Cat's Paw (Veritas Book 1) (3 page)

“Just admit it, Alex. You got caught and you did the time. Now use your head and don’t do something that stupid again.”

His anger roiled. “You know, you’re right. I’ll find a job and get out of your life. Because if my own sister doesn’t believe in my innocence, why the fuck bother at all?”

“It’s not my fault,” she said. “Never was.”

“Not mine, either,” he shot back.

Miri shook her head, like he was just being stubborn. “I have to leave for work in a bit. There’s some food in the refrigerator. There’s only one bed, so . . . ”

“I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“No, you sleep on the floor. That’s where I put my mattress. People like to shoot through the windows around here, so it’s best you’re not up high. If they find out you used to work for the DEA . . . ”

Time to change the subject
. “How are you getting to work?”

“A friend’s picking me up. She’ll bring me home, too. It’ll be late. It’s Shanita’s birthday, so we’re going for drinks after work.”

Alex nodded his approval of that plan. He couldn’t stand to have her walking around these streets alone.

Miri dropped a set of keys on the kitchen table. “If you could get my tire fixed, that’d be good. Shanita can’t drive me tomorrow.”

“I’ll take care of it.” At least he could do that much.

“Oh, and if you see Mr. Toes . . . ” She paused. “He’s my cat. If he shows up at the door, feed him. His food is under the sink.”

“I can do that, too. What kind is he?”

Some of the frost fell away. “Calico,” she said with a faint smile. “He’s got six toes and he’s really cool. You’ll like him.”

Maybe the cat was the way into Miri’s heart. He’d find out soon enough.

Alex parked himself next to his plastic bag on the couch, his legs feeling like they couldn’t hold him up any longer. He remained there while his sister dressed for work. When she exited her bedroom in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, he frowned.

“Don’t you have to wear a uniform or something?”

“I change at work. It’s easier that way,” she said as she dropped some money by the keys, probably for the tire.

He dug in the bag for his new phone, found the number in the package, and gave it to her. “You call me if you need a way home tonight, you hear?”

“You don’t have a driver’s license.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he replied. “Keeping you safe does.”

She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. “I am glad you’re home.”

His heart beat double. That was exactly what he’d been dying to hear.

Miri had always looked like their mother, at least before their mom started doing drugs. His sister was blessed with fine features, dark eyes, and a lithe build. “You’ve turned out to be a really pretty girl,” he said.

“Yeah, I hear that all the time when some guy is trying to grab my ass or my breasts.”

“So how many have you shot so far?” he said, trying to lighten the moment.

It worked, as Miri grinned. “I’m tempted, but I need my job.”

“I can teach you a couple self-defense moves to make those assholes back off.”

“Really?” she asked, interested now.

“Yup. I learned a few in the joint. They’re the kind that will bring serious pain, but not the kind that will likely get you fired.”

Or thrown in solitary.

Miri cocked her head, then nodded as if his peace offering was appreciated. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

A car honked outside. When she reached the door, Miri flipped the lock, then hesitated. She turned back to him and a weary smile came to her face, erasing a year or two. “Stay out of trouble, okay?”

“I will.”

Alex locked the door behind her, plugged in his new phone to charge, and stretched out on the couch, ignoring her warning about sleeping on the floor. If he hadn’t died in prison, he sure as hell wasn’t going to die in the real world.

*~*~*

When Miri ducked inside the late-model Ford, her friend Shanita smiled at her. The twenty-five-year-old blonde was the tallest of the cocktail waitresses at the Down and Dirty Bar, topping out at six-one. Add three more inches for her heels and she was an Amazon.

Miri was shorter and a bit bustier, which played well with the horny tourists who visited the French Quarter watering hole. She’d never understood it, but something about coming to New Orleans meant they left their good sense and morals back home. The cheap booze did nothing to help the situation.

Still, the money Miri made in tips more than compensated for the grabby hands. Or at least she told herself that. She hadn’t let Alex in on the fact that she wasn’t at the restaurant anymore, because he’d just go Older Brother on her and insist she quit. She was too close to having enough money to move to give that up.

As if tapping into her thoughts, Shanita said, “This neighborhood sucks. Tell me you’re going to move in with me . . . like, tomorrow.”

“Soon. I’ve almost got the money together.”

“You don’t have to have all of it.”

“I know, but I want to have enough that I don’t have to worry.”

“Okay, it’s your thing. Let me know when moving day is, and make it soon.” Shanita headed down the street and turned the corner. “Your bro get home?”

Miri usually didn’t tell anyone that Alex was in prison, but she needed someone to talk to and Shanita wasn’t judgmental. Not when her own father had served time.

