The Right Kind of Trouble (14 page)

“I ain't got a fucking dealer!” The words burst out of him in a panic. “Just get a hold of Marshall, okay? He'll tell you.”

The agents shared a look, and then the blonde started in on him. She was even more brutal than her partner, so brutal, Clive couldn't even appreciate the fact that she had one of the nicest sets of tits he'd seen in a long time and a pair of legs that looked like they'd wrap around a man and give him the ride of his life.

She could also make a man sweat, but not in a good way.

Within twenty minutes, he was ready to beg. “Please,” he pleaded. “I live in McKay's Treasure. The people there, they know me. I just drove in to sell some stuff … I just found that bag
here
. In the city. I'll tell you where. The
only
stuff that I brought in was in the knapsack you took from me. No drugs in it, right?”

The blonde pursed her lips, and he seized on that faint pause. It was a sign, right?

“See! That's proof.” He pointed a triumphant finger at nothing in particular. “No drugs on me. Just the drugs in that girl's bag.”

“But there is no girl,” the agent said, smiling gently. “
You
have the bag.”

*   *   *

The two agents left the sniveling mess that was Clive Owings in the interrogation room and left, both for a breath of fresh air and some coffee. Clive was most decidedly
not
up with basic hygiene. He also didn't seem to be too big on brains, but it wouldn't be the first time somebody had played the idiot convincingly.

“There's no way this is our guy.”

The woman from the park, Agent Marina Carter, pursed her lips as she studied the man through the window. She was trained to notice things. And she'd noticed him as he dropped down on the bench just down from hers. But she hadn't noticed just how closely he'd been watching her. She never would have taken him for the man they'd been trying to stake out.

But he'd taken the bag, just as they'd arranged.

She'd been working this op for seven months, closing in on one dealer after another, moving up the chain and now … Sighing, she looked over at the other two agents. “Can we at least check his story? I don't think it's him either, but I don't want to risk it.”

“We'll call up this guy in…” Agent Bryan Daniels flipped out his notebook and checked the name again. He frowned and slid his partner a look. “McKay's Treasure? What the fuck kind of name is that for a town?”

“Yankee.” His partner clucked her tongue. Agent Kim Wycoff folded her arms over her chest and studied the man on the other side of the glass. “I think just about everybody south of Tennessee knows about the McKays. And quite a few people north.”

“Yankee.” Marina grinned at her. “That's the only explanation.”

“Hey.” Bryan glanced up. “I've heard the name
McKay
. They own a bunch of shit.”

“A bunch of shit. That sums it up. Including most of a damn town.” Kim shrugged. “There's a whole story that goes back to the Civil War, or earlier. I can't remember. Anyway, this guy comes over from Scotland, the first McKay—name was Patrick McKay. I was born in Mississippi so I've heard a fair amount about him. He used to hunt river pirates, then one of his friends turned on him and he was falsely imprisoned and executed. He was a rich son of a bitch. Married, had a couple of kids. Another friend, a guy named Steele, stepped up and helped his wife out, ended up marrying her. The McKay family is practically a dynasty now. The town was named after him a few years after he died. McKay's Treasure.”

Bryan rolled his eyes. “Weird.”

“I've always liked the story.” Marina glanced over at Kim, smiled a little. “It's … bittersweet, I guess.”

“Yeah.” Kim looked sad. “Could have lived if he would have sacrificed his honor, but he was the kind of man who lived by his word to the bitter end. Anyway … I know Marshall, sort of. Had a few run-ins when he worked in Memphis. He's a solid cop. I'll shoot him a call.” Kim paused and sighed. “Man, I hope he can give us a reason to push this prick. Maybe he was sent to be a go-between or something.”

Bryan rubbed the back of his neck, still staring at the man on the other side of the glass. “I think I'm going to go talk to the pawn shop owner again. If he does this sort of thing often, then the guy probably knows him. If we're barking up the wrong tree, I'd rather know now.”

He paused and looked down at all the stuff they'd taken off the man and shook his head, disgusted. “We need to make sure we get this all logged as evidence.” He picked up a camera and hit the power button, but it was dead. The watch still ticked, and one look at the maker told him the watch was worth well over a thousand new. There was also some small electronics, including two iPods and a phone. “Tell you what, though. No way this shit was his. Asshole out there is already complaining about getting this stuff back. Think we can still track down the owners?”

*   *   *

“Chief?”

His assistant caught sight of him on the phone and winced. Gideon held up a hand. “Just a second—Zeke, now … come on, Zeke. I've taken care of two tickets for you. The least you can do is hear me out. Yeah, yeah … just a second, okay?”

He shot Darby a look. “Make it fast.”

“I'm sorry.” She nodded at the phone on his desk. “You've got a Kim Wycoff on the phone. She … ah, she says she's with the DEA. Calling about something regarding Clive.”

“Clive Owings?” Gideon felt his eyebrows shoot straight up into his hairline. He resisted the urge to shove a hand through his hair—and rip a fistful out. “What did … wait. You know what? Unless it's an emergency, Clive can wait. The asshole probably got himself in trouble again and I'm not dropping what I'm doing for him.”

“And if it's an emergency?” Darby asked, looking panicked at the idea of telling a DEA agent
no
.

“Then I'll talk to her.” He went to hit the mute button on the phone, but paused a moment. “Relax. I know Wycoff. She's a reasonable sort. Tell her that as long as she keeps Clive watered and he has a toilet and access to meals, he'll be happy enough. Or at least, he won't complain too much.”

She nodded and he turned his attention back to Zeke.

He was on a mission, damn it, and he wasn't about to be denied.

This time, he wouldn't take no for an answer.

*   *   *

When he hung up the phone fifteen minutes later, all but blue in the face from talking to a wall, he had to admit defeat.

