Deadly Sexy (9 page)

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Settled down. Maybe a wife and couple kids before I get too old to enjoy them. See if I can’t make a marriage work this time.”

“Do you see her? Your ex?”

He shook his head. “Not since the day she walked out with my autograph on the divorce papers. Put me off relationships for a long time.”

“Ugly divorce?”

“Not particularly. She wanted out so I obliged her.”

JT could only wonder about the true reason behind the breakup and how long ago it had been.

He asked, “You think about kids?”

“I do. I might like to do that somewhere down the road, before I get too old. My globe-trotting sister probably won’t have any so somebody’s gotta give my mother the grands she’s been wanting. Right now my sister’s rottweilers, Ruby and Ossie, are mama’s granddogs, as she calls them.”

“Granddogs? Named Ruby and Ossie?”

The humorous wonder in his voice made her smile. “Yep. They have a couple of sibs named Jessi and James.”

“Named for you?”

She shook her head. “No. My sister’s breeder was just trying to be cute.”

They were staring again. The attraction between them was as solid as the breakers down on the beach yet as shimmery as fog.

He said to her, “This is something special.”

She couldn’t lie or pretend that she didn’t know what he was talking about. “It is, so let’s just enjoy. No commitments, no ties.”

He leaned over and kissed her gently, “Whatever the lady wants…”

JT’s entire body came alive. Like a jolt of caffeine or a dousing from a barrel of Gatorade, her senses were instantly engaged. The barbecue dinners were forgotten, the wine ignored. They were much hungrier for each other.

They wound up on her bed, and he treated her to a loving that was as slow as it was fiery. He made her feel worshipped, adored, hot. By the time he brought her to the third orgasm, she swore she’d never let him leave her side. It was as if they both knew it would be some time before they were together again this way, so the loving continued until dawn.

When JT awakened bleary-eyed around noon, she was in bed alone. She sat up listening for sounds of him, then saw the piece of paper on the pillow beside her. It read:
Called a cab. Didn’t want to wake you. See you soon. Reese.

She smiled, but inside, she felt bereft. She missed him already.

Meanwhile, on the flight back down to L.A., Reese decided that his memories of Jessi would have to hold him for the present. She’d said she didn’t want a relationship, and he respected her honesty, or at least that’s what he told himself. In reality, he didn’t think she knew what she was up against. This thing happening between them seemed destined, fated, and if that were true, he’d been seeing her again, just like he’d written on the note,
soon.

As it turned out, JT didn’t have to call the Owens kid at all. When she walked into her office Monday morning, Keith and his parents, Ken and Patrice, were seated and waiting in the outer area with Carole. “I take it you all have good news for me?” she asked, smiling.

Keith nodded, and his mother said, “Yes, Ms. Blake, we do. Don’t we, Ken?”

The father, Ken Owens, had played for USC back in the late seventies, and he still held some of the musculature that had made him such a great offensive lineman. In response to his wife’s question, he nodded. “We’d like you to handle our son’s career.”

“Then let’s go in my office and talk about it. Carole, hold my calls.”

“Will do.”

JT wanted to do cartwheels but instead calmly lead the family into her office and closed the door.

She spent the rest of the day with them. They talked about the team that had already drafted him in the first round and what he could expect in terms of salary and incentives. There were a multitude of papers to sign to make her representation of him legal. There were discussions about investment lawyers and tax issues, and she gave Mrs. Owens cards with the names of a few accounting firms many of her other clients used.

The father, Ken, asked pointedly, “You won’t keep him out of camp?”

“No. We may have to take a bit less money but I want him to start out on the right foot. We’ll make it up on the other end.”

The parents and son nodded approvingly. By late afternoon most of the paperwork had been signed and JT asked Carole to send out a quick press release announcing Keith’s decision to have her agency be his representative. She knew Bobby G3 would pitch a fit when he found out, but she couldn’t be worried about him. With a promise to call them tomorrow to give them the date for the start of her negotiations with Keith’s team, JT walked them back to their parked car, then waved good-bye as they drove off to return to their home in Bakersfield.

Back inside, she looked at Carole, let out a roof-raising scream of joy, then hurried to break open a bottle of champagne.

Later that evening, Bobby was at home looking over the paperwork surrounding the Chambers transfer to his agency and watching the sports news. When the anchor announced that Keith Owens had picked JT Blake’s agency, he threw the glass of vodka in his hand angrily against the wall.

