Complicity in Heels (2 page)

Nikki realized the limousine had gradually diverted from her original destination to an area that she’d once been familiar with but now barely recognized.

Dominion East, a rundown corridor in downtown Parkbridge, had been revived with an overabundance of commercial establishments. Dilapidated buildings had given way to new affordable housing, while parking garages and sidewalks had seemingly sprouted up overnight to support the increase in consumer foot traffic. Gone were the properties with for sale signs, vacant burned-out structures, and other decrepit sites. The steady flow of redevelopment dollars, along with the local government’s judicious use of eminent domain, had transformed the economically depressed area into a thriving Mecca.

Nikki felt strange; so much had changed since she’d been gone. Adjusting would be awkward, maybe even difficult.

“Excuse me,” she said, in an effort to gain the driver’s attention. “Didn’t I say Paris Oaks?”

“Yes, Ms. Frank, you did. But…” The chauffeur adjusted the rearview mirror to avoid eye contact with her.

Nikki tilted her head to the side to compensate. “But what? You’re not familiar with the city?”

He shook his head. “No, I can assure you—”

“Willard is doing exactly what I asked him to do,” Spence said, activating the partition switch once again for privacy.

The limo turned onto North Hill, sped past two yellow lights, then merged with traffic on Columbia Heights.

“Look,” Nikki said, directing her attention back to Spence. “Drop me off at Paris Oaks, like I asked.”

Spence’s mouth broke into a devilish smirk. “In due time.”

The 300C slowed to a crawl as it approached a gated driveway that Nikki recognized as the entrance to the Compound. Disappointed, she shook her head. A sensor on the gate detected the vehicle’s presence and alerted the groundskeeper, who flipped a switch to give the limo free passage.

“This isn’t funny, Spence. It’s been three and a half years, and I’d really like to go see my brother. Sooner rather than later.”

“Hey, we’re all family here. Besides, the crew’s inside.” Spence made a welcoming gesture with his hands. “They’re anxious to see you. Wouldn’t it be rude not to stop by on the day of your release and say hi?”

Nikki was incredulous. “What? You’ve gotta be kidding me. Where was all this goodwill when I was up at Shaw? Funny how we’re family when it’s convenient for you.”

The limo picked up speed for about hundred yards then came to a stop. “We’re here,” Willard announced.

“Please, just fifteen minutes, Nikki. That’s all I’m asking. Then I’ll have Willard drop you off at Paris Oaks to visit Marty.”

Nikki grabbed hold of her thrift-store clothing. “Fifteen minutes, not a second more.”

Spence smiled.

“Damn you!” she said, hurling them in his direction.

The abrupt reaction caught Spence off guard. He gathered the clothes and set them aside. “Nikki, Nikki, Nikki, always the consummate professional.”

Willard opened the passenger door, breaking up the scene. “Ms. Frank,” he called out, extending his arm to help her out of the limo.

Nikki grabbed his hand and moved to exit the vehicle. “Well, Spence, from one professional to another, don’t think this makes us even. It’ll take more than a limo ride and gifts to make restitution.”
A lot more
, she thought.

Spence didn’t reply. Nikki grinned as she exited the Chrysler.

CHAPTER TWO

V
ictor Patrone sat in a corner booth at the Urban Spoon Diner. He was a rakish man, with a long, clean-shaven face and tar-black hair swept down over his forehead. His back to the wall, he scanned the room for possible threats. Two came to mind: the heavyset guy leaning on the counter and the young man with a high and tight coming out of the restroom. Both caught his attention for different reasons. The considerable size of the guy at the counter made him a poor choice to engage in a physical altercation with, and the buzz cut on the young one clearly marked him as military. Who knew what kind of special skill set he possessed? If something went down, he calculated, the best weapons of choice would be the glass ketchup bottle in front of him or the steak knife on the dirty plate a table over. Victor preferred not to use the Beretta 9mm concealed beneath his Canali suit jacket if he didn’t have to. It was an option of last resort, especially in a public place. With all this in mind, he completed his scan. The remaining patrons, as far as he could tell, posed no danger. Their empty hands and blank faces, mixed with the monotonous drone of idle conversation, further confirmed that no one was out to get him.

Victor’s afternoon appointment was running late. Ten minutes already had passed, during which time he’d assessed the room, placed an order, and taken a leak. The diner was packed with its lunchtime crowd. The fifties decor, with its red-and-white checkerboard floor and vintage jukebox, provided an ambience of an era long past.

