Assassin P.I. (9 page)

The chief exploded in fury, shooting to his feet. “Now you listen here, boy,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “I don’t need some federal agent sniffing around my town, mucking things up. If anyone needs to be investigated, I’ll be the one to do the investigating.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing. Probably just a jealous ex-girlfriend trying to make trouble for the man. You know how vindictive some women can be.” The last thing he wanted was for the chief to file a formal complain with the Bureau.

The chief eyed him suspiciously at the quick about-face the conversation had taken. “I suppose so. Jack was a good cop who got a raw deal.”

Nick thrust his hand out for a handshake. “Well, thanks for taking time out of your busy schedule to talk to me today. I’ll be sure to let you know if I need anything else from you.” He turned to leave and then thought better of it. “Oh, one last question. In your professional opinion, is Gaines capable of murder?”

The expression on the chief’s face confirmed everything he needed to know. It was time to meet the man who’d murdered his best friend.

Chapter 9

Nick checked his mirror before merging with oncoming traffic. He meandered through Ellington Bay to get better acquainted with the layout of the city before finally turning his car south. The town, situated on the western seaboard, was big enough, in both population and size, to boast of a few of the nicer amenities. A movie theater, outdoor shopping mall, and circuit of nightclubs would satisfy even the most jaded of teenagers. But the city planning commission had been wise, with enough forethought to keep the small-town feel.

The quaint city street he drove, lined on either side with boutiques and mom-and-pop shops, gradually changed as it wound its way away from the swanky north side of Ellington Bay to the gritty downtown area. At first the changes were subtle. Storefronts vacated, for rent signs posted in the windows and less upscale wares being hawked. Gradually, graffiti and boarded-up windows dotted the landscape. At the far end of the street a lone dwelling stood, like a crotchety outcast who’d long since outlived his usefulness.

He eyeballed the joint. Wasn’t much. No sign to announce the nature of transactions taking place inside. Gut instinct told him to play it cool, act like a potential customer, the sort of man who might come hoping to rekindle an old flame. Nick quickly tousled his hair and removed his jacket, hoping to exude an air of a man of modest means, newly divorced. He twisted the wedding ring on his finger before reluctantly removing it. Sara would forgive him.

Checking over his shoulder, Nick exited the car and loped across the street. As soon as he entered the small office, a bell chimed, and a startled woman looked up. Was he in the right place? He’d been expecting to find Jack, not some girl.

“May I help you, sir?” The woman, attractive in a Betty Paige sort of way, gave him a weary smile before her brows knitted in concentration as she double-checked the appointment book that lay on her desk. “Do you have an appointment?”

Angie.

Though they’d never met in person, he’d recognized her voice instantly. His body flooded with relief. She wasn’t dead, wasn’t running for her life, but what the hell was she doing here? She was supposed to be staying far away from Jack, a potentially lethal man who, for all intents and purposes, enjoying killing off the competition. Not working for the man.

He inspected the otherwise empty room. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to find, but this wasn’t it. The office was on the smallish side, but tidy, with a large desk and leather armchairs. Louis Armstrong played on a record player, a relic from another era. A coatrack stood stoically in the corner by the front door. All the while, the woman watched his every move as did the gray parrot who danced and sang along with the music from a perch near the desk. It was like he’d entered a bad black and white detective movie. He half-expected a car filled with mobsters to peal around the corner, their tommy guns raining hellfire down on the unprotected workplace.

“Mr. Gaines is out at the moment, but I can make you an appointment, if you like.” Her berry-stained lips curved into a smile, but she never rose from her post. When he didn’t respond right away, she quirked an eyebrow and waited expectantly.

“No, that won’t be necessary.”

The bird squawked from its perch, “Take ‘em out, sweet cheeks. Shoot to kill, sweet cheeks.”

“Shamus, shush!” Angie chided.

With her porcelain smooth skin, dark wavy hair, luscious lips, and golden eyes, Ms. Angela Zaro looked every bit the part of a 1940’s silver screen starlet. He was willing to bet she was a force to be reckoned with, both in and out of bed. Not that he’d be tempted by her when he had his sweet Sara at home, but still. He couldn’t deny her beauty.

“Fuck off,” came the bird’s angry, but softer reply. If the bird’s foul mouth was any indication of Jack’s guilt, any shred of doubt was gone.

“Angie, where’s Jack?”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Do I know you?”

