Cat's Paw (Veritas Book 1) (12 page)

“See how their muscles are all tightened up, the arching of their backs? They got some bad dope,” he said. “Probably laced with strychnine, which totally screws up our guess of the time of death. The stuff hastens the onset of rigor mortis and makes it end quicker.”

“You’ve seen this before?” she asked.

“Yeah. In Dallas. Some guy thought it’d be a great way to cut his stash of cocaine. Killed five people before we caught up with him. Trust me, it’s a seriously bad way to die.”

Alex leaned closer to the dead man in the suit, trying to breathe through his mouth. He waved away the flies. “I know this guy. He’s Russian. He was in Angola a year or so back.”

“So TipTop’s intel was good.”

“Looks like it.”

Careful not to leave any trace of himself behind—which was nearly impossible—Alex stepped over to the other man and lifted his head. “Ledd Marston. Small-time dealer when I went in, but he must have gone up a few rungs on the food chain if he’s handling Buryshkin’s loads.”

He shifted the dealer’s hand. Underneath was a tiny mound of white powder.

“We’ll get that tested,” Morgan said. “See if it’s tainted.”

After rolling off one of the plastic gloves, she scooped up some of the powder and sealed it inside by tying off the top. Then she stashed the glove down her bra.

“That’s not going to stop the cops if they strip search you,” Alex said.

“They’ll think twice about messing with me, since I’m a lawyer.”

Which was probably true, though there was a certain kind of cop that felt lawyers deserved all the hell they received. Alex had been that way once. Still would be if he hadn’t met Morgan.

She pushed up one of the dealer’s sleeves, then the other, revealing bruised welts in the flesh. “Ligature marks.”

Alex checked the dead Russian. “Same here. I’d say snorting this poison wasn’t their idea.”

“Clever way to execute someone.” Morgan rose to her feet. “Why leave them here? Why not haul the stiffs out to the swamp and feed them to the gators? No bodies, no cops.”

That was troubling him as well. Leaving corpses behind, which would eventually be found by the smell alone, was slipshod. Buryshkin was many things, but he was never sloppy.

“Maybe it’s a message of some kind. If that whole new load of coke is tainted . . . ”

“God, I hope not,” she said, their eyes meeting.

“Yeah. Dallas all over again.”

“It’s time to get out of here.”

Alex caught her arm right before she headed toward the door. “Let’s not go out the same way we came in, just in case someone is waiting for us.”

“Good call.”

They hoofed it across the building to the other door. Alex unlocked it, then looked at his companion. “You ready?”

“Let’s do it.”

He twisted the knob, shoved the door open, and ran, Morgan hot on his heels, her gun out. He waited for the punch of pain in his chest or head, the fire burning through him as the bullet destroyed tissue and bone.

Mercifully, it didn’t come.

They were two blocks away when Morgan phoned in what they’d found.

“I’ll call our contact at the DEA,” Sanjay said.

“Thanks. I got a sample of what looks to be cocaine. Can you arrange to have someone pick it up?”

“Sure. I’ll have Ben get in contact with you.”

“Thanks.”

“When this is over, you must come to dinner,” Sanjay said. “I’d like you to meet my girlfriend. She’s amazing.”

“What? I thought you were my guy,” she teased.

“No. Sorry. You waited too long.” He paused and added, “I’ll let Crispin know what’s going down.”

“Thanks.”

Morgan found her companion staring at something in his hand. His gloves were gone now, and she hoped he’d lost them somewhere along the way, some place the cops wouldn’t be searching. Alex handed over a book of matches with a stark, red-and-yellow logo of a pitchfork and flames. “This was in the Russian’s coat pocket.”

“Le Purgatoire,” she said. “It’s a bar near St. Ann Street.”

“How’s about we check it out? See if anyone knew the Russian suit and who he was running with before he got dead.”

She looked down at her dirty clothes, which smelled too much like the warehouse. “We gotta change, or we’ll never make it through the door.”

“Then call us a cab, lady. We’re going clubbing.”

