Deadly Justice (7 page)

“We don't know, but I've called in a crime scene unit.  They'll look at everything.  You stated that Mr. Mitchell is out of town?  Would he have returned without letting you know?”

Andrea almost snorted at the question but caught herself in time.  “Mr. Mitchell is away with his…friend.  I seriously doubt he'd drop everything to rush back to the office on a Friday morning unless there's an emergency.  And if there was any kind of emergency, he'd have contacted me before he ever darkened the doors.” 

“Okay.  The crime scene team will be here any minute, so if you'd prefer to go to the station now…”

“Ms. Kirkland's coming with me.  I'll ensure she cooperates fully with the department.”  Carpenter took her hand and placed it in the crook of his elbow, a gallant gentlemanly move, yet it sent a clear message of possession to the officers.

“Understood.  Thank you for your cooperation.”  The officers walked back into Mitchell's office.

Carpenter turned to face her.  “Let's get your purse and get out of here.  I think we could both use some coffee.” 

Andrea grabbed her purse, slid the strap over her shoulder, and picked up the laptop case.   With a final look around the room, she closed her eyes briefly and shook her head, wondering what the hell was going on and how deeply involved Mitchell was this time.  She'd pulled his ass out of the fire one too many times—had he gotten in over his head so far that it cost him his life? 

Carpenter's firm hand slid against the small of her back, urging her forward, and they headed for the elevator and away from the scene of the crime.

R
ichard Webster wasn't a patient man, and waiting didn't sit well with him.  He was methodical and planned every aspect of his personal and professional life down to the last detail.  Having to wait on someone else's timetable wasn't something he did lightly, but he hired people for their expertise in areas where he needed perfection.  That included putting pressure on a subordinate.  While he didn't mind getting his hands dirty, he preferred letting somebody else do the wet work.

“Boss, we got a problem.”

“What?”  He barked out, his voice unusually gruff due to his allergies.  He really hated the damned bayous with all the airborne crap that blew through them.  The pollens they produced played havoc with his sinuses and he seemed to live with raging headaches and congestion.  He couldn't wait to leave New Orleans and all this misery behind once and for all. 

“Mitchell wasn't there.”

“Damn it, why can't that little weasel be where he's supposed to be?  He's become a liability at this point.”  He drummed his fingers on the arm of the executive chair he reclined in behind a massive walnut desk. 

“I left a message he can't mistake.”  The other man's tone had him straightening in the chair.

“What did you do?” 
Please tell me this idiot didn't do something stupid.

“Trashed his office.  Made it look like a robbery gone wrong.  Tore up the file cabinets, overturned furniture, stuff like that.  He should get the message.”

Webster pinched the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb.  It had been a petty move on his employee's part, but might do the trick.  Mitchell had been getting a little too big for his britches lately, and needed to be taken down a peg. 

“Do you have any idea where he is?” 

“Not a clue.  The fat chick that works for him didn't have anything on her desk calendar saying where he was.  He was supposed to be at some charity event last night, but he never showed.  I checked his condo, and he wasn't there either.”

“Hmm.  Maybe he'll get the message.  I'd hate to have to threaten him…”

“Uh, boss, I kinda left a threat behind.” 

Mitchell jerked to a stand, the chair rolling back with the rapid movement.  “What did you say?”

“When I tore up the office, I might have left some blood behind—in the bathroom.” 

“Your blood?”  Was he suddenly dealing with a bunch of incompetent idiots?  The last thing he needed was DNA that might be linked back to him somehow.  First Mitchell stealing from him, and now this?

“No, no!  I had some pig's blood in the car.  Got it and splattered some around the bathroom, broke the mirror.  Made it look like something out of a horror movie, a real grizzly scene.”

Webster pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it before putting it back to his ear.  “I really don't want to know why you had pig's blood with you.  But it sounds like it will send an effective message.”  He paused and the silence was nearly deafening.  He clenched and unclenched his fist twice before talking. 

“However, do not ever do something like this again without checking with me first.  Otherwise, next time the blood won't belong to a pig.  Are we clear?”  While he spoke softly, the menace beneath his words screamed louder than any verbal shout.

“Uh, yes sir, boss.  I understand.” 

