Standoff, page 14
Now to see what was on the memory cards he’d taken from Marlar’s camera bag.
A few minutes later, he turned the computer on, his muscles tense as he waited for it to boot up. The first card had nothing but sunsets, birds, flowers. He replaced it with a second one and leaned forward. Family photos. This third card better be it, or he’d killed a man for nothing.
He stilled his jiggling legs as a time-stamped shot of the Emerald Mound sign appeared. Pay dirt. Air whooshed from his lungs. He quickly scanned the images that ended with the one he’d jerked out of Marlar’s grasp.
“Joke’s on you . . . not the only pictures . . . copies . . .”
His muscles tensed again. He might have the digital photos, but the printed copies were somewhere, just waiting to ambush him.
34
Once Luke cleaned up, he grabbed his other gun and drove downtown. By the time he parked, he’d psyched himself up for the meeting with Boudreaux, getting himself in the right mindset—indignant, angry. But first he had to make sure Boudreaux was in the same room.
The clerk on duty looked to be about eighteen so maybe he was in luck tonight. “I stayed in room 212 last night,” he said, “and I think I left my computer bag in the room when I checked out.”
The kid typed into the computer and then frowned. “You couldn’t have stayed in that room. The people in it checked in two days ago. But I can check and see what room you were in, although I don’t think the housekeeper turned in anything. What’s your name?”
“Tony Jones.” The deception rolled off his tongue. Just then the hotel phone rang and the kid held up his hand. “Let me get this.”
“No problem. I’ll be at the bar.” Instead of the bar, he disappeared around the corner where he took the elevator to the second floor and tapped sharply on the door at the end of the hall. It opened a crack, and he recognized Robert Wilson from the night before. Luke pushed past him.
“Hey! What are you doing?”
Luke scanned the room. “Where’s Boudreaux?”
“What’s it to you?” Wilson sniffed the air. “Smells like a stinkin’ narc in here.”
In one fluid movement, Luke shoved him against the wall and at the same time yanked the Glock from the holster against his back. “Those words can get you killed,” he said, putting the pistol to Wilson’s head.
“You sayin’ you didn’t bust me a couple of years ago on cocaine charges?”
Luke shook his head. “Don’t know who you think arrested you, but it wasn’t me. When was this supposed to have happened?”
“Five years ago. Up around Nashville.”
He thought fast. The information on the web had Luke working at a bar in San Francisco during that time. “I was in California five years ago.”
“Prove it.” Boudreaux’s steely voice came from behind him. “And put the gun away.”
Luke froze. He hadn’t heard the drug boss come into the room.
Wilson’s bravado returned. “And get your hands off me.”
Luke released his hold on Wilson and turned to face Boudreaux. “I don’t know that I can prove it. I was working at a bar and the owners could be dead by now.”
“What was the name of the bar?”
“Red Horse Saloon.”
Boudreaux nodded to a man who materialized from the shadows. Slight and ordinary, he was the kind of person who went unnoticed in a gathering. With his phone pressed to his ear, he stepped out onto the balcony. Tension mounted as the seconds ticked off. Luke didn’t want to overplay his hand and forced himself to relax. What if Boudreaux’s man called the wrong place? As far as Luke knew, there was no “real” Red Horse Saloon in San Francisco. The number listed on the website dialed straight into an undercover call service.
“How long did you work there?” Boudreaux asked.
Luke pulled his attention back to the drug kingpin. “A year, maybe longer. San Francisco is a party town and recollection of my time there is kind of blurred.”
The balcony door opened and the man returned to the room. He gave Boudreaux a slight nod then whispered something in his ear. Boudreaux raised an eyebrow and turned to Luke. “What’d they call you at this bar?”
Luke startled, and then he forced a chuckle. “I hadn’t thought about that in years. Grasshopper.” Which was the code for warning him his cover had possibly been blown. Sweat formed between his shoulder blades. Leave or . . . he decided to push it. “What’s up with this? I’ve been dealing with your man Sonny for four months now. I thought we’d established, if not trust, a certain respect for each other.”