“Grilled portabella mushroom on wheat?” the waitress asked, confirming Victor’s order.

“Yes,” he replied.

She placed the food on the table and handed him some napkins. “All right then, here you go.”

He paused for a moment to read her name tag: Jennifer.

“Thank you, Jennifer.”

“My pleasure. If you need anything else, be sure to let me know.” The twenty-something waitress handed Victor his bill and moved on to the next table.

Victor kept his eyes on her rear end.
Great ass
, he thought.
Definitely worth exploring.
A smile spread across his face, vivid carnal acts already having transpired in his head.

Just off to the side, a middle-aged man with ash-brown hair and a Chevron mustache stood watching. His off-the-rack, navy-blue suit was somewhat too big for his wiry frame. “She’s young enough to be your daughter,” he said, interrupting Victor’s train of thought. “Or mine for that matter. Put your tongue back in your mouth, and let’s get down to business.”

Victor turned his head to the left. “Have a seat, Bosky.”

“
Lieutenant
Bosky,” he corrected, before sliding into the booth.

“That’s right. The precinct recently promoted you based on performance,” Victor mocked. “You should be a little more cordial. After all, if it weren’t for the inside information I’ve been providing, your stellar performance wouldn’t be so stellar.”

A disdainful look etched across Bosky’s oval face, making his curved chin appear pointed. “Let’s not pretend you’re doing me any favors, Patrone. Everybody involved knows this is quid pro quo work. The Lascano cartel sets aside ten to fifteen percent of product just for confiscation, then tips us off about shipments in the local area. The other eighty-five to ninety percent flies under the radar to meet street demand, and we still look good in the eye of the general public. Win-win.”

Victor smirked. “It’s a dirty game. Be careful who you mess with and who you don’t.”

Bosky held out his hand. “You have something for me?”

Victor took a bite of his sandwich. The roasted peppers and pesto sent a tidal wave of flavor throughout his mouth. “First things first.”

“All right, I’m listening.” The police officer propped his elbows up on the table and steepled his fingers.

“Well, as you know, quarterly collections are coming up. Quinn wants you to ensure that your patrol officers focus most of their attention on the Southside Locos and away from us. Our street-level crews need the harassment-free time.”

Bosky raised an eyebrow. “Southside Locos, huh?”

Victor took another bite of his sandwich. “That’s right. Might as well knock out the main competition while we’re at it, wouldn’t you agree?”

“A dealer is a dealer, regardless of crew, as long as I get paid,” Bosky said with a shrug.

Victor put down his sandwich, removed a prepaid Visa card from inside his jacket, then slid it across the table toward the officer. “Would it have killed you to have that suit tailored properly?”

Bosky grabbed the card and examined it. “What’s this?”

“Payment, twenty-first-century style,” Victor replied. “Large white envelopes stuffed with cash are a relic of the past.”

“Well, I’m a traditionalist,” Bosky stated in a tone of sarcasm.

Victor picked up his sandwich again. “Go ahead. Call the eight-hundred number on the back.”

Bosky pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number. An automated teller answered the call. “Please enter the sixteen digit number that appears on the front of your prepaid card.” He punched in the sequence of numbers. “Your available balance is eight thousand dollars and zero cents.”

Bosky hung up the phone. “What’s going on here, Patrone?” Victor looked up from his sandwich. “The fee Quinn and I negotiated,” the lieutenant continued, “was ten thousand. By my count, you’re two grand short.”

Victor’s blank expression revealed little. “About that…well, seems like there’s been a restructuring of the payroll system.”

Bosky’s eyes narrowed. “Restructuring?”

“Yes,” Victor said, leaning back into the booth and wiping his mouth with a napkin. “From now on, twenty percent of all your proceeds belong to me.”

Bosky laughed. “You can’t be serious.”

“Dead serious.”

“We’ll see,” Bosky protested. “Wait till I get a hold of Quinn and let him know the side action you’re trying to muscle for yourself. My daughter’s tuition is due at the end of the month, and you’re pissing away my time with games.”

“Daughter? Weren’t you mumbling something about daughters a few moments ago when you walked in?”

Bosky stood. “Yeah, so?”

“If I recall, you expressed disapproval over my leering at the hot, young waitress over there behind the counter.”

“That’s right.”

Victor could tell Bosky was getting frustrated. Most cops loved to conduct interrogations, but relatively few wanted to sit through one. “In my opinion, that whole incident was just a grandiose display of a paternal instinct to protect.”

