Assassin P.I. (13 page)

“Forget about him. What are you doing here? I thought I told you to stay away, lay low for a while.”

Deluca was right, of course. Everything about Angie’s case had him tempting fate, and it was only a matter of time before he was slapped with a court order to stay away from official police business. “Your vic. Did he have a tattoo of boxing gloves on his right shoulder?”

Deluca kicked a rock, sending it skittering into the cold ocean water. “Haven’t gotten that far. So what if he does?”

Edwin Doheny. The poor sap had even predicted his own death. When Jack tried to track Edwin down again to talk to him some more, he was nowhere to be found. Hadn’t been seen or heard from since the day Jack questioned him. “I think your homicide and my cold case just crossed paths.”

Deluca let out a string of expletives. “Christ, I told you to drop that case. That Fed over there is sniffing around, asking questions he shouldn’t.”

“About what? Chief Fagan? I thought all that was dying down since he left the force.”

Deluca grabbed Jack by the shoulders. He thumped him on the back of the head. “He’s asking a lot of questions, Jack. About you.”

There had to be some mistake. He was a lot of things but he was no criminal worthy of scrutiny from the FBI.

“And you’re leaving a damned trail of breadcrumbs for him to follow.”

Cleaning up the streets. Getting rid of lowlifes. It wasn’t the same thing. Hell, the city should be shaking his hand, thanking him with a plaque, or a statue, or something. He was doing them a service, doing what their beloved boys in blue couldn’t do. In his father’s day, he’d be called a hero, just like his father was. The only difference between Jack and his father was that Jack no longer had to play by a bunch of arbitrary rules that rendered him impotent. No more red tape, no more badge, no one to get in his way. He could be the hero the city needed.

“It’s a damned mess, that’s what this is. A fine damn mess.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes, each contemplating the best course of action to take. If he’d been smart, he’d have turned down Angie’s case and retired to Bora Bora or the Bahamas like he’d originally planned. Maybe still could, if he played his cards right, but if he wanted to stay out of the slammer, he’d better be quick about it. Once Trevor’s killer was dealt with, he could concentrate on Deluca’s case and then he was out. He’d disappear. Pick up and move someplace where the dames were exotic and plentiful. With the money he’d stockpiled over the years, he could take his mother with him. Let her spend her final days with every need attended to.

Even as the thoughts formed in his mind, he could feel his future slipping away. He’d be lucky to solve one case without getting caught, especially now that the Fed knew Jack’s face. Even heroes had their kryptonite and Angie was his. Now he had a nemesis to call his very own.

“If I were you, I’d dump the bitch, and start tying up loose ends. You’ve got less than a week to finish and close up shop.”

Jack patted Deluca’s back. One case, one last chance to live up to the Gaines legacy. One last chance to make his father proud, to play the town hero.

Yeah, some days were like that. Fucked up from the very start.

From the safety of his car, Nick watched Chief Deluca escort his friend away from the crime scen
e and back toward Jack’s vehicle. Whatever they’d been talking about, it must have been serious. Deep frown lines etched the chief’s face and Jack appeared downright pensive.

“What kind of game are you running here, Mr. Jack Gaines?”

He waited until Jack was a block away before he eased his car into traffic, careful to keep several car lengths between him and the dark sedan he was trailing. Spooking a suspect was not on his to-do list for the day.

For ten minutes, Jack drove the Ellington Bay streets, winding his way from the beach, through the industrial side of town and finally came to a stop in the middle of a residential neighborhood. Nick circled the block before pulling his car alongside a house with an excellent vantage point from which he could observe Jack without being spotted.

He grabbed his cell phone and made a call, his eyes never leaving Jack’s car. “Ben, it’s me. I need a favor. I need you to pull up everything you can on the owner of a house on . . .” He paused, craning his neck, as he tried the make out the name of the street. “. . . Twenty-five ninety-eight Sunburst Drive.”

Not more than two minutes later, Nick’s phone rang. “Talk to me.”

“House belongs to Benicio Acevedo.”

“Rap sheet?”