Chapter Thirteen

Morgan stepped out of her bedroom in the safe house to find Alex lounging on the couch, staring at nothing, seemingly lost in thought. He’d showered; his hair was slightly damp, but his five o’clock shadow was still in place. It moved him from handsome to serious hunk. He’d chosen a pale-blue shirt and black slacks, and she knew that once he hit the bar, the women would be all over him. Maybe one of those women would know the dead Russian.

Alex glanced up at her, then smiled, scanning her head to toe, taking in her little black dress. The smolder in his eyes made heat rise in her cheeks. “Hot damn.”

Morgan couldn’t stop the smile. “Thank you. The black hides bloodstains really well.”

“Smokin’ hot and practical. My kind of woman,” he said, executing a double thumbs-up.

She’d opted to wear black flats, because running around in heels on New Orleans’s uneven sidewalks was crazy, something tourists often learned the hard way, one twisted or broken ankle at a time. Her small, shiny, black purse was filled with the necessities: lipstick, money, ID, and cell phone. But no gun.

Alex rose from the couch and moved closer to her. He smelled of soap and clean male. The scar on his neck was more noticeable now, and she tried hard not to stare at it.

“I like your hair this way,” he said, reaching out to touch the rhinestone clip that held it suspended above her right ear. “Makes you look . . . exotic.”

Exotic.
No one had called her that before. Suddenly, her skin felt on fire. She needed to divert him before he tried to kiss her.

“Don’t you ever shave?”

“Sometimes.” Alex ran a finger down her cheek, leaving a trail of sensation behind it. “Sometimes not.”

“Focus, Parkin.”

“You know, I’d be able to if you weren’t so damned hot.” A sexy smile twitched the corners of his mouth. “Maybe”—his voice pitched lower—“you could help me work on my . . . focus. What do you think?”

Morgan stepped back just as he moved in for the kiss. “No. Nice try. Time for you to get your mind back in the game, okay?”

“I’m trying,” he replied. “But that dress . . . ”

“It’s amazing that the male of the species has survived all these millennia. I wonder how many of you guys got picked off by saber-toothed tigers because you were too busy thinking about banging some female back at the cave.”

“Probably more of us than we’d care to admit. But look at the bright side: That never-ending sex drive means there’re always plenty of us clueless dudes around, so it all equals out.”

Morgan rolled her eyes. “You familiar with the Rule of Stupid?”

“Yeah. Don’t go to stupid places with stupid people and do stupid things.”

“There you go. Follow those rules tonight and we’ll be fine.”

“Never worked that way for me.”

*~*~*

It was pushing two in the morning, but the streets were still active. The weather had remained clear and hot, typical for a Louisiana September. Alex and Morgan headed down St. Ann Street along a collection of nightclubs. Le Purgatoire was nearby.

After Alex’s come-on at the apartment, which had bounced off her like a tennis ball against concrete, Morgan had grown quiet. Zeroed in on the mission, at the exclusion of everything else.

For some reason, that bugged him.

Challenges were his thing. He’d always pushed himself to excel—in college, at the DEA. It was in his bones. Right now, those bones wanted Morgan enough that he was willing to play the game.

She completed her call and returned the phone to her purse. “The Russian stiff in the warehouse was Dimitri Golov. He got out of Angola two months ago.”

“Huh. I couldn’t remember his name,” Alex said, shaking his head. “Grigori didn’t recruit him for his team. I know that much.”

“So how did that sales pitch work?”

“It was pretty straightforward. When a new inmate arrived, and Grigori found him of interest, he’d have one of his people chat with the newbie. Tell him how things worked inside, and that he had two options: get on board, or face prison without someone watching his back. For whatever reason, Golov didn’t sign on the dotted line.”

“But then he goes back to work for Grigori’s uncle, with no hard feelings on either side?”

Alex huffed. “That’s what confuses me. Of course, he did end up a corpse, so who knows.”

Morgan paused, searching the street in front of them as if looking for someone. “I’m going to get bumped by a young black guy in the next block or so. Don’t go all he-man on him, okay?”

But why . . .
“The hand-off?” he asked quietly.

“Yup. We keep the locations of our safe houses as secret as possible, even from those who aren’t working full time for the organization.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll stay mellow, as long as he doesn’t cop a feel. I got first dibs on that.”