“Clearly something you know nothing about. Get to the point, Patrone, before I lose interest.”

Victor placed a white envelope in the center of the Formica table. “Sit down.” Bosky eased back into the booth. Once he was seated, Victor continued. “I have a client in the amateur porn business. He consistently purchases a lot of product for parties, location shoots, and other venues. I’ve gotten to know him well.”

“Isn’t that special,” interrupted the officer. “Scum associating with scum.”

Victor ignored the comment. “John’s always scouting for new talent. Believe it or not, college campuses have been his premier hunting grounds. The more prestigious the institution, the more prospects available for recruitment. Something about ‘the more intellectually stimulated the mind becomes, the more liberation is expressed through the body.’
His
words, not mine. I believe your daughter is a sophomore at Vanderbilt this year, correct?”

Bosky hesitated to answer; his mind was taking a moment to connect the dots. “You bastard.”

“Relax, Lieutenant. It’s not as bad as it seems,” Victor reassured him. “We’re at ground zero here, so it’s still possible to avert disaster. Apparently, Ashley met one of John’s associates at a frat party. They hit it off well, and she posed for a few photos for him a couple of weeks later. Now, under normal circumstances, the way the scheme plays out is that the associate uses the photos he already has in his possession to emotionally blackmail the coed into more and more risqué behavior. Before you know it, another strung-out porn star is born.”

Bosky gritted his teeth. “Those the photos?” He pointed to the envelope.

“Yes. Go ahead. Take a look.”

The officer grabbed the envelope, took a deep breath, and opened it.

“I took the liberty of having strategic areas blurred out,” Victor said. “I might not be a father, but I do have a sense of decency.”

Bosky shook his head while flipping through several bare-breasted photos of his daughter in provocative poses. “I can’t believe this. How do I know these weren’t Photoshopped?”

Victor shrugged. “You don’t. But do you really want to take that kinda chance with your daughter? The question you should be asking is whether or not Ashley is susceptible to emotional blackmail.”

The stunned look on Bosky’s face told Victor that he was hitting close to home.

“Given your background in law enforcement,” Victor continued, “I suspect there weren’t a lot of Kodak moments on the home front. So I’m gonna say your answer to my offer is an emphatic yes. Here’s the deal: I’ll intercede on your behalf in exchange for twenty percent of all future proceeds. This guy John is in hock to me for a brick of cocaine. You pay, I lean, and Ashley continues to live a peaceful existence at Vanderbilt.”

“And if I don’t comply?”

Victor leaned back in the booth. “That won’t happen. I’m counting on your natural instinct to protect your daughter to keep you in check.”

Bosky didn’t press for any further details.

“And just in case you’re wondering,
Why me?
” Victor added. “Well, why not you? You’ve just been promoted to lieutenant, and you’ve got your police pension. As far as I’m concerned, everything else, which includes your service to us, is gravy. Just be thankful I’m not taking you for a helluva lot more.”

Bosky stuffed the envelope inside his jacket. “Fair enough, Patrone, but just remember, the careless shepherd makes an excellent dinner for the wolf”

Victor laughed. “And who’s the wolf?”

“That remains to be seen,” Bosky said, standing. “Life has a funny way of working things out.”

“Whatever,” Victor said with a roll of his eyes. “Just make sure the cops put pressure on the Southside Locos and my men are free and clear to do what we’ve got to do.”

Bosky acknowledged the directive with a nod then left the diner.

Victor leaned forward to finish his iced tea.
Shepherds and wolves
, he thought.
Yet another reason to retire to a nice island in the South Pacific. Sheesh, the characters I have to put up with.

He reached into his wallet and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. He placed it on the table, wrote his phone number on it, then slid it underneath his plate. He eased out of the booth then headed out of the diner.
She’ll call in a day or two. They always do.

Out on the street, he pulled out his cell phone and hit speed dial. The phone rang several times before a woman answered.

“Hello,” a familiar voice said.

“Hey, girl, can you meet me in my suite at the Chateau Regency later today?”

“Sure thing. What’s up?”

“Not much. I’m just really wound up and need to relax.”

“Oh, poor baby. I’ll see what I can do,” the woman said. “How’s an hour sound?”

“Make it two. I got one more thing to take care of.”

“Two it is.

“I look forward to seeing you,” Victor said.

“I know,” the woman cooed. “Keep bringin’ the cash, and you’ll have a generous supply of ass.”

The line went dead.