Relentless Pursuit (3 page)

Remy lounged back in his chair, his Nike-shod feet rode the corner of the desk as he perused the photos again.  The same way he did every night when he checked in at the beginning of his shift.  He was well aware if he didn't get results soon Captain Hilliard would pull him off Dubshenko's case and assign it to somebody else.

No way in hell was Remy letting that happen.  Too many of his friends had been hurt by Dubshenko, but with his Russian mafia connections and a fortune in illegal funds, he was untouchable.  As it was, Remy skirted around all the national alphabet guys trying to get a solid lead.  Truth was, at this point he wasn't particular who nailed the son of a bitch, just as long as he was taken off the streets.

Slapping the file down on his desk, Remy grabbed another folder out of the drawer.  He'd been riding this damn desk for way too long now.  Since being shot weeks ago helping his cousin, Connor, apprehend a whacked-out serial killer who'd kidnapped Connor's wife, Captain Hilliard had turned him into a desk jockey.  He knew the imposed paperwork detail had more to do with his being off duty and in Baton Rouge at the time the whole FUBAR situation went south than for his actually being shot.  Hell, it was barely a scratch.  He should have been back out in the field long ago instead of riding a chair.  Yet here he sat trying to solve cases sitting on his derriere.

He needed to be on the streets mingling with the crowds of people.  His brother, Max, called him a chameleon, able to blend in with the crowds and his surroundings better than anybody else he knew.  Maybe tonight Hilliard would give him a break and put him back on the streets.

Coffee.  I need coffee
.

A quick stroll to the front break area, and a cup of hot black tar soon filled his hand.  Taking a sip, Remy sighed.  Ahh.  Thick, bitter and several hours old, it still tasted like home.  A tingle ran down his spine and he frowned.  His instinct was on high alert and he shot a quick glance toward the front door of the precinct and froze, the cup halfway to his lips for that second swallow.

She was tall, long-legged and breathtakingly gorgeous.  Golden blonde hair flowed down past her shoulders, half-falling out of the upswept style which he was sure started out the day neat as a pin and perfectly coifed.  The wavy length cascaded around her, and resembled a halo surrounding a beautiful but ashen face.  His eyes skimmed down the royal blue blouse.  Which was torn and streaked with dirt and twigs.  Plus, there were mascara smudges beneath her startling sapphire eyes as though she'd been crying and wiping at them.

She was pale. Too pale.  Her eyes darted around, moving from one side of the room to the other, and Remy noted the death grip she held on the purse—gripped so tight her knuckles appeared white.  He watched her posture straighten as she took a deep breath, pushing those gorgeous breasts up and out. 
Dayam
.  Watched her as she braced herself and started forward toward the staff sergeant's desk.  She limped and favored her right side.  A quick glance downward and he noted the scratches and dirt marring her legs and bare feet. 
Bare feet?
  What the hell happened to this angel?

That same gut instinct that made him look up when she'd walked in told him he needed to talk to her.  Needed to be the one to help her.  Maybe it was that he couldn't stand to see a woman hurting.  Maybe it was seeing the sheen of unshed tears visible even from several feet away.  Maybe it was the fact she reminded him of, Theresa, his brother's wife and his dearest friend on the planet.  It might have been any or all of those things, but regardless of the reason it had Remy striding forward, intercepting her before she reached the front desk.

“Sweetheart, can I help you?”  Remy kept his voice soft, instilling concern, gentling her like a frightened kitten.  One wrong move and he knew those claws would flick out, scratching and drawing blood.  His intent gaze never left her face, reading the panic evident behind those big blue eyes.

“I…I need to report a crime.”  Her fingers fiddled with the clutch in her hands, worrying at the broken clasp, another thing he noted in his earlier perusal.  His trained, observant gaze took in her chipped nail polish.  Several of her nails were jagged and broken.  Along with the unevenly buttoned and torn blouse—scratched and bloody bare feet—she looked like she'd been drug through a bush backwards.

“I'm Detective Remy Lamoreaux.  Let's go back to my desk and you can tell me what's happened, okay?”  Motioning toward his desk at the back of the room he ushered her forward, his hand light against the small of her back, easing her onto the straight-backed, wooden chair next to his desk.  It wasn't comfortable, but then again most of the people who occupied the chair weren't stunning blondes.  Moving around her, he plopped into his own chair and gave her a reassuring smile.