“Yeah,” she replied. “He just got home. He had to hitch a ride because of the tire thing.” She sighed. “He looks old, Shanita. I mean, he’s older than me anyway, but it’s even more than that now.”

“Hard time does that. My daddy came home looking bad.”

“Well, Alex looks healthy, but it’s what I see in his eyes.” Miri shook her head. “Of course, I got in his face right off. Rather than hugging him and saying I was so scared I’d never see him again, I went total bitch.”

Her friend sighed. “Love will do that to you. Tell him tonight. Don’t let him think you don’t care.”

Miri blinked back tears. “I do love him, but he keeps insisting he had nothing to do with that cocaine. Why can’t he just admit he screwed up?”

“Was he always on the right side before he was busted?”

Miri nodded. “Totally straight arrow.”

“Then maybe he wasn’t good for it.”

“But if someone set him up, that means . . . who did it? His ex-wife? His partner at the DEA? Who? Because it sure as hell wasn’t me.”

Shanita quirked an eyebrow. “If your brother was really doing his job, not just phoning it in, he’d have a lot of people who’d want to take him down. What better way than planting coke and busting him for possession? Five years out of circulation, easy.”

Today, when Miri had seen Alex’s face, seen how prison had changed him, her certainty of his guilt had begun to develop cracks, like a piece of flood-damaged concrete. It’d been easy to lay all the guilt on him for the hell she’d faced while he was gone. Now, she wasn’t sure if that was still possible.

“I’ll wait and see,” she said. “If he stays clean, then I know they screwed him over.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

Miri frowned. “Then he’d better be dead, because if not, I’ll kill him myself.”

Chapter Five

Alex stirred from the couch, too keyed up to sleep, and began to explore the dinky house. He wasn’t surprised to find roach traps everywhere—a nod to the bugs he’d always thought large enough to be Louisiana’s state bird. Given that the duplex next door was empty, he could well imagine there’d be a problem.

Miri hadn’t been lying about having her mattress on the floor, and even then, she’d made up the bed covers. The bathroom was small and tidy. He put the toilet to use, pointedly reminding himself to put down the seat. Out of curiosity, he popped open the medicine cabinet and found the usual things: bandages, razors, makeup . . . and condoms.

He sighed. Once again the passage of time bitch-slapped him—his baby sister was now a young woman who had sex. At least she was being sensible about it. There was only one toothbrush, which meant if she had a boyfriend, he didn’t do sleepovers. Not that he would while Alex was here. No guy—unless he was a goddamn saint—was good enough for Miri. Even a saint was going to find it rough sailing.

A stack of file boxes in one corner of the bedroom caught his interest because they had his name written on them in black marker. He pulled one down and opened it, discovering the contents of his desk at the DEA: pens, blank notepad, his Dallas Cowboys coffee cup, which now had a chip in it, and all his citations from the agency. It was as if someone had created a time capsule and dumped it in this box.

Alex sat on the floor and shuffled through it, acid brewing in his stomach. That last morning had gone well—he’d just delivered a report on his undercover work, and he’d gotten a big break that brought his investigation one step closer to busting Buryshkin’s organization.

Then Alicia had called, frantic. His partner Dennis was at their house, executing a search warrant. Even before Alex could leave for home, he’d been arrested for cocaine possession. A small bag of it had been found in his home office.

He would always remember the shock, the anger, the click of the handcuffs as they closed on his wrists. His outrage and embarrassment during the perp walk past his astonished coworkers on his way to jail.

That dark suspicion rose once again, the one he’d nursed over the years. The one that tore him apart every time he thought about it. Only a few people had access to his home office, to the locked desk drawer where the coke had been found. Had it been Alicia, or his former partner? The man he’d trusted, only to find out he’d been shagging Alicia all along. Had they worked together to land him in jail?

Or had it been someone else? Someone like the Russians.

After all these years he still didn’t have the answer, but Veritas claimed it did. Was selling his soul to them worth the truth?

No
.

Alex kept digging through the box, hoping to find something to counteract the agony of the past. Instead, he found the picture of him and Alicia, the one that had sat on his desk at work. He’d been so proud of it: their wedding photograph, taken that hot summer day in Austin at Horseshoe Falls Ranch. She was beautiful, always had been, a honey blonde with bright eyes and a quick smile. A woman whose rich daddy ran her life and who had cracked Alex’s heart in two like a hammer blow to a walnut.

“Why did you do it?” he asked, as if the photograph could answer.