“I didn’t get where I am by trusting people. I catch somebody lying to me . . . let’s say the alligators in the bayous around here will have a good meal.”
The coldness in Boudreaux’s voice didn’t compare to the coldness in his black eyes. Then, like a light switching on, the lines in his face relaxed, and he slapped Luke on the shoulder. “You’re crazy, you know? You could have been shot, walking in here like you did. But I like to see a man with guts.” He motioned him to sit in one of the lounge chairs by the sofa. “Grasshopper, huh? From that old kung fu show I watch in reruns?”
“Yeah. Back in my San Francisco days, I liked to spout Chinese proverbs. Some old guy at the bar found out I was studying judo and started calling me Grasshopper, and it stuck.”
“So, you’re pretty good at judo?”
“Black belt.” He didn’t mention he’d mastered tae kwon do as well. “Why did you send someone to shoot at me and my girlfriend and run us off the road?”
“Who said I did?”
Luke tented his fingers. He didn’t deny it. That upped the likelihood that it had been Boudreaux who ordered the hit on him tonight. “The woman in the car with me—I don’t want her hurt.”
He didn’t look away from the man’s steady gaze.
“What did the man who was shot at Fort Rosalie tell her?”
Luke’s insides froze. How did Boudreaux know that Brooke had found Kyle Marlar or that he’d told her anything? “Were you there?”
“I have spies everywhere. Don’t ever forget that. So . . . ?”
Luke consciously kept his hands from fisting and his poker face in place. “She hasn’t remembered anything important. Is Marlar’s death connected to her father’s murder?”
“You ask a lot of questions,” Boudreaux said, “but I heard the ranger’s death was a suicide.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear. And I like to know the people I’m doing business with, the things they’re involved in. Besides, she’s investigating Marlar’s death. I can funnel information as I learn it . . . if that’s important to you.”
“All information is important. Life is like a row of dominoes—one topples and it affects all the others.”
“So you are responsible for Marlar’s death. Why?”
“Never said that. I don’t have to be responsible to want the information. My question is, why do you want to know?”
Luke untented his fingers and brushed his hand along the rough tweed of the chair arm. “Kyle Marlar was kind to me once. I’m curious about who killed him and why.”
“Curiosity has killed a lot of nosy people,” Boudreaux said.
“Granted. If you killed Marlar, you had to have a reason, and I’d like to know what it is.”
Boudreaux studied his fingernails and then raised his gaze to Luke. “The last time we talked, you got samples of heroin for your customers. How’d they like ’em?”
If he knew who killed Marlar, he wasn’t going to discuss it. Luke’s only chance of learning anything about the murders was to hang around and hope someone let information slip. “They were impressed.”
“Would you like more, maybe a little something for yourself?”
It was an offer he couldn’t refuse. “How much are you talking about?”
Boudreaux turned his head. “Louis, the box, please.”
So that was his name. He produced a small box and handed it to the drug dealer. “How many?” Boudreaux asked.
“A couple of bags will be good.” Luke paid the amount quoted, and then he stood to leave. “I’ll be in touch.” At the door, he paused. “Next time you have doubts about me, come to me first,” he said with a glance at Wilson, who stood near the door. “And, if I get picked up by local law enforcement, is there anyone who can help me out?”
Boudreaux didn’t blink. “Don’t get picked up.”
It’d been worth a try. Now he’d have to discover who the crooked cops were the old-fashioned way.
35
Once he was alone in the elevator, Luke released a long breath. The risk had paid off. So why did he feel like he had a bull’s-eye on his back as he walked through the lobby? Because he was dealing with a bona fide psycho. He crossed the street to his car, then bypassed it and climbed to the top of the River Walk, where a breeze cooled his face and adrenaline-hyped body.