“Let's start with something easy.  Can you tell me your name, sweetheart?”

“Yes, of course.  I'm Jennifer—um—Smith.”  She took a deep breath, and Remy's eye strayed once again to her breasts beneath the silky, blue material.  Hell, he was a red-blooded guy, which meant he loved breasts.  Plus, he wasn't blind, the woman was stacked.

He loved women.  All women.  Shape, size didn't matter.  The fairer sex should be treasured, cherished.  Besides, he'd have to be dead not to notice she had a great rack.  And watching her ass when she'd walked toward his desk? 
Oh, hell yeah
.

Remy reclined back in his chair maintaining his comforting smile despite her obvious lie. 
Hmm, definitely a fake name.  Won't meet my gaze.  Ms. Smith is hiding something
.

“Okay, Jennifer.  Is it alright if I call you Jennifer?”  At her barely perceptible nod he continued, “You said you wanted to report a crime.  What happened?”

“Somebody killed my brother.”  Her words broke off as a sob escaped, and her eyes filled with tears.  Remy immediately straightened.

Killed her brother?  Was she reporting a murder?

He didn't work homicide anymore, hadn't for several years.  He'd transferred over to vice when the death and carnage became too much.  Drugs, prostitution, illegal gambling, those he could deal with.  The nightmares that came from seeing man's depravity and disregard for human life, after a while, had gotten too much.  So he'd done the only thing he could to stay sane and on the right side of the badge.  He was much happier working with New Orleans' seedy underbelly.

“Killed?  What happened?”  Keeping his tone soft and calm he encouraged Jennifer to give him more facts.  If this turned out to be legit, he'd call in somebody from homicide and turn the case over to them ASAP.

“My brother sometimes crashes at my house when he's in town.  He's a long-distance truck driver, coast-to-coast, so staying with me makes more sense than keeping his own place.  Plus, he kicks in a couple bucks to help with the mortgage and expenses.”  She rubbed her fist against her right eye, smearing more black mascara beneath it.  “He called this afternoon, said he'd be in today instead of tomorrow—that he'd made good time and dropped off his haul early.  Don't make dinner plans, he said, he wanted to take me out.  He wanted to splurge and go to the French Quarter and make a night of it.”

Remy passed over a box of tissues, and she pulled one out, blotting at the tears soaking her cheeks.

“I left work and went home to get changed.  I don’t know why, but I went in through the kitchen door instead of the front door, which I'd normally do.  I heard loud voices coming from the living room.  They were arguing.”

“How many voices did you hear?”

“I heard Carlo, he's my brother, and one other voice, although there were two other people with him.”

“Did you recognize the other voice, Jennifer?”  She nodded, her head bowed.  Remy couldn't read her face with the fall of blonde hair obscuring her features.

“Whose voice did you recognize?”

“It was…”  She jumped, startled at the sudden ring of the cell phone inside the purse she held clutched in her lap, before letting out a chagrined laugh.  “Sorry.”  Remy watched all the color drain from her already pale face as she read the caller ID.  Snatching the phone from her trembling fingers, he scanned the phone, biting back a curse at the name displayed. 
Dubshenko
.

“You know Vladimir Dubshenko?”

“I've met him.  I don't really know him.”

Remy ran a hand across his face, trying to think while the cell phone kept ringing.  “Okay, go ahead and answer it—put it on speaker.  Don't tell him where you are.”

“Alright.”  Sliding her finger across the incoming call icon, she answered in a shaky voice, “Hello.”

“Jennifer, my dear, where are you?  I've been so worried.  You left so abruptly.  Carlo and I were expecting you for dinner.”  Her eyes widened at her brother's name, and Remy watched her teeth tug at her lower lip before answering.  Her eyes met his and she mouthed the words, “That's a lie.”

“Mr. Dubshenko, you know why I'm not there.  What the heck is your problem?”   Remy couldn't help but grin at her very visible shudder while talking to Dubshenko.  She was just too cute even in the midst of all this drama.

“Jennifer, what is this Mr. Dubshenko nonsense?  I've told you to call me Vladimir, my dear.  So you will be home soon, yes?”  Remy shook his head vehemently no.

“What is wrong with you?  I'm not going home, especially if you're still there, you bastard.  You shot Carlo—you killed him!”  