Morgan didn’t reply, pursing her lips as they continued down the street. As promised, a block later a man holding a plastic cup of beer lurched into her. Alex made sure to appear surprised, but it wasn’t hard; the scene looked perfectly normal, down to the guy’s confusion and stumbled apology. To his credit, he hadn’t spilled a drop of the brew.

“No problem,” Morgan said. “No harm done.”

“Nice legs, baby,” the guy said, winking. Then he was headed south toward the river, his gait telling any onlookers that he’d had more alcohol than was wise.

“He’s good,” Alex said as they continued down the street.

“Ben’s our general New Orleans gofer. He was raised in the projects in Chicago and came here before Katrina. He knows this place better than anyone.”

“If you hadn’t told me what was going down, I’d have just figured he was a drunk.”

“He’s one helluva pickpocket. Even better, he knows how to handle himself if a cop gets too nosy.”

Alex found himself wondering what other talents Veritas’s people possessed. How many of them were there? Given Crispin Wilder’s alleged net worth, it was probably a lot.

“Club’s just up ahead. I think the best thing to do is split up and work the crowd. See if anyone knew dear dead Dimitri,” she advised.

“What, no dancing cheek to cheek?” he asked, hip-checking her.

“Hey. Behave yourself. Maybe one dance. If you find out something worthwhile.”

“You’re offering a reward if I’m a good boy?” he said, not sure if he should be amused or annoyed. “Be still my heart.”

She ignored his jesting. “Are you going to be okay in there? It’s going to be packed.”

Reality returned, causing Alex to take a deep breath. “I’ll just have to be. Too much is at stake for me to back out now.”

To his surprise, Morgan placed a kiss on his cheek. “Good hunting, Mr. White Knight.”

“Be careful, Valkyrie,” he replied.

*~*~*

Le Purgatoire was classic New Orleans, though more understated than many places, despite the neon lights. From Morgan’s previous experience, the clientele varied by the time of day: heterosexual couples in the early evening, gay and lesbian couples by midnight. By now, it’d be mostly brave tourists and the folks who didn’t color within any of the gender lines.

Which she’d failed to mention to Alex.

She couldn’t stop the grin, knowing it was petty of her, but this was payback for him making her so uneasy, making her think things could be different than they were. He’d proved to be a master at that. Not all that unease was just on her part. She’d seen the frank desire in his eyes earlier this evening. She knew the surly ex-con was still there, just beneath the surface, but now she was seeing hints of the DEA agent he’d once been. Two sides of the same coin, both of which she found far too attractive.

Focus
. It appeared she needed that as much as he did.

Like most NOLA bars, Le Purgatoire’s front double doors were open, and the music and air conditioning sought the street like an addict does another high. As she made her way inside, she found that the place was busy, but not as packed as some nights. Probably because it wasn’t the weekend.

Back when she was younger, this kind of meat market had held a certain fascination, but not now. Not when she knew the bad stuff that could go down in places like this. How easy it was for predators to use this as their hunting ground.

The anger rolled through her in the span of a heartbeat. Memories of
that
night in a different bar, one just a few streets away from this one. The handsome guy who’d lied from the moment they’d met. How smooth he’d been. The dancing. The emotional manipulation. The drink that he’d insisted she consume, the one that held the drug. If her friends hadn’t been watching over her, it would have ended in rape, or worse. All because one man didn’t understand that women weren’t his personal playthings.

That hellish experience had been the catalyst that sent her to law school, and then to work for the FBI. The cops had never arrested the man who’d drugged her—he’d crawled back into the woodwork. Nevertheless, she was paying it forward in her own way. Because there were still bastards out there who thought that anyone was theirs for the taking. For some of them, the younger the victim, the better.

“Hey, pretty dress,” a guy said.

Morgan blew out a stream of air and conjured up a smile. “Thank you.”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“No, I’m good,” she said. “You come here often?”

He shook his head. “First time. I’m in town for a software convention.”

Which was code for: “What happens in New Orleans stays in New Orleans. You game, baby?”