“Good.  Now keep watch.  Have Simpkins monitor the police dispatch, because they will be called as soon as Ms. Kirkland goes into the office.” 

“Yes, sir.  Is there anything else I can do?”  The voice had a pleading whine and Webster's lips quirked up at the corners.  Ah, yes, he loved the power he had over others.  He'd handpicked Lenny Gomez because he'd known from the first he'd be malleable, manipulated into doing whatever needed doing with the minimum of fuss.  Pay him enough money and you bought his loyalty.  Ask him to put a bullet between somebody's eyes, Lenny wouldn't hesitate.  The only problem was Lenny tended to improvise, and it looked like that might be a problem. 

Webster didn't like problems.  He liked order and rules.  He didn't like chaos. 

First things first, though.  He needed to find Mitchell and deal with the man keeping his mouth shut.  In the beginning, their arrangement progressed profitably for all concerned.  Lately, Mitchell had begun indulging in their imports a little too freely, which was a mistake.  And Webster wouldn't tolerate mistakes.  They arose from bad planning and a lack of control, two things he wouldn't tolerate. 

Mitchell had now moved up on his agenda as one more problem that needed to be resolved.  Then he'd finalize the details of the coup of his career, his final hurrah before retiring permanently. 

There was just one loose end that needed snipping and his name was Samuel Carpenter.  He thought he'd dealt with the sorry bastard three years ago in Brownsville, but Sammy was his one true failure.  The lone black mark tarnishing his otherwise pristine record. 

He should have died on the dirty concrete floor of the storage unit along with the rest of his team, but Sammy proved stronger than he'd anticipated.  Still, with all the evidence he'd planted to frame him, the man ought to be rotting in prison. 

Carpenter had fooled everybody in the DEA, working under an assumed name.  Damn, if he'd known how stinking rich Sammy was, along with his family connections, he'd have done a lot of things differently.  Hell, the man had inherited billions, had the kind of money Webster could only dream of, and he was still walking around free, and searching for him in a misguided vendetta. 

He was a thorn in Webster's side, always one step behind, nipping at his heels like a bloody terrier, yapping about bringing him down.

Nobody ever got the best of Richard Webster.  After this final job, he'd be out of reach of the United States government, ruling his own private South Seas kingdom.  Nothing and nobody was going to prevent him from achieving his lifelong dream. 

That included Samuel Carpenter. 

C
arpenter pulled the SUV into one of the garage bays and the door rolled silently closed behind it.  Andrea sat beside him.  A fine tremor still coursed through her.  He could see the slight trembling of her hands as she rubbed them against her upper arms.  The shock of finding all that blood in Mitchell's bathroom seemed to be finally sinking in.  Her paleness bothered him though, making her appear like a fragile porcelain doll. 

“Where are we?” 

“My place,” he answered, walking around the car to open her door.   She gracefully stood and looked around, taking in the five-car space with wide eyes.  Each slot was occupied with a different vehicle, all black.  Hey, he was a guy.  He liked black. 

With his hand on the small of her back, he guided her through the door, past the mud room and into the kitchen.  An elegantly appointed space and a chef's dream, he rarely used any of the top-of-the-line appliances.  Cooking for one never appealed, so he usually made do by eating out or bringing home take out when his housekeeper slash resident busybody had the day off. 

Andrea's fingers glided softly along the dark cherry cabinets lining the walls.  He watched her unhurried steps as she walked around the huge center island with its marble countertop, and wondered what she thought of the space.  Sunlight poured through the bay window above a large stainless steel double sink, and her hand reached for one of the little pots containing a variety of fresh herbs, basking in the sunlight, raising it to her nose and inhaling.  He couldn't have named one to save his life, but Ms. Willie insisted on using the freshest ingredients, and he liked pampering her whenever he could.  She'd been with his family for years, and he joked he'd inherited her when he'd moved out on his own.  Indulging her seemed the least he could do, and it made him happy. 

Stainless steel appliances gleamed without a hint of fingerprints, buffed and polished to perfection.  He watched Andrea take it all in, wondered if she liked it—truthfully, he never paid much attention—it was just there when he needed to eat. 

“This is stunning.”  Her fingertips ran across the cool marble and she smiled up at him.  “Makes my apartment kitchen seem like ghetto chic.” 