Two hundred feet below, the glassy waters of the Mississippi River belied the swift current that flowed on to New Orleans. Not unlike the current that coursed through his veins. He focused on the outward calm of the river, and bit by bit tension eased from his body. For the first time, he noticed the sweet fragrance of the white crepe myrtles all around him. He glanced south to the bridge that connected Mississippi and Louisiana where even this time of night, lights snaked across to Vidalia, Louisiana.
He shifted his gaze back to the Mississippi. The river had been here for thousands of years and would remain thousands more. It was permanent, and the One who had created it was bigger than he was. Right now he needed that reminder. He wasn’t in this drug thing alone. For whatever reason, God had given him the ability to become a chameleon, to infiltrate organizations like Boudreaux’s.
Laughter floated up from the casino below, and he turned from the river. He checked his watch. Daylight would be here before he knew it, and Luke would like to get at least an hour or two of sleep. He hurried to his car just as a maroon pickup slowed to turn onto the casino road and quickly disappeared down the hill. Clayton Bradshaw? Seemed a little late for him to be hitting the casino.
Luke hesitated, then decided sleep was highly overrated. He jogged down the hill to the casino to see what the ranger was up to. When he stepped through the doors, it was almost like stepping inside a kaleidoscope. Overlaying all the color was a cacophony of sounds. Bells tinkled their robotic music with electronic beeps and clangs, and occasionally a snatch of music reminded Luke of a merry-go-round. His gaze slid to the slots, where no one said a word as they lasered in on the spinning symbols. He scanned the room. Clayton had bypassed the slots for the blackjack games in the middle.
Luke stood off to one side, keeping out of the skinny ranger’s line of sight. He didn’t know a lot about him other than what he’d read on his employment record. At forty he looked older, with gray sprinkling his dark hair and worry lines in his face, but then, fifteen years as a law enforcement ranger could age a person, especially if he happened to be skirting the law.
Clayton placed what looked like three C-notes on the table. The dealer raked the money in and handed him a stack of chips. Luke studied the ranger’s movements—his total focus on the table as the dealer kept a running patter, the way Clayton held his breath waiting for the next card. His thin body emanated tension even when he won, which wasn’t often. If he had a gambling problem, and it looked like he did, the cartel could possibly own him body and soul.
It didn’t take long for his chips to run out, and he leaned close to the dealer and said something. The dealer shook his head. Luke stepped back as Clayton wheeled around and made a beeline for the ATM, but the machine spat his card out immediately. His shoulders slumped, and for a second, Luke thought he was going to kick the machine. The ranger swung around, and their gazes collided. Clayton was the first to speak.
“Fereday? What are you doing here?” he asked. “Haven’t you had enough excitement for one night?”
“Couldn’t sleep. Came down to the River Walk and found myself here. Can I buy you a drink, coffee, maybe?”
He hesitated. “Sure. I’m too wound to sleep too.”
They walked to the almost empty bar, where Luke ordered two black coffees. “You come here often?” Luke asked, taking one of the stools.
Clayton took the barstool next to Luke. “Couple of times a week. Win more than I lose, and it helps me wind down.”
It wouldn’t help Luke. The bartender set their cups in front of them along with a couple of creamers and sugar. “Bad thing, what happened to John Danvers and now Kyle Marlar,” Luke said.
“Yeah. They both were good men.” The ranger sipped his coffee and set the cup down. “I wouldn’t have a job like this in the first place if it hadn’t been for Kyle. He set me on the straight and narrow. And John, he made me the ranger I am today.”
“Were you at Emerald Mound after John died?”
“It was my night off.” Clayton motioned to the bartender. “Could I have a shot of whiskey here?” When it arrived he poured the amber liquid into his coffee.
“You don’t have to work tomorrow, or rather today?”
“Yeah, but it’ll be worn off by the time I have to show up.” He took a long sip and set his cup down. “What happened on the Trace?”
“Deer.”
Clayton nodded his understanding.
“How’d you find out?”