Why had she cheated on him with Dennis? That had been a bitter enough betrayal, and then, the instant it looked like Alex was headed for prison, she’d divorced him, all because her father had told her to. No “stand by your man” for that woman. Just to twist the knife, she hadn’t even bothered to stay with ol’ Dennis. It was as if his buddy had been a convenient escape route, a handy parachute out of the smoking airplane of a marriage.

Alex hurled the photo and its metal frame across the room, hearing the glass shatter. He swore his heart did the same.

“Why the hell would you do that to me?” He’d always been faithful to Alicia, even when undercover and presented with the opportunity to get a little on the side. Lord knows, there’d been plenty of offers.

Alex leaned his head back against the wall, heart pounding and fists clenched. God, he wanted revenge. Wanted it for all those lost years. There’d been so many times he’d fantasized about that, how easy it would be. One bullet in the forehead, one in the chest. First Dennis, then her.
Bang. Bang.

Revenge would be so sweet, but he knew it would destroy what was left of his and Miri’s lives. The lovers’ deaths wouldn’t make one damned difference. He’d get the death penalty and Miri would be alone. With all Alex had lost, he wasn’t willing to sacrifice any more.

Old Russ had asked the right question: What is the price you’re willing to pay? In prison, he would have said “anything.” Now? Now it wasn’t so cut and dried.

With a long sigh, Alex closed the box, rose, and set it by the bedroom door near the broken glass. There was nothing in there he wanted. That was the old Alex.

He moved the other boxes onto the floor, only to discover a door hidden behind them, which apparently led to the abandoned unit next door. He turned the knob, and found the lock busted. That gave him the creeps. The sooner he got his sister out of this house, the better.

Inside the other boxes he found clothes, books, and a few of his favorite CDs. Somehow his old life hadn’t entirely vanished, and he had his sister to thank for that. It appeared that Miri’s harsh words weren’t equal to her actions; she could have easily ditched all this crap, and he never would have known. Instead she’d kept it for him.

“Love you, Monkey,” he murmured. “Even if you think you’re too old for me to call you that.”

After restacking the remaining boxes, he swept up the broken glass, ripped up the wedding picture, and tossed it in the trash where it belonged. The wastebasket was nearly full, so he headed outside to find the garbage can where it sat near the back fence, battered and grimy. As he drew near, he could see the flies boiling out of the lid, which was ajar. The stench hit him ten feet away, and he stopped in his tracks.

That wasn’t garbage. That was something dead.

He edged closer and shifted the lid, then dropped it, gagging. In the midst of the garbage was a calico cat, painted with flies.
Mr. Toes.

Only when Alex covered his nose and mouth to step closer did he find the note, scrawled on a piece of lined notepaper.

NOWHERE TO HIDE

*~*~*

The Hotel St. Sebastian was in the French Quarter, one of those true New Orleans beauties that had survived hurricanes, floods, and decades of dirty politics. Morgan’s boss sat in an overstuffed armchair near one of the windows, a position she thought was inviting trouble. Though Veritas’s home office was in Chicago, whenever the boss was in town he stayed here, and his enemies knew it. The Russians would love nothing more than to take this guy out, and yet, he made no effort to conceal himself.

Doesn’t he realize how important he is to us?

As if he’d heard her thoughts, Crispin Wilder’s attention rose from the tablet in his lap, his distinctive dark-gray eyes troubled. At present, he was wearing a black T-shirt and a pair of jeans, totally at odds with the elegant room around them.

It was actually a suite of rooms named after a famous author, decorated with crown molding, still-life paintings, a glittering chandelier, and comforting sage-green walls. The floors were wood, highly polished, a thick rug denoting the center of the room. A white fireplace was built into the far wall, and in a nearby hallway, an orchid bloomed on a carved table. The space spoke of tranquility, a sanctuary in a city known for glittery excess.

Morgan shifted on the sofa. As she waited, she noted that Crispin’s beard had been trimmed, closely cropped. It revealed a few gray hairs. His long, dark-brown hair was graying at the temples as well, not unusual for someone in his forties. Caught in a ponytail at the nape of his neck, it made him ruggedly handsome. Both of his hands had a series of small scars in no discernible pattern.

She’d heard a lot of rumors about how those scars had come to be, but no one knew the real story. At one time Crispin had not served the forces of good, but had been a ruthless gunrunner supplying weapons of war to greedy despots across the planet. The kind of weapons needed to decimate whole villages or countries, sometimes in the name of God, but most times in the name of the Almighty Dollar.

Something had happened along the way, something that had changed Crispin Wilder forever. No one really knew the whole tale, and the man wouldn’t speak of it. All Morgan knew was that he’d abruptly quit the arms business and vanished, only to resurface a year later, the head of Veritas. His vast fortune helped fund their activities, cultivating those nefarious and legitimate contacts he’d made across the globe.