“I didn't have a lot to do with it.  Ms. Willie worked with the interior designer, and I let her pick whatever she wanted.”  He glanced around, wondering where his trusty housekeeper was.  Usually she'd be bustling around the place, leaving him little snacks and treats, which he rarely had time for.  They usually ended up at the office, where his men gobbled them down like manna from heaven.

“Mr. Samuel, what are you doing home at this hour?” 

And there she is
.  His smile when he spotted her coming in through the laundry room door quickly morphed into a frown. 

“What were you doing in there?”  Ms. Willie had sprained her back a few weeks earlier, and he'd forbidden her from lifting anything heavier than a teacup. 

“Pfft.  Don't be telling me my business, boy.  I was washing a load of kitchen towels.  Now mind your manners and introduce me to this sweet girl.”  Her words were accompanied with a smile.  He didn't take offense at her familiarity; he was used to her directness.

“Wilhelmina McDaniels, this is Andrea Kirkland.  She had a bit of a scare this morning, so I brought her around for some of your famous herbal tea.” 

“Oh, you poor dear.  Are you alright?”  She bustled over, immediately pulled Andrea to her bosom, and patted her back.  Ms. Willie would be the mother figure she needed, treat her like she was one of her own little chicks. 

“Hello, Ms. McDaniels.  I'm fine.”  Andrea's voice sounded muffled against Ms. Willie's hug.  He was used to those hugs, but Ms. Willie was the only one who could get away with it.  He'd never been much of a touchy-feely kind of guy, but she was like a second mother to him and he humored her and her public displays of affection. 

“Well, obviously you're not fine or my boy wouldn't have brought you here.  Now you sit down right there.”  She pointed to one of the bar stools in front of the enormous marble island, “And I'll get you fixed right up.” 

Andrea sent him a helpless look before allowing Ms. Willie to hustle her onto a seat at the counter.  Within seconds, the tea kettle was on one of the gas burners and Ms. Willie was bustling around the kitchen, gathering cups and the cream and sugar bowl.  He preferred a good solid mug in his big hands, but he was glad she made the extra effort for Andrea.  Not that he was trying to impress her or anything.

“Now you drink this right down, Ms. Andrea.”  Ms. Willie pressed the teacup into her hand, and Carpenter gave her a smile of thanks.  She winked before getting a plate of cookies and setting it in front of them.  Darn it, she knew he had a sweet tooth, and he narrowed his eyes, trying to give her a glare for tempting him, though it didn't seem to bother her.  She chuckled and placed two of them on Andrea's saucer.  Then she crossed her arms across her massive bosom and waited, giving him the evil eye. 

With a resigned sigh, he picked one up, stuffed half of it in his mouth in one bite then rolled his eyes heavenward as the taste exploded on his tongue.  Chocolate and coconut mingled within the golden brown cookie, and he was doomed.

“Evil, evil woman.”  He lifted three more off the plate.  “I'm going to weigh four hundred pounds if you keep this up.”

“I'm not worried,” Ms. Willie shot back, her soft drawl sounding cheerful.  “I've seen your workout room.  Those calories will be gone before nightfall.”

“These are amazing.”  Andrea took another sip of her tea and moaned in pleasure.  Carpenter's stomach clenched and his body hardened in response to the sound.  He imagined her making that sound while he was buried deep inside her body, and felt his own tighten.

“Can you tell me what happened to upset Ms. Andrea, or is it one of those top secret things you're always working on?” 

There wasn't any reason not to tell her.  It would probably be all over the media within hours anyway.  Something happening to Lawrence Mitchell was big news. 

“When Andrea got to work this morning, her office was ransacked.  She found blood in the bathroom of her boss's office.  The police are trying to contact him now.”  Carpenter knew his words would be more than enough to get Ms. Willie straight into surrogate mother mode, coddling Andrea all over again.  And they were.

“Oh sweetie, you must have been terrified.”  Andrea's face was smashed against Ms. Willie's bosom again before she'd had time to catch a breath.  He smiled.  Meeting Ms. Willie was a unique experience under normal circumstances.  If she decided to take you under her wing, there was no stopping her.  She was a bit like a freight train headed downhill with no brakes.