“Gary. He said something about another car.” Clayton cocked his head. “I’m surprised the driver didn’t stop and help.”
Was he fishing? “I was too. But it turned out all right.” He lifted his empty cup to signal the bartender. After he refilled it, Luke said, “I can’t get Marlar off my mind. Never found someone shot before.”
“I’ve encountered a few. Not a good thing.” Clayton shot him a sidelong glance. “Why were you at the fort? I heard what you told Dale, but you don’t seem the type who would be interested in meteors.”
Luke forced a laugh. “Truth be told, I’m not. I thought it might impress Brooke.”
“Forget that. Looks like she and Jeremy Steele have something going.” Clayton studied Luke. “What’ve you been doing since you left Natchez?”
“A little of this, little of that. Currently working as a bartender.”
“In Jackson,” Clayton said and polished off his whiskey-laced coffee. “That’s a long way from the Army Rangers.”
“And a lot more freedom,” Luke said.
“I get what you’re saying.” He climbed off the barstool. “See you around.”
After Clayton left, Luke paid for their coffees. He hadn’t learned much more about Clayton other than he seemed to know a lot about Luke’s life. But it shouldn’t be too hard to find out if he’d been telling the truth about his winnings. Luke put that on his mental to-do list.
36
Luke switched off the lights in his grandmother’s living room and stood to the side of the window, peering through the parted curtain. When he’d parked in Daisy’s drive, the Danverses’ house had been dark, and no light had come on while he dug the bullet from Brooke’s dashboard. Hopefully Brooke was still sleeping. Luke fingered the envelope with the bullet. He would get it to Steve later this morning.
His thoughts drifted back to Brooke. While the security system John Danvers installed was top of the line, Luke still didn’t like that she was alone. He’d walked around the house, looking for easy access, and was satisfied that anyone trying to gain entry through the windows would have a hard time since they were high off the ground. He also reminded himself Brooke had been trained at Glynco.
He let the curtain fall back into place and checked the Glock tucked between his back and his belt. Luke needed sleep, but he had a report to write. Tonight had turned out much differently than he’d planned. And not just with Kyle’s murder. The image of Brooke’s eyes softening when she caught him watching her would not go away. The air between them had been electric. The magic was still there.
Not good, Fereday. He rubbed his palm on the side of his pants leg. He needed distance from her. No. She needed distance from him. She didn’t need a man with his kind of baggage.
A board creaked, and Luke jerked his head toward the kitchen. Another creak. It hadn’t been his imagination.
Someone was in the house.
Luke went on instant alert, shifting to the balls of his feet as he drew his gun. He eased to the door and then to the small hallway that held a pantry before opening up into a spacious room.
Noiselessly he swung the door open. Half the kitchen was visible. Light from the street filtered in through the windows, creating shadows where anyone could hide. To his left another board creaked.
Luke felt for the switch and flipped it, flooding the room with light as he whipped around the corner, his gun ready. “Put your hands up!”
“Just calm down.” The voice came from the corner of the kitchen.
“Steve?”
What was his supervisor doing here? Then Luke saw the other two men—DEA Agent Mark Delaney, who looked more like an NFL tackle than an undercover agent, and Hugh Cortland, who looked exactly like what he was—an FBI agent.
Even as his heart rate slowed to normal, a bad feeling settled in his stomach. He’d expected Cortland to show up in Natchez, but there was only one reason an operative from the Drug Enforcement Agency would be in his house. Luke was jeopardizing his case.
“You could have gotten yourself killed,” Luke muttered, holstering his gun. “How did you get in?”
“If I told you all my secrets,” Delaney said, “I’d have to kill you.”
That joke was old ten years ago. Luke moved the bags of heroin from his pocket to the table as the three men pulled out chairs and sat down. “Nothing like making yourself at home,” Luke said, nodding at Steve and Hugh. “Why are you here?”
“We needed a meeting,” Steve replied. “Sit down.”
“You could’ve warned me.” He remained standing, his feet planted.