“More like a novel. Drug charges and a couple domestic disturbances in the eighty’s turned into cooking meth and assault with a deadly weapon in the new millennium. He was a suspect in a couple murders a decade ago. Always seems to get off, though.”

“No jail time?”

“He did a nickel for selling to an undercover when he was eighteen. Oh, and something else? There’s been a few deaths linked back to Mr. Acevedo’s product.”

If Angie was right, and Jack did have a bit of a God complex thing going on, then maybe Jack had found himself another big, baddie to take off the streets. And there was only one person who could stop him before he killed. Nick Shaw.

Chapter 13

With Jack constantly out of the office, and Agent Shaw determined to take him down, Angie knew it was up her to find the evidence that could either indict or exonerate Jack.

She studied the office. There certainly weren’t many hiding places in the tiny office, or at least none that she hadn’t already checked. Angie ran her hands along the smooth walls as she paced. Shouldn’t there be a safe hidden behind a gaudy painting? But Jack didn’t believe in interior decorating apparently. In fact, the entire office was nearly devoid of any splashes of color, any comforting touches to liven up the joint. Drab was the color Jack did best. The only spot of color was the plant she’d brought in, with its hidden video recorder. To liven up the place, she’d told Jack. He’d grunted but didn’t toss it out.

Shamus walked behind her and whistled. “Pretty legs, pretty legs.” He nipped at her calves.

“Knock it off, Shamus.” For the past hour, Shamus had followed her every move, walking across her papers, disrupting her train of thought. He’d gone from being a cute bird with personality, to being a nuisance.

“That’s it!” Angie scooped Shamus up and deposited him into his cage.

Flapping his wings, he protested, “Dumb dame.”

“Call me that one more time, and I’ll have you flayed on a spit and roasted.”

Shamus squawked in protest but tucked his head under his wing as she shut the door to his cage.

The cage.

The one place she hadn’t checked yet. She crouched down and ran her hands along the underbelly of the metal enclosure, feeling for anything out of the ordinary. She’d traced nearly the entire perimeter of the cage before her finger brushed against something. An envelope taped in place. Her fingers clutched her prize and tugged until the tape gave way.

Finally.

The envelope was thin enough to fit in the palm of her hand. She opened it and shook the contents onto the desk. A key, silver and ornate, slid out.

“What are you hiding from me, Jack?”

“Shoot to kill! Shoot to kill, sweet cheeks.” Shamus suddenly came alive, squawking and flapping furiously. “Jack’s back.”

Oh, crap!

She spun around to find herself gazing into Jack’s dark eyes. The metallic teeth bit into her palm as she clutched the key tightly. No time to put it back, to hide the evidence of her snooping. Instead, she slid her butt onto Jack’s desk and crossed her legs, brushing the empty envelope onto the ground.

“You and Shamus making nice, I see?” He opened the cage door and Shamus walked up Jack’s arm until he was perched on his shoulder. The bird gave Angie a spiteful stare.

“Dumb dame,” the parrot muttered but ducked behind Jack’s head, peeking out periodically.

“Back so soon?” She smiled and gave him her best come-hither look. Maybe she could distract him until she could get rid of the key, tuck it somewhere safe, somewhere Jack wouldn’t find it.

“Kissie, kissie,” the bird urged as he took to the sky.

“Don’t mind if I do.” Jack grinned, a mischievous glint in his eye. He leaned forward, his lips puckered for a kiss.

“Not so fast.” She ducked and scooted just beyond his reach. With her back to him, she dropped the key down the front of her sweater, into her cleavage, the metal cool against her flushed skin. Now all she had to do was somehow manage to smuggle the key out of the office without Jack finding out. Shouldn’t be too hard as long as she kept a safe distance from his wandering hands. She ran her fingers through her hair, giving her boobs a little shimmy to be sure the key wasn’t in danger of falling out. When she turned back around, Jack’s expression had changed.

Gone were his kissie lips, and with it his flirty mood.

“What’s this, Ang?” He held up the empty envelope for her to see.

Busted.

Her eyes flicked down to the envelope. “Don’t know. Something you dropped?” She feigned disinterest.

