn’t even there.

Angie seized the moment and darted into the kitchen, desperate to get her hands on a weapon. Any weapon would do. It wouldn’t take Marco long before he realized Jack truly wasn’t there. And then what?

Just how far would Marco go?

She wasn’t taking chances. Spying the cookie jar where she kept a pistol hidden, she jammed her hand inside, knocking the ceramic lid to the ground. The lid shattered, spraying the floor with tiny shards, one of which pierced her skin. She yelped and drew back in pain.

Shit!

A thin trickle of blood began coursing down her leg.

A sharp rap at the door jangled her already-frayed nerves.

“Angie! Open up.”

Her heart lurched. Jack. What the hell was he doing here? If Marco got his hands on Jack, she wasn’t sure what would happen, or who would come out on top, but it wouldn’t be pretty, that’s for damn sure.

“Go away,” she hissed as loudly as she dared.

Marco’s heavy, uneven footsteps sent a surge of adrenaline through her veins, pushing her heart into overdrive. “That’s him, isn’t it? He’s at your fucking door!”

She flinched at the sound of the deadbolt locking and the chain sliding back into place, locking her into an apartment with a drunk, delusional lunatic.

“What’s going on in there?” Jack called out.

Marco slammed his fist against the door. “You can’t have her,” he taunted. “She belongs to me, asshole.”

That really got her blood boiling. Why did every man she met seem to think she was nothing more than a piece of meat to be owned and devoured? Momentarily forgetting about the weapon, she stormed out of the kitchen, jabbing a finger in Marco’s chest. “I don’t belong to anyone, Marco. Not you, not Jack. Nobody.”

Anger transformed him right before her eyes, distorting his features until he resembled a raging bull, only capable of seeing the one thing he wanted to destroy most. Spurred into action, she ran into the kitchen. If she could just get her hands on the gun—

But before she reached the cookie jar, Marco was there, pressing against her body with his. He grabbed her, burying a hand in her hair, wrapping thick strands around his fingers. Tickling her ear with his foul breath, his other hand groped her breast.

“Let go of me!” It was like she was eighteen all over again and about to be raped by her stepfather. Dark memories threatened to resurface, memories she’d fought hard to repress. This time, she wouldn’t wait for Jack to come to her rescue. This time, she would be her own savior.

Fighting back the rising panic, Angie reached for the ceramic jar, desperate to get her hands on the gun. But Marco was quicker. The jar careened toward the ground, smashing to bits. The pistol skittered on the tile floor and slid out of reach.

The sound of splintering wood and a loud crash of a door being kicked in startled Marco.

“What the—”

Angie planted an elbow as hard as she could into Marco’s ribcage. He grunted and released his grip on her, stumbling backward. Dropping to the ground, she crawled toward where she’d seen her pistol skid. Behind her, a full-blown brawl between the two men ensued. Fists found their mark, drawing out pained grunts and groans. When her fingers brushed against the handle of the gun, she clutched it and rolled over.

Jack had Marco pinned to the wall and was working him over pretty good, pummeling his stomach.

“Enough!” Angie stood and walked toward the two men, the barrel of her pistol aimed at Marco’s heart. Though her hands shook slightly, her aim was true. “Get out.”

Marco blinked, confusion written on his face as he assessed his predicament. “Angie, baby. I wasn’t gonna do you no harm. I couldn’t harm a fly. You know that.”

“You heard the lady. Get out.” Jack’s deep voice, a sinful combination of raw masculinity and sex appeal, cut straight through her fear, infusing her spine with an extra burst of bravery.

“Shut the fuck up, boy-toy. This ain’t got nothing to do with you,” Marco snarled.

The safety on the gun released with an audible
click
. The world was filled with victims. She would not be one of them. Not again.

“I said get the fuck out of my house and don’t ever come back.”

I am not a victim,
she repeated to herself, a mant
ra to keep the tears away.

Angie didn’t speak the entire way to Jack’s place. Couldn’t speak, even if she’d tried.

Jack cast furtive looks her way, which she ignored, too shaken to hold a conversation. His lame explanation about why he’d shown up at her doorstep in the dead of night had barely even registered, but she was grateful all the same.

At the time, she’d welcomed Jack’s strength, leaned on him, letting him bandage her wounds, her nerves too shot to trust her muscles to work.

You, Angela Marie Zaro, are not a victim.
Just thinking the words helped to calm her, helped to erase Marco’s wild eyes from her mind’s eye.