Except this time he was peddling justice, not arms.

When Morgan shifted on the sofa again, her boss noticed.

“I did ask you to come see me, and now I’m ignoring you. That’s rude,” Crispin said, closing the tablet.

“That’s okay. This is about Parkin, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “Had any second thoughts since you met him?”

Morgan cut to the chase, now that she’d had time to reflect on the situation.

“I think we can still get him on board, but you really need to send someone else after him. He’s not listening to me.”

Crispin nodded, leaning back and crossing his arms. A tattoo peeked out from the right sleeve of his T-shirt. Morgan couldn’t make out what it was, and she wasn’t going to ask. Her superior was open about some matters and totally closed on others, and you never knew where a topic fell on that scale.

“Buryshkin’s shipment arrived last night,” he said. “Cocaine. Street value in the millions.”

“God,” she murmured. “It never ends.”

“My source says they will start moving the coke in a few days, but he has no idea where they’re storing it in the meantime. He’s trying to discover that, but I urged him to use caution.”

Morgan sighed in resignation. “I’m sorry. I let Parkin push every one of my buttons.”

One of her boss’s eyebrows rose. “I’m surprised. Usually
you’re
the one who does the button pushing.”

“I don’t know what was wrong with me,” she admitted.

“Maybe your timing was off. Our ex-DEA agent might be a lot more receptive later tonight or tomorrow. Make another run at him. If you find Parkin’s still playing games, turn him over to the Iceman. If Neil can’t convince him, then we’ll cut our losses. I have a couple of other options, but neither is as good as the ex-con. Revenge is a very powerful motivator.”

Morgan felt her breathing falter. That was a little too close to home. Buryshkin had destroyed her life, killed her husband and her career. Revenge was all she had left.

“I’ll give it another try.”

Which meant that, once again, she’d have to look at that face, see those eyes and the history behind them. Though she’d never admit it to her boss, Alex Parkin unnerved her on too many levels.

Crispin pulled a sheet of paper from under the notebook and handed it to her. “Just so you’re not duplicating efforts, here’s a list of locations we’ve already cleared. The coke isn’t at any of these. Work your contacts, see what you hear on the streets.”

She scanned the addresses. “I’ve got a couple folks who might know something—with the proper monetary incentive.”

“If you do find the dope, call our contact at the DEA and let them conduct the bust. Only deal with
her
, not anyone else, you understand?”

Morgan nodded. The majority of the agents were clean, but a few couldn’t be trusted. They’d found the lure of the drug lord’s money too tempting.

“When you talk to Parkin again, push his weak spot—his sister.”

She grimaced. “He’ll hate us if I go there.”

“Better that he hates us than he or Ms. Parkin ending up dead.”

Crispin had a point. Veritas played hardball when needed, but there were certain lines they never crossed. Hurting some guy’s sister just to get him to work for them was one of those. The Russians wouldn’t recognize a line if they tripped over one.

As Morgan left the suite, her boss placed a call on his cell phone and began speaking in Dutch. He did it effortlessly, switching from one language to another like it was as simple as taking a breath.

As she quietly closed the door behind her, for some reason Parkin’s dark eyes came to mind. It was time to let him know just how bad it could get if he didn’t pull his head out of his ass. Because no matter what, the Russians were either going to recruit him . . . or kill him.

*~*~*

Shaken by the discovery of his sister’s pet, Alex retreated into the house. How was he going to tell Miri her cat’s throat had been cut? She’d hate him for that. Was this a warning to him that Miri was next if he didn’t fall in line?

He knew what she’d say: Life was fine until you came home. Which wasn’t the truth, not when she owned a gun to keep punks from breaking into her house and hurting her. Still, she wouldn’t see it that way. Once again, somebody was playing God with their lives. But who had done it? One of Buryshkin’s people? Or the babe in the Beemer?

Maybe he and his sister should just bail, take off for Texas in the morning. Anywhere but New Orleans. They could start over where no one knew them.

But what if whoever had left the threat tracked them down, caught his sister alone . . .

Someone knocked on the front door, at first a light tap, then growing stronger. He flipped the locks and flung open the door to find Morgan Blake on the doorstep. Veritas’s mouthpiece had no idea that her timing was perfect. It was time to start lighting fires under these people and see who screamed first.

“I got your message,” he said, glaring. “And you can just fuck off.”

“What message?” she replied, looking confused.

“You know what I’m talking about. Don’t play stupid.”

“No, I don’t know what you’re—”

“Let me show you, then.” He grabbed her arm and towed her through the house, ignoring her protests.

“What are we doing?” she demanded as he marched her out the back door.