“Special Agent Nick Shaw? Trevor’s childhood friend, the one you’ve been conspiring with to take down Jack? Ring any bells?”

“Agent Shaw? What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here.”

“Trouble’s coming,” the bird squawked and danced on his perch.

Smart bird.

“You went off script. This”—he motioned to the office—“wasn’t part of the plan.”

She crossed her arms, her breasts perilously close to popping out of her top. One perfectly arched eyebrow rose. “Is that so? Well, then, just think of me as your inside man. I can get close to Jack, be your eyes and ears.”

“That’s what the GPS tracker and the voice recorder were for. When you didn’t check in like we’d planned, I called your work and they said you’d up and disappeared. I’ve been trying to reach you for the past two days now. The last thing I need is for you to get killed in the crossfire.” Didn’t she know she was playing with fire? Or maybe she was wrong and Mr. Jack Gaines was nothing more than a washed up cop-turned-private-eye. Maybe she really was spiteful, seeking ways to lash out at people because she was hurting.

“Where’s the pen?” He held out his hand, while she dug through a cup of other writing utensils.

Finally she retrieved the correct one and placed it in his palm. “Happy now? You need to leave before Jack gets back.”

“No, we need to talk. But not here. Meet me at the diner on 3
rd
and Elm in twenty minutes.”

The bird let out a loud screech and flew from his perch to the countertop. “Trouble’s here. Take ‘em out. Shoot to kill.”

A resolute glint hardened her gaze. Her chin thrust up defiantly. “I can handle myself. Have been since I was fifteen. If there’s any concrete evidence, anything at all that proves Jack’s a killer, I can find it.”

He sure hoped so.

As soon as Angie walked through the din
er door, she saw him. Even though they’d only met for the first time a little more than half an hour ago, there was no denying who he was. Perched on a stool at the far end of the counter, dressed in a department store suit, he stuck out amid the truckers and stay-at-home moms that frequented the joint.

She slid onto a stool beside Agent Shaw and cast a sideways glance his way. “I can’t be meeting you like this. If someone saw . . .” As it was, she’d almost bailed out on the meeting. Laying her coat and clutch in her lap, she crossed her legs.

“Relax.” He motioned for the waitress. “Two coffees, please.”

The harried server flipped two cups upright and filled them with hot liquid. Angie dropped a generous dollop of sugar and an equal amount of powdered creamer into her coffee and stirred.

When the waitress moved on to another customer, Agent Shaw resumed talking. “If you don’t want anyone to notice you, you should probably ditch the bombshell vibe you got going on, lady. You might want to cover those.” He motioned to her breasts. “Men are starting to stare.”

Angie glanced down at her chest. Wearing a soft pink, snug-fitting sweater and pencil skirt, her outfit exuded the air of a respectable lady. Or so she’d thought. She frowned. “What’s wrong with my boobs?”

“Nothing. That’s the point.” He cast another sideways glance at her breasts.

Further down the counter, a man leered at her appreciatively.

Maybe Agent Shaw had a point. Slipping the coat back on, she cinched it tight, concealing her curves.

“For all anyone knows,” Agent Shaw said, “we’re just two lonely strangers who met while enjoying a coffee at a local diner. He won’t find out unless you screw up and tell him.”

From the depths of the kitchen came a clattering of dishes and a loud string of expletives. Angie jumped.

Agent Shaw covered her hand with his. “Relax. Just take a deep breath and start with what you do know.”

He nudged a menu her way, then picked up a menu of his own to peruse. “We should eat. That’s what people do at this time of day.”

Angie inhaled deeply, letting the acrid scent of a strong pot of coffee wash over her, calming her. She picked up the menu and scanned it, not really caring about the diner’s ten different styles of hamburgers, or their selection of sandwiches.

What
did
she know? All she had was a gut instinct, and a waning desire to see Jack pay for the way he’d treated her years ago. “When Trevor died, the police said the suspect was a kid being initiated into a gang. A couple days later, the suspect conveniently shows up dead? Suicide, they said.”

“But you don’t buy it?”

She shook her head, then took a sip of her coffee, stalling for time. “Neither do you,” she said pointedly.

The waitress appeared and took their order before moving off to seat a new customer. When she was out of earshot, Angie continued. “At first I thought maybe Jack was somehow involved, but now . . . I don’t know what to think anymore. The other day my boss, Marco, said something that made me think maybe he had something to do with Trevor’s death. Maybe Marco just snapped. Or maybe the police were right all along and it really was all just a horrible case of wrong place, wrong time.”