“Ang . . .”

Jack faltered, letting her name hang in the air. He killed the engine and turned toward her.

“I’m okay. I just need a bath and a bed.” She offered a weak smile and got out of the car, testing her legs.

Okay. I can do this.

Ever the considerate gentleman, Jack jumped out of the car and was instantly at her side, offering his hand in assistance.

She brushed away his arm. If she showed even an ounce of weakness, Jack would scoop her into his arms and carry her inside. Just like before.

No.

She was strong. She could do this by herself. Alone.

Jack’s hand touched the small of her back as he guided her inside the tiny home. She sat perched upon the couch while Jack bustled around drawing her a bath. Her fingers hurt from clutching the robe she wore, wrapping it tightly like a cloak around her.

Then he was there beside her. “Bathroom’s that way. You sure you don’t need any help?”

“I’m pretty sure I remember how to bathe, Jack,” she retorted.

At the defeat that crossed his face, Angie softened her words. He hadn’t meant anything by the offer, but it wasn’t often she had contact with anyone who saw her for anything other than a body to be used.

Guilt flooded her. “I’m sorry. You were just trying to be nice and here I am biting your head off. I’ll feel better after I’ve had time to unwind. Can I borrow your phone for a minute? I need to make a call.”

Telling him she was going to make a phone call to an FBI agent was out of the question. Fortunately, he didn’t ask, and she didn’t tell.

“Sure thing, doll face.” Worry etched his features.

Jack returned seconds later with a cordless phone and a stack of towels from the linen closet. He held them out for her. “I’m just a shout away, if you need anything.”

Then he was gone and she was left standing in the bathroom. Alone.

Quickly she dialed Agent Shaw’s phone number and gave a brief accounting of the horrors of her night. After he promised to pay her former boss a visit, she dropped the robe and dipped a toe into the tub. The honey-almond fragrance wafted in the rising steam, cloaking her in a luxurious atmosphere. The perfect setting for two would-be lovers to confess and consummate their love. Inch by inch, Angie lowered her body into the soapy water, the heat already relaxing her tense muscles.

She slipped lower, gasping when the water hit her breasts. Ever since Jack had come back into her life, her body had been an ever-tightening ball of nerves, wound so taut that even the slightest touch threatened to undo her. Every look he cast her way seemed rife with hidden subtext. Even something as simple as an accidental brush of his hand against hers left her a quivering mess inside.

It had always been that way with Jack.

Probably always would.

Guarding her heart was the only way to be sure she didn’t get hurt again. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t fantasize about what might have been.

She let her head drop back, cradled by the edge of the bathtub. Eyelids heavy, she gave in, allowing herself one moment of weakness, one tiny morsel of delight, a daydream in the midst of a nightmare of a day.

Conjuring up an image of Jack in her mind, he was there with her. Seated in the water across from her. A tantalizingly seductive yet boyish grin on his face. Cocking his head to the side, he taunted her, dipping his fingertips beneath the surface of the water, walking his hand up her leg, ever closer.

Safe.

She was safe here with this version of Jack. Her heart was intact.

As the phantom Jack reached his destiny, Angie moaned, letting her hand slip down her body to circle her nipple once before traveling lower, coming to rest between her legs to caress the spot where she imagined Jack’s hand to be.

Oh, Jack.

Tight circles quickened as her breathing became shallow and rapid.

Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.

Unable to stop herself, the tears came, breaking down the dam she’d so carefully constructed. She wept as her body peaked and orgasmic waves washed over her.

The bathroom door opened and suddenly phantom Jack was replace by the real live version holding a glass.

“Oh, my God!” Angie yelped and shot up, gripping the sides of the porcelain tub. With the back of her hand, she swiped impatiently at the tears that had fallen. “Don’t you ever knock?”

Mortified, her face heated, and she sunk back down into the water. She grabbed the wet washcloth and chucked it in his direction, spraying water all over the floor in the process.

“Don’t you ever bother to lock the door?” he shot back.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen her naked before. For that matter, it wasn’t even like he hadn’t seen her horny before. But this was different. An invasion of her private fantasy. Fantasies were private for a reason.

Jack hesitated, taking in her hair piled atop her head. Damp tendrils clung to her sil
ky neck. Her shoulders bare and exposed above the bubbles that cloaked the rest of her naked body from him. His memory was good enough to recall the remainder of her anatomy.