That bitch! Owens was supposed to be his!
Damn her!
He’d spent six weeks and cash he didn’t have wining and dining the kid and his folks. While she’d bored Keith with talk of playbooks, minicamps, and tax brackets, he had introduced him to women, took him to parties and high-class strip joints so he could get a taste of the finer things in life. He was confident the contract settlement he’d promised to negotiate would be far and above what JT Blake planned to ask for, but it hadn’t meant a thing. “Damn her!”

His world was starting to unravel like the threads on an old sweater. If any one of his clients were bright enough to call for an audit, the books presented would pass the test, but his real books showed him to be over $16 million short. His fee from Marquise had helped his bottom line, but the bitch had Quise’s money invested in such a way that he couldn’t access the accounts without Quise’s signature and verbal okay. He’d been counting on the Owens money to make him solvent so he wouldn’t have to continue cooking his books every quarter like he’d been doing for the past three years. The deal with Ham and the Wenzels would also have been a money-maker, but now that project was on hold too. “Damn that bitch!” he yelled again.

Although he pretended otherwise, the killing of the old man had him looking over his shoulder. Just as Ham said, if push came to shove, the Wenzels would give him up faster than they could say “the Black guy did it!” But no way was he going to jail, not after the high life he’d been leading since getting his degrees. He was thirty-two, highly educated, and smart enough to know that even with his gang roots he’d be prey in prison, and he wasn’t going down like that. He had to control his own fate by making sure the Wenzels kept their mouths shut and then finding a way to put JT Blake out of business. She had everything he needed, and he was going to have to take it, even if he had to get ugly.

JT spent the early morning hours at the gun range. Wearing ear protectors, a T-shirt, and a pair of jeans, she fired her first round. Her evenly balanced stance showed her training. The perfect score on the targets showed her skill. Both she and her sister Max were taught to shoot at an early age by their uncle Wheat, their late father’s brother. He wanted them to be able to protect themselves, and taking lessons from him in both gun safety and maintenance was the only way their mother would let him buy her daughters the bb guns he wanted to give them for their birthdays.

JT walked to the next target and squeezed off another round. Unlike Max, a former cop and Marine, she had let her gun skills slide as she got older, and it had almost cost her her life when fullback Lamont Keel burst into her office and beat her so viciously she spent weeks in the hospital with three broken ribs, a busted clavicle, and so much facial bruising and swelling she couldn’t look at herself in the mirror. As soon as she recovered, though, she did the paperwork for a CW permit, bought herself a 9mm, and went back to the range. She’d been a faithful attendee ever since.

Her gun practice done, she went home, showered, dressed, and drove to work. On the drive, she thought about Reese, and the memories of their weekend evoked a bittersweet smile. At this point in her life she knew that any relationship with him would bring drama, and even if the knots could be worked out, she wasn’t sure she wanted a man. Yes, he was a lot of fun, and gave her such a good loving that just thinking about him made her nipples rise up and look for him. But she was accustomed to being her own woman. Unlike her married friends, she didn’t have to compromise on the color of the bath towels, which car to purchase, or anything else. Her world was her own, and she enjoyed being the center of it. Granted, there were women who took on relationships for economic reasons, but there was nothing a man could buy her that she couldn’t afford on her own. As for children, if she decided she wanted kids, there were sperm banks, and adoption was no longer off limits for singles like herself. So in reality, why did she need a man?

To have and to hold,
the inner woman said.

She blew that off and focused her attention on the drive, but Reese’s smile continued to shimmer in the far corners of her mind.

The first thing she did when she hit the office was phone Pete Landers, the GM of the Oakland Earthquake, the team that had drafted Keith Owens. She didn’t like Landers particularly well and he didn’t like her that much either, but her Pro Bowl clients, linebackers D’Angelo Nelson and Jason Grant, played on the team too, so he had to deal with her and she with him.

The initial dollar amount Landers quoted her on the phone was below Keith’s true value—not insultingly below, but low just the same. JT didn’t fuss; negotiations had to start somewhere, so she politely told Landers she’d be in touch, ended the call, and opened her laptop to begin fashioning counterproposals. There’d be ample opportunity to yell at him later.

Reese spent the morning of his first day back from San Francisco talking to Captain Mendes about the Pennington investigation. There was nothing new. The traces of blood found in the Grizzlies conference room had been typed and matched. It was definitely Pennington’s. The only prints found by the techs belonged to the Wenzels and their secretaries, which was to be expected since they all worked in the office.

“Have you had a chance to question, Bo Wenzel?” Reese asked Mendes as they sat in his office.

Mendes was brown-skinned and tall. The tailored suit belied the rumpled detective stereotype. “He’s still out of town, according to his secretary. When he gets back, he’s on the top of the list. What were you impressions of the son?”