Shamus danced on the edge of the desk, taunting, “Liar, liar.”

“Where is it?”

For a moment she thought about confessing. Everything. But where would that leave her? Leave Jack?

“The key, Ang.” Jack’s voice was flat. “Give me the key.”

She closed her eyes, unable to bear the dejected tone in his voice. By the time this case was over, he’d hate her. Whether she proved his innocence, or proved his guilt, it wouldn’t matter. He’d hate her all the same.

Angie reached into her bra and plucked the silver key out, holding it up before his eyes. “It’s true, isn’t it? What they said about you being a thief? And this key unlocks the hiding place, doesn’t it?”

A dark expression crossed his face. Disappointment. She knew the emotion well. Had seen it most of her life.

“You’re fired. I want you out by day’s end. This case is over.”

Her heart clenched.

He cast a parting blow her way before walking out. “
We’re
over.”

“So tell me about Angie’s case.”

De
luca dropped down onto the couch and reached for the pizza box, extracting a slice. He took a bite. Strings of hot cheese stretched until broken by a finger. Devouring the slice in a matter of seconds, Deluca grabbed a beer to wash it down.

When Jack was still on the force, and Deluca was still his partner, if a case was getting under their skin, they would order a pizza, grab some beer, and make an all-nighter of it. Somewhere in the dead of night, something would click and just like that, the case would be broken. Jack didn’t know how many cases they’d solved over pizza and beer, but it worked.

Deluca popped open a can of beer, but before he could take a drink, Shamus hopped up, clutching the rim of the can with his feet. The parrot ducked his head, inhaling the scent.

“Cheap beer.” Shamus clicked and shook his head. “Cheap beer.”

Deluca swatted at the bird. “Shoo, dumb bird.”

Shamus squawked in protest, flapping his wings as he reluctantly jumped off the can. “Scotch is better. Scotch is better.”

“Come here, Shamus. Leave Deluca alone.”

Shamus paced the desk before finally climbing up Jack’s arm to sit on his shoulder.

“Thought you said this was an open and shut case. What’s changed?”

“There’s something I’m just not seeing.” Jack exhaled in frustration. He’d been over all the evidence multiple times and viewed the case from every possible angle. But something was . . . for lack of a better word . . . off. Something didn’t sit well with him.

“Yeah. What you’re not seeing is how this Angie woman is leading you around by the short hairs,” Deluca snickered.

Jack scowled. “You leave her out of this or I’m taking back my beer.”

“Cheap beer,” Shamus called before ducking his head, hiding behind Jack’s ear.

“Fine. Whatever.” Deluca reached for another slice of pizza, folded it in half, before taking a massive bite. Mouth full, he said, “Tell me what you know.”

“I know this. Trevor Santino was no saint. He was a former frat boy with a hefty addiction to coke, and a rebellious streak. Eventually he cleaned up and went on to make a name for himself as an up-and-coming assistant D.A. Didn’t care who he hurt along his rise to political fame.”

Including Angie.

Even though he’d never met the man, Jack hated him for trampling on Angie’s heart. Somewhere in the back of his head a tiny voice piped up.
You did the same thing.

But as quickly as the thought intruded, he pushed it aside and reached for a slice. He’d never intended for Angie to get hurt. Getting close to her, pretending that what they had was an ever-after sort of love, wasn’t supposed to happen. Life wasn’t filled with happy endings, or at least his life wasn’t.

“Money?”

Jack whistled, recalling the sprawling mansion with spiraling staircases. He wouldn’t be surprised to find out that the entire floor was made of marble with pure gold along the edges.

“The old kind. The kind that buys silence. Our boy Trevor was born with a silver spoon in his mouth.” He quickly filled Deluca in on what he’d uncovered about Trevor’s life, which wasn’t a hell of a lot.

In silence, they chewed, giving careful consideration to each possible scenario.

“My money’s still on Angie. Think about it. What’s more likely than a jilted lover scorned? The man dumped her and then stiffed her out of her cut of the dough. The whole scheme was crazy to begin with. The only way for this thing to end was badly.”