Zeke wasn't going to sell him the damn dogs.

Although, to be clear, it wasn't Gideon Zeke had a problem with.

It was the McKays.

Gideon was pretty damn sure Brannon and Zeke hadn't ever tangled. He would have heard about it. Brannon and Zeke would either get along or they'd hate each other, but one way or another, he'd know. It wasn't very likely Zeke would come into contact with Moira, and Neve had been gone.

You're fixating on this to keep from thinking about her,
he told himself.

And it was nothing more than the truth.

But he was also pissed off and irritated and more than a little confused. Zeke was a businessman. Didn't make sense why he wouldn't sell some of his dogs, especially to some people who'd pay a damn pretty penny for them.

*   *   *

The alarm system was problematic, to say the least.

Knowing the McKays as he did—and knowing the brains behind the system, he knew he wouldn't be able to count on getting inside easily, especially not if he wanted to get in and out without anybody being the wiser.

But there were other ways to get to them. Other ways to weaken and tear at them from the inside out.

He didn't just want them
broken
after all. He wanted them to suffer.

Especially the oldest two. Moira for her arrogance, and Brannon … well, there were no words to describe just how many ways he wanted Brannon to suffer and no way to list how many
reasons
the man
should
suffer.

Neve … well, if she'd just stayed out of Treasure, he'd have left her alone. Just having her gone from here had been a chink in their armor, an invisible weak link that the other two would never acknowledge.

Pointing William Clyde at the youngest McKay after he'd “accidentally” bumped into her in New York had been a stroke of genius. He'd thought about moving on her himself, but she'd been a bit young for his taste and he'd had no desire to wait for her to mature.

He hadn't been able to do anything for the longest time. Frozen by the circumstances, and his own lack of resources, he'd had been forced to watch and wait.

When he had finally been able to take action, Neve had been the one he'd come across first and he'd considered it kismet. She'd been young, naïve, and desperate for approval—also, very, very drunk. That should have made it easy to get what he wanted from her, but when he'd pushed and prodded, she'd just giggled about how she used to dig for treasure around the estate.

Then she'd started to cry. Poor little thing—her family didn't understand her and nobody loved her. Then she'd begun to whine about a rejection from some stupid modeling agency.

If he'd had to spend a few more minutes with her, he might have put a hole in his head.

But he needed her out of the way.

She was … clever.

Sober, she might have been his undoing.

In between sobs and sniffles, she'd peered at him, blinking those big, green eyes. “You…” She'd pointed a finger at him. “Your face. It reminds me of … somefin … something. Somebody. Yeah. Somebody.”

He hadn't had to wonder who.

One of the few things that hadn't been sold off or destroyed was locked away, and he had seen the resemblance himself. He wondered how she'd known, but he knew he needed her
gone
.

Later, he'd learn just how much it made them all suffer, and that was just a bonus. He'd pointed William Clyde her way, knowing the man had always loved a pretty girl and a pretty,
naïve,
and
needy
girl was even better for the miserable prick.

The stupid prat would have been drawn to Neve no matter what, but once he knew the pretty, naïve girl had a connection to a man he'd hated, William had been done for and it was just a matter of sitting back and watching them collide.

Really, he'd outdone himself there.

He hadn't expected what came later, though.

Personally, he'd found it distasteful but he knew it was yet one more thing that would make them suffer. They
should
suffer.

He wanted them to suffer until they broke, and then he'd make his move.

The next step on his plan was subtle. Brilliant, but subtle. Brannon had provided the financing for the old goat who bought the bookstore and he was part owner—a
silent
owner, perhaps, but his name was on the deed too, and that meant only one thing.

The bookstore, and anybody associated with it, was fair game.

He'd waited until she left, watched from a window in the back as she stroked a hand down a stack of books, a smile on her creased face.

Once the old woman who ran the place had left, locking the front door and walking purposefully down the sidewalk, he went in through the window he'd unlocked when he went into the store earlier.

He'd gone in during the midday rush. McKay's Treasure was a town full of readers, and he knew just how very busy it was on a Tuesday. He'd bided his time and waited until the bathroom in the back wasn't busy and then he'd slipped in.

Nobody had noticed him move quietly to the back window, just as nobody had noticed him flipping the latch open.

Nobody had noticed him checking for cameras, either.

He'd mentally thanked the old lady who owned the store for wanting to keep the all money given for the renovations focused on the merchandise and design. She hadn't invested anything in security and Brannon, being a clueless sod, hadn't paid any attention at all to her plans.

He'd pay attention now.

Nothing burned quite like paper.

And no paper burned as well as
old
paper.

Treasure New & Old
carried all the latest in bestsellers and regional and genre fiction, but they also did a bustling business in used books. Those used books filled the backroom like miniature paper columns, reaching up into the sky.

He worked in utter silence, the wind drifting in from the window he'd left partially open, bringing with it the scent of more rain.

He was good at rigging up fires.

He'd done it before, after all.

That was when they'd thrown him out of university. He disagreed on the why, of course. The fire he'd started hadn't been a big deal. They'd thrown him out because the bastards had been fools, incapable of seeing the light of reason, and they'd decided they didn't like some young upstart who was smarter than themselves.

He'd dealt with their lot before.

Actually, he'd dealt with them
after
, too. And that was the most fun.

He checked the time before looking up to study his chain, carefully constructed from old bits of cloth and paper, soaked with a light accelerant that wouldn't leave a heavy smell. It could be detected, of course, but only if they brought in an arson investigator.

The pièce de résistance … he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket and lit one, puffing on it enough to make it look like it had been hurriedly smoked and then disposed of.

Everybody knew Mrs. Stafford, daughter of the original owner, was a closet smoker and everybody knew she'd been trying desperately to quit ever since her son-in-law had been diagnosed with lung cancer a few months ago.