Reese shrugged. “Seemed harmless enough. I didn’t get any vibes one way or the other. Didn’t strike me as a coke user, if that’s your question, but as cops, we know not to assume.”

“True, and my cop gut says somebody in that office knows something.

Reese agreed. “You think Big Bo is avoiding us?”

“Maybe. He’s had some legal issues over the years.”

Reese knew from the league files that Bo had wiggled out of a grand jury investigation over a decade ago. Word on the street back then had him guilty of selling fraudulent Texas oil stocks. Apparently a few of his high placed friends made the charges go away. Reese wished he knew the details about what happened to Gus Pennington in the conference room that night. Did he see something or do something that caused his demise? “I’m going to take a crack at Big Bo too when he gets back.”

“Be my guest. I’m open to any and all suggestions. I don’t want this to turn into a cold case. The victim’s family deserves to know why he died and who killed him. My detectives are still canvassing, but I’m not happy with this no progress.”

Reese wasn’t either. “I’d like to talk to the Pennington family too, if that’s okay.”

Mendes nodded. “Family was pretty shook up when my detectives first interviewed them. Maybe they’ve remembered something that might help. Also, here’s the paperwork for your state CW permit. You’re legal now if you need to be.”

Reese’s weapons certification was up-to-date back home, but he hadn’t strapped on a holster in many years. He didn’t see himself having to do that out here either, but it never hurt to be prepared. “Thanks.” He stood and shook the captain’s hand. “I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”

“I’ll do the same.”

Mendes nodded, and Reese left his office.

While Maze played on the CD, Reese let the GPS
on his phone guide him to the Pennington home in Compton. He parked the car out front. The neighborhood was quiet, the houses well kept, as were the lawns. He’d called ahead to get Mrs. Pennington’s permission to visit, and as he walked to the porch, a short round woman wearing jeans and an apron stepped out. “Mr. Anthony?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Come on in.”

Reese was led into the living room. The shades were drawn, keeping the room in shadows, and there was a silence in the air that seemed to settle into his bones. On the wall hung a collection of framed photos depicting her and a man he assumed was her late husband at various occasions and ages. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Pennington,” he relayed genuinely as she gestured him to a seat on the rose-patterned couch.

“Thank you,” she told him quietly as she sat in a matching armchair.

“I won’t stay long. I just have a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

“Have the police found out anything?” she asked before he could begin.

He shook his head and watched pain rise in her eyes.

She said, “I already told the police everything I know. Gus went to work that night and the police called me that next morning saying he was dead.”

“Did your husband have any altercations with the people who worked for him? Someone who might have done this?”

“No. Gus was good to his people and they were good to him They’re as tore up about this as me and my grandson.”

Reese’s report said the young man was a college student. “Is your grandson at school now?”

“Yes. This is his junior year at UCLA. He wants to be a film director.”

“How’s he doing?”

“He’s doing. Misses his grandfather a whole lot. He’d just given Gus one of those music player things for his birthday. Spent all night loading it up with Gus’s kind of music. Said he wished the police had given it back.”

Reese paused. “What do you mean?”

“It wasn’t with the personal effects they brought over.”

Reese pulled out his phone. “Excuse me a moment, Mrs. Pennington.” His call to Mendes went right through. They talked for a moment then he ended the call. “The police didn’t find a music player, Mrs. Pennington,” he said to her. “Are you sure he had it with him that night?”

“Positive. He was so excited. Said it made him feel like he was with the young crowd having one. Chris, my grandson, said the police probably kept it.”

Reese hoped not. “I’ll look into that for you.”

“Thanks. You said on the phone that you work for the commissioner’s office?”

“Yes. I used to be a cop back in Detroit too.”

She studied him seriously for a moment. “Then you tell me, you think the police are doing all they can?”

Reese understood the question. “Yes, ma’am, I do. The captain’s straight up and he’s real frustrated that the investigation isn’t moving faster.”

She looked off into the distance for a few silent moments. “Sometimes the police don’t care about us little folks.”

“I know, but I promise you, the captain and I will do everything we can to get Mr. Pennington and your family justice.”

Tears were sliding slowly down her cheeks now. She offered him a watery smile. “Thank you, Mr. Anthony.”

Reese thought he’d imposed enough. Her grief was still fresh. He’d just wanted to meet her, relay his condolences, and try and get an idea of who the real Gus Pennington was. “Thank you for agreeing to talk to me.” He took out a business card, wrote his cell number on it, then handed it to her. “If you need
anything,
you call, okay?”

Her graying head nodded.

“And I’ll look into the missing player.”

She walked him out to the porch.