Remy stiffened at her words.  Dubshenko was the shooter?  Jerking free a piece of paper off his desk, half-listening to the conversation, he scrawled out a message on the blank sheet.  In large block letters he wrote: 
GET CAPTAIN HILLIARD OVER HERE NOW!
  Lifting the page up, he waved at the rookie standing in the doorway.  He held the note steady, pointing at it with his right hand.  “Now,” he mouthed.  The rookie took off at a run, and Remy turned back to Jennifer.

Snatching up another piece of paper, he scrawled across it before turning it toward Jennifer. 
Did you see Dubshenko actually shoot your brother?
Jennifer read the note, and a tear trickled down her cheek.  She mouthed, “Yes.”

There was a long pause with dead air on the phone before Dubshenko finally spoke.  “Jennifer, where are you?  I hear voices in the background.  It almost sounds like—are you at the police station?”

“Yes, I am, you son of a bitch!  I was there.  I saw what you did, and I'm going to make sure you rot in jail for the rest of your miserable life, you murdering bastard!”

“That is too bad, my dear.  You have made a very big mistake.  Perhaps you should change your mind.  There's somebody here I think you’d like to talk to.”  Muffled voices and scuffling sounds reverberated through the phone's speaker before finally a soft, weak voice came over the line.

“Jinx—don't tell the police anything.  Come home.”

“Carlo?”  The phone slid from Jennifer's fingers and Remy lunged for it, catching it before it hit the floor.  Dubshenko already knew she was at the police station, so he had nothing to lose.

“Hey, Dubshenko.”

“Well, well, is that you, Detective Lamoreaux?”  Remy could practically hear the smirk through the phone's connection.

Remy glanced up and saw Captain Hilliard stalking toward him, his imposing presence a comfort and a curse.  The man was a great captain, an excellent leader, but he was old school and did things by the book.  Most of the time that was great, and Remy had no problem following orders.  But with the captain standing beside him, he wasn't free to tell Dubshenko what he really thought of the bastard.

“Yep, Vlad, it's me.  Surprised?”

“I'm only surprised Jennifer ran to the police for such a small…misunderstanding.  As you heard, her brother is very much alive and well.”

“I heard the alive part, but as far as well, that hasn't been established yet.  How about I come over there and see for myself exactly how Carlo is?”

“And will you bring his delightful sister with you, Detective?  I do so wish to clear up this unfortunate incident.”

Remy looked at Captain Hilliard, trying to gauge his take on Dubshenko's motives.  Cap didn't have all the details, but he was good at reading situations and acting on them.  Hilliard motioned for him to keep talking.

“Unfortunate incident?  Jennifer states she witnessed her brother being shot in the chest with your gun and your finger on the trigger.  I think that's more than an 'oops my gun slipped out of my pocket, accidentally fired and hit him in the chest, don't you?”

Dubshenko laughed, “Detective, you have it all wrong.  There has not been a shooting.  Ms. Smith couldn’t possibly have seen me with a gun.  You and I both know I don't carry any weapons—don't we, Detective Lamoreaux?”  Remy gritted his teeth at the reminder of one of his overzealous failures against Dubshenko.  Another chink in the wall surrounding Dubshenko, but again he'd managed to slither right through the district attorney's hands on a technicality.  Of course, it only gave Dubshenko another opportunity to needle him—which he took advantage of every chance he got.

“Well, Vlad, her story's easy enough to verify.  Tell me where you and Carlo are, and me and a couple of the guys will be happy to come by and certify you're telling the truth, reassure our lovely witness her brother is safe and sound.  A win-win for everyone.”

Remy glanced up and saw the rookie he'd shown the note to earlier waving at him and pointing to the phone. 
Really, dude?
  He mouthed, “Take a message.”

“Of course, Detective.  I'm sure everything can be cleared up in a matter of minutes.  Carlo, my friend, tell the good detective you are okay.”

Remy waited one beat, then another, before the faint voice from earlier came over the phone.  “Um, detective, I'm fine, really.  Everything's cool.  I just need Jinx to come home and things will be good.  Tell her to come back home.”  The male on the other end of the phone didn't sound okay to Remy, not by a long shot.  Hilliard shook his head as though he, too, heard the pain underscoring the words.

“Carlo?”  Jennifer stood next to Remy, staring down at the phone on the desk top.  “I saw him shoot you.”