Ignoring him, Jack changed the topic before he said something he might later regret. “Any leads on the John Doe from this morning?”

“You were right about the vic. Coroner positively identified him as Edwin Doheny. It’s only a matter of time, Jack, before someone starts putting the pieces together and comes knocking on your door.”

As the comment sunk in, it occurred to him that Deluca honestly believed Jack had killed Edwin. “You think I killed him, don’t you?”

He sat back in his chair and looked at his lifelong friend in a new light. Deluca seemed completely nonplussed by the notion Jack might have gone off the deep end and killed a man without any provocation or cause. He finished off another slice of pizza and downed the last drops of his beer, reaching for more. Jack didn’t know what bothered him more. The fact that Deluca could so easily accept Jack as a cold-blooded killer, or the fact that Deluca almost seemed desensitized to the moral wrongs of killing.

“Maybe you were drunk, blacked out. It wouldn’t be the first time it happened to someone. Would make a decent defense, if nothing else.”

Even if he’d been totally snockered up on liquor there was no way he could lose control, kill a man, and then black out and forget the murder had ever happened. The fact that Deluca thought it was possible, probable even, was crazy. After all that they’d been through together, from Jack’s dismissal from the force to Deluca’s constant marital problems, they’d always had each other’s backs. Now he wasn’t so sure where Deluca’s head was anymore.

Jack chewed on his cheek, contemplating how to respond. “Let ‘em come knocking on my door. I didn’t kill Edwin, just questioned him. Hell, you of all people should know that.”

“Christ, Jack. Stop trying to act so pious and righteous. You’ve killed before. Lots of times.”

Ten times to be exact. Three while in the line of duty. All were life or death situations. Unavoidable deaths. The other seven were all criminals who were making a living off killing others. “Those were different and you know it.”

“Do you think, for one single moment, that other people, other than you and I, would see what you do, what
we
do, as what? A service to the city?”

He hated to admit it, but deep down, Jack knew it was true. “We’re cleaning up the street, just you and me. Getting rid of the criminals.”

“Not you and me. Just you. Wake up, Jack. You are not some hero, a damned knight in shining armor like your daddy was. You’re a hired killer. Call it what you like as long as it helps you sleep at night. But if you get sloppy and go down, I’ll have no choice but to do my job. I can’t keep being your fairy godfather for much longer.”

No sooner had he’d closed his eyes than he found himself trapped in a nightmare
. The hallway. What was it with this fucking hallway? Endless and vacant of anything but row after row of locked doors with random numbers etched on them. Always searching for the right door to unlock. Searching for answers. Searching for his father. Searching for her. Angie.

“Stop chasing a ghost, son.”

His father appeared beside him. A hand clutched his and suddenly Jack was transformed into a child again, holding his father’s hand.

He peered up into his father’s stern face, his eyes darkened by the police hat resting on his head.

“Stop chasing a ghost, son, and start finding answers.” He pointed to a door. “Go on. Look.”

Jack pressed his ear to the metal door. A police scanner crackled as a call went out. “All officers report to 38701 Oakhurst Lane for a 187 in progress.”

The door swung open.

“Watch,” his father implored and shoved Jack through the doorway and into the darkness that permeated the strange new world.

Blind and disoriented, Jack fought back the swell of panic pressing against his throat. He closed his eyes and tried to get his bearings. A gentle rainfall began to fall, wetting his face. Breathing in the damp air, he caught a whiff of car exhaust mixed with something else. Something familiar.

Cigarette smoke.

He opened his eyes, certain now that he was someplace familiar. The city.

One by one, streetlights twinkled on, illuminating a sign. Oakhurst Lane.

Angry voices spilled out though an open door and into the night sky. Two doors down, a porch light flickered to life, and a curtain fluttered. A curious face pressed against a window, peering out briefly before the curtain slipped back into place, the face gone. The door slammed shut, cutting off the voices.

Further down the street, a car idled.

He knew this street. From his days on the force. It was a neighborhood controlled by drugs and the gangs that sold them.

Why was he here?