As Reese drove away, he watched her in the mirror as she went back inside and closed the door. His heart was heavy. Having been a cop and seen a lot of death, he had special empathy for families suddenly losing a loved one to violence. According to the report, the Penningtons had been married over forty years. He shook his head sadly. He’d call her back later this evening to talk to the grandson. Hopefully the young man still had the receipts and serial numbers. Mendes might find it useful. Reese didn’t own one of the devices, so he knew next to nothing about them. He called Bryce and put him on the speaker. “Hey, baby brother.”

“What’s up? How’s La La land?”

“It’s here. Talk to me about MP3 players.”

“What do you want to know?”

“If I stole one, could I use it?”

“Depends on what kind it is. With some you’d need the real owner’s password in order to download. Why, somebody steal one?”

“Possibly. If I call the manufacturer would they know if anyone tried to download on it?”

“Again, depends on the type, but probably. Everything else is tracked on the Net these days.”

“Okay.”

“How you coming on those Super Bowl tickets?”

Reese smiled. “Thanks for your help, Bryce. Be home in a few days.”

After ending the call, his mind naturally settled on JT. He’d left her sleeping because he hadn’t wanted to disturb her. Leaving while she slept also made for a less awkward good-bye. He wondered what she was doing. Did she think of him at all? He’d been away from her for only a day and admittedly found himself missing her bad. Because thinking about her was so distracting, he put it away for now and turned his mind to his next stop. His buddy the commissioner called last night to let him know that Marquise Chambers had yet to send the league any information on the anger management classes he’d agreed to take. Now that JT was no longer his agent, he had an appointment to meet the new representative, Bobby Garrett, and find out the cause of the delay.

The GPS guided him to Wilshire Boulevard. He parked and entered the tall fancy brick building where Garrett’s fifth-floor office was housed.

The Garrett agency’s suite wing was as fancy as the building: lots of glass, sleek modern furnishings, and plants. Hip hop music blasted the air. Framed black and white glossies of his athlete clients lined one wall. A heavily made-up woman was seated at a desk by the glass door. She looked him up and down approvingly. “May I help you?”

Accustomed to being looked over, Reese simply smiled. “Morning. Reese Anthony to see Mr. Garrett.”

“He’s in conference right now, but he should be done in a few minutes. Can I get you some coffee?”

Before he could respond, a young woman with gold-streaked hair stormed into the waiting area, shouting, “Have my money tomorrow, Bobby! Tomorrow!” Her dark brown face was contorted with anger as she strode past Reese and the receptionist, snatched open the glass doors and departed.

The receptionist shook her head, handed Reese a cup of coffee and explained quietly, “Babymama drama.”

“Ah,” Reese responded just as discreetly.

On the heels of the angry exit, a medium-size man in an expensive gray suit appeared. He didn’t look happy, but upon seeing Reese, walked over and stuck out his hand. “Mr. Anthony?”

Reese stood and shook. “Yes. Thanks for seeing me.”

“No problem. Come on in. Trina, hold my calls.”

“Yes, Mr. Garrett.”

Garrett took a seat behind a massive wood desk and motioned Reese to a chair. “Sorry about the disturbance. She’s my ex. Wants more money.”

Reese simply nodded.

“So, what brings the league to my humble abode?”

“Chambers. The anger management classes.”

“What about them?”

“Where’s he taking them and the name of the facilitator.”

Garrett smiled faintly. “He’s not taking them so there is no facilitator.”

Reese studied him. “And his reasoning?”

“Now that I’m his rep, that agreement is null and void.”

“Really?”

“I told him we’d revisit the issue and see if we can’t get it resolved more to his satisfaction. His former agent has a history of not looking out for her clients’ best interests, and this is just another example.”

Reese found Garrett to be quite interesting. “This is Ms. Blake you’re referring to, I assume?” Reese asked, though he knew the answer.

Garrett nodded. “Used to work for her. I didn’t agree with her capitulation tendencies, so I left her agency and formed my own.”

“I see.” What Reese also saw was probably the perp who’d sabotaged her car. This was getting even more intriguing. “Ms. Blake aside, your client doesn’t get a do over on this. The commissioner’s office isn’t going to capitulate.”

Garrett looked him up and down. “You’re new on the job, I hear.”

“Yes. And?”

“Nothing, just needed confirmation. I’d like to meet with Commissioner McNair at his earliest convenience.”

Reese shook his head at the arrogance. “I don’t think you understand. If Mr. Chambers decides to withdraw from the agreement, he’ll be suspended for the remainder of the season, and will probably go to jail when Coach Walker files assault charges.”