Time to shut this down, since he wasn’t a regular patron and most likely wouldn’t know Dimitri.

“I’m a local,” she said. “I’m a reporter doing a story on convention tourists and prostitution. Maybe you’d be willing to tell me some stories.”

The guy paled, then shook his head. “Ah, no. Sorry, gotta go.”

Morgan kept the smile to herself as she headed for the bar. Sometimes it was just so easy. It took a bit before the bartender could get to her.

“A beer, please. And open it in front of me, please.”

The girl raised an eyebrow, then nodded her understanding. “No problem.”

The beer was delivered as requested, and Morgan made sure to include an extra tip for the service. Not all bartenders took that request well.

As she turned around, she found herself hemmed in by two men, both of them probably in their forties. For a moment, she thought it was going to be awkward, but then she realized they were checking each other out.

Perfect.

Morgan scooted off to allow them to become better acquainted. She scoped out the dance floor. Couples of all descriptions were moving to the music, some male, some female, some indeterminate. New Orleans didn’t play favorites; whatever you wanted, it was happy to supply it.

She finally spied Alex, and as she’d predicted, he was attracting a lot of attention with his broad shoulders, his tan. Morgan sighed. With a body like that, they’d have to be stone-cold dead not to notice him. He flirted in response to the female attention, but she could see the tension in the way he held himself. The crowd was getting to him.

“Hang in there, guy,” she muttered.

He was chatting up a young, busty blonde. If she was a regular, maybe she’d know Dimitri. They laughed together, and she pulled him onto the dance floor, sending all the right signals. As they danced, Morgan kept her focus on Alex, how he managed to make almost everything seem like foreplay. When he caught her checking him out, he winked and pulled his partner closer, grinding against her.

Damn you.
He was just doing that to push her buttons. Morgan took a long chug of the beer to cool down.

Meanwhile, that load of coke was being divided up for distribution on the city streets. If it was laced with strychnine, the bodies would start piling up. That morbid thought pushed Morgan into action, and she worked her way around the bar, listening in on conversations. Some were in other languages, but none in Russian. She flirted with some of the guys and carefully posed some open-ended questions. None of them knew Dimitri. Finally, she hit pay dirt with a middle-aged woman nursing a pink daiquiri.

“Yes, I know him,” the lady replied. “He’s okay. Never hassles me when it comes time to pay.”

Morgan took another look at the woman. She was trying for twenty, when she was a lot closer to mid-forties. Her makeup and clothes—what there were of the latter—spoke of desperation and too many years walking the street. She’d probably been pretty when she was younger, but those years were rapidly fading in the rearview mirror.

“I’m hoping to find him,” Morgan said. “Dimitri said he knew someone who could get me a job.”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Not likely. Last time I saw him, he was drunk off his ass, and that’s saying a lot for a Russian. Something to do with boss problems.”

“Did he hang with anyone else here?” Morgan asked, putting a hint of urgency in her voice. “Maybe they’d know what he was talking about.”

“Only the redhead. She’s Russian too. But you don’t want to mess with her. She’s nasty. Cut you just for the fun of it.” The woman glanced around, fear in her eyes now. “People who work for her go missing.”

Now we’re getting somewhere.
“Oh. What’s her name, so I can steer clear of her?”

“Anya. That’s all I know. All I want to know. She’s nothing but trouble. If Dimitri was afraid of her . . . ” The prostitute shook her head and walked away, her radar quickly narrowing in on a couple of guys with name badges. Conventioneers. Always easy pickings.

“Anya,” Morgan murmured.
Oh God, it couldn’t be.

Alex reined in his frustration. The blonde he’d danced with hadn’t been helpful. She’d had a fight with her boyfriend and was looking to pick someone up for a revenge screw. He’d quickly backed off and continued to make the rounds. The only good thing had been the look on Morgan’s face when he’d been dancing. The barely concealed jealousy. At least he was finally making progress on that front.

The crowd was pressing in on him now, and he needed to escape. He glanced around the bar but couldn’t see Morgan. He was aiming for the front door when a redhead stepped in front of him. She smiled up at him with perfect teeth, then ran a finger under his collar as if they were intimately acquainted.