“What made you think Mr. Gaines had something to do with Trevor’s death in the first place?” The agent slowly stirred his coffee.

“You know that movie,
Dirty Harry
? Jack is like Dirty Harry and Batman all rolled into one. He’s a sucker for a woman in trouble. A rush-to-her-defense kind of guy. For Jack, defending a woman’s sense of honor and dignity is as important as saving a life. I think he honestly views himself as the ultimate protector, the only one who can get the job done. And usually he’s right.”

“But you’ve never seen him actually kill someone?”

Suspicions weren’t the same thing as having cold, hard proof. After Jack rescued her from her abusive stepfather, the man was never seen again. At the time, Jack had dismissed her questions, saying the man must have wised up and bailed out to avoid facing charges. And she’d believed him. Until a body washed up in a drainage ditch three towns away. She’d always suspected Jack had had a hand in what transpired. But there’d never been any actual proof. No telltale double tap to the back of the head, no bullet to the heart.

“No.” She sounded defeated with that single syllable.

“And you have no evidence of any crimes he’s committed.”

“Other than the fact that he allegedly stole money from a drug bust and lost his job over it? No.”

Agent Shaw’s phone rang and he stood up, his coffee untouched. He declined the call and put it back in his pocket again. “We’ll be in touch. I need you to pick up a new recorder, a video one this time. Then call me with the information so I can remote in.”

“Oh, I almost forgot. The other day, when I was in Jack’s car, I dropped a micro GPS chip.” She dug in her purse and found the information Agent Shaw would need to track Jack’s every move. Pressing the information into his outstretched hand, she said, “I hope this helps.”

The man’s cell phone rang again. Dropping a couple bucks on the counter, he removed his phone and answered it this time. “Shaw, here.”

Angie stared at him in disbelief. “Wait. That’s it? Don’t I even get a ‘Thank you, good job, Angie’?”

He covered the phone’s speaker with his hand. “That’s it. I’ll let you know when you’re needed. Until then, keep your mouth shut and stay out of trouble. Oh, and if I were you, I’d start by finding a new job. One that won’t get you killed in the crossfire.”

Seconds later, he was gone.

By the time Jack walked into the Roll and Bowl bowling alley, league gameplay w
as already getting underway, with each of the six remaining teams calling pot shots at their competitors, trying to rattle nerves. As per usual, the only woman’s team, Dolls with Balls, had claimed the middle lane. Dressed more like a roller derby team, each doll was a better trash talker than a bowler, but that didn’t stop them. If it weren’t for Hellcat Helen having laser beam accuracy, they wouldn’t even be in the tournament.

To their right were the Holy Rollers, a mishmash of bowling-loving priests. They always started each game with a ten-minute prayer. Strike Force, We Don’t Give a Split, and X-Men rounded out the rest of the lanes.

Little Frankie had already staked out Lane Six for his team, the Kingpins. Mo, Vito, and Knuckles were all there, decked out in their matching bowling shirts. Only Sal was absent from the action.

“You’re late.” Frankie sat in a swivel seat, rubbing his bowling ball, a custom-made black and silver ball that, when in motion, gave the illusion of a shiny musket ball aiming for the heart of the pins.

“Does it really matter?”

“Cut loose, man. It’s Friday night and all is right with the world.” Mo slapped Jack on the back in greeting as he passed him.

“No Sal?”

“Bad back.”

Jack chuckled. “Bad bowler, you mean.”

“Same difference. So, tell us about this case you’re working.” Frankie grabbed the pitcher of frothy beer and poured himself a glassful. He took a sip and watched Jack expectantly.

There was a sudden crash of pins as Hellcat Helen bowled a strike. Her team hopped up whooping and hollering. “Take that!”

“Pipe down over there. We’ve got some important business to take care of.”

“You’re just jealous of my mad skills, old man.”

“You call those skills? Dumb luck is all you got,” Frankie muttered as he shoved his fingers into his bowling ball and headed for the lane. He paused and tossed a smirk to the other teams who had by now all stopped to watch the show. “I’ll show you old.”

All eyes were on Little Frankie while he lined up his shot. He cast one parting glance at Hellcat Helen as he took three steps forward. In one fluid motion, the ball swept back, then switched directions, propelling forward until it flew off Frankie’s fingers. It hit the lane with a loud thud. Seconds later it was followed by the crash of all ten pins being swept from the floor.