“We disagree.”

“Then we’ll leave it at that. You have twenty-four hours to fax the info on the anger classes to the league offices in New York. If you decide not to, consider your client out for the season.” Reese set his cup on the edge of the desk and stood.

“You can’t keep him from making a living, Anthony.”

“No, I can’t, but the league can. Thanks for your time, Garrett,” he said, and walked out.

Back in his car, he asked himself if Garrett was really that arrogant. He knew the agent was posturing in an effort to impress his new client, but there was posturing and there was reality. He also hadn’t liked hearing JT dissed. Unless she had a slew of disgruntled ex-employees, Garrett had to be the one who’d done her vehicle, and the cop in him wondered if the man had a record. His carriage, speech, and mannerisms said no, but the damage to JT’s car said something else entirely, so he planned to check Garrett out. In the meantime, he hoped Garrett had a Plan B because if the coach choking incident went to court, Quise Chambers might as well be in hell wearing gasoline drawers. A jury would fry him. “Capitulation, my ass,” he groused aloud, and headed the car back to his airport hotel room to file his report with McNair.

After Reese Anthony’s exit, Bobby Garrett thought about what a shit morning he’d had so far. First Kelly with her ghetto self in his face about her checks still bouncing, and then the commissioner’s man trying to tell him his business. All he needed to make his day even more whack was to have something go down with the Wenzels, so he got Matt on the phone.

Matt Wenzel’s voice was cool. “What do you want, Garrett?”

“Just making sure you’re holding up your end.”

“I am. Anything else? I’m busy here.”

“Yeah. You said a man from the commissioner’s office stopped in to talk with you last week. What was his name?”

“Reese Anthony. Why?”

“He just left my office.”

“What!”

“Calm down. We talked about a client. Had nothing to do with the other item.”

Wenzel’s sigh was audible, “Good. He’s a former cop. He tell you that?”

Garrett stilled. “No.”

“Vice cop. Detroit.”

Bobby factored that into the mix, but decided he had more pressing issues at the moment. “We need to get together and talk about the next step.”

“There isn’t going to be a next step. Soon as my father gets back, we’re out.”

Bobby sat up angrily. “No, you’re not. I’ve got too much riding on this, and so does Bo.”

“Price is too high.”

“How much do you love your wife?”

“What?”

“I asked how much do you love your wife? Would you want something to happen to her?”

There was silence on the connection for a moment, then Matt Wenzel asked in a voice cold with suspicion, “Are you threatening me, Garrett?”

“No. I just posed two simple questions.”

“You come near my wife and I’ll drop the ball so fast you won’t know what hit you.”

He wasn’t moved. “You have your daddy call me when he gets back. I need to talk to the man of the house.”

Outraged, Wenzel growled, “Did you hear me, Garrett?”

Bobby replied by ending the call. Matt was a weak link, and if the elder Wenzel didn’t do something about it, he would.

Across town, Matt Wenzel sat fuming. His digital recorder had caught the whole conversation, but as he angrily shut off the recorder, the knowledge offered little solace. Would Garrett really harm his wife? He already knew the answer. Reaching over, he picked up the framed picture of Melissa sitting on his desk and for a few moments gazed down at her sunny smile. He had to get out, but how to do it and stay alive was now the question.

While munching on the turkey sub she was having for lunch, JT checked her e-mail and saw a message from Marquise Chambers. Wondering what he wanted, she clicked on it. The display on the monitor began to shimmy and sway. What appeared to be numerical code filled the screen. Line after line, faster and faster, moved up from bottom to the top until it seemed to be rolling at warp speed. Eyes wide, she yelled, “Carole!”

Carole was too busy yelling herself. Her screen was doing the same thing.

An hour later Misha, the young Nigerian woman who handled the agency’s tech issues, looked up from JT’s laptop and said, “You picked up a virus, JT. Pretty ugly one too. It managed to get past your firewalls and it ate everything, and I do mean everything. Files, address book, registry. Hope you’ve been backing up your stuff.”

JT nodded.

Misha gave a sigh of relief. “Carole’s virus was on her desktop and it’s spread through the office network to your desktop too.”

“So my laptop and all the computers in the office are dead.”

“Yep. Probably two different versions of the same virus.”

JT wasn’t happy. “Where’d it come from?”

“Probably that e-mail you clicked on. As for Carole’s?” She shrugged. “Hacked maybe?”

JT snatched up her phone and got Quise on the line. When he answered, she said through gritted teeth, “Hey Quise. Your e-mail wouldn’t open. What did you want?”

“I didn’t send you an e-mail.”