Where Evil Waits (15 page)

“What makes you think there’s anything here worth hearing?”

Luke stopped, frowning at her. She really didn’t get it yet. “Andrew was a regular here, every Thursday,” he said. “This is where he was the night he died.”

A
CHILL WASHED THROUGH
K
ARA.
Andrew, a member of The Parthenon? She couldn’t even identify the emotion seeping into her veins… fury, indignation, shame.

Maybe plain old pain.

Anger willed out and Varón’s fingers brushed down her spine. “Easy, lover,” he said, piloting her up the cobbled walkway. “You’re supposed to enjoy being with me.”

Kara couldn’t even muster a smart-ass response. She was too deep in the surreal experience of walking into an exclusive
club
where her late husband had committed acts of felony with a drug cartel. And here she was, posing as Luke Varón’s escort while police searched the lake behind her house for her body and no doubt tried to connect her to Penny Wolff’s disappearance.

She could hardly think past the insanity of it all.

Varón escorted her through the front entrance, tipping greetings to staff, and Kara looked around. The foyer was straight from
Gone with the Wind.
She skimmed the crown molding, expecting surveillance cameras, but didn’t see any. She glanced at the giant ferns sprawling
on pedestal stands and imagined tiny microphones in the foliage.

Varón bent his head. “There aren’t any,” he said, reading her mind. “That’s one of the rules.”

Of course it was.
What happens at The Parthenon…
Kara’s skin pulled into a spread of goose bumps. It must be the blast of air-conditioning hitting her bare shoulders after coming inside from a sultry evening, that’s all. It wasn’t the bizarre setting, it wasn’t that Varón seemed to sense every thought as if it were printed on her forehead, it wasn’t the brush of his breath across her ear. And it certainly wasn’t the possessive hand on her spine.

A man in a dress suit approached, his collar open. He wore a shiny gold chain around his neck, the swirls of a tattoo peeking out at his collarbone.

“Welcome, Mr. Varón,” he said, his face splitting into a smile. Kara noticed a light accent. Eastern Europe, she thought. “Will you be dining? Chef Grayson has pan-seared duck with blueberry-cardamom chutney or pork medallions drizzled with balsamic-maple glaze—”

“I’ll tell you what,” Varón interrupted, smoothing a big hand over his stomach, “I think I’ll start with a nice cold beer first.”

“Of course.” The man smiled. “To the bar, then. Follow me.”

Kara said nothing. They passed a lounge where a man sat at a grand piano playing easy jazz, and a few other men relaxed and talked in deep-cushioned armchairs. They passed a couple of closed doors and walked to the back of the house, where a sports bar materialized.

It was busy. Flat-screens adorned every wall and the air smelled of wine and sautéed mushrooms and grilled steak. A large patio opened out the back, then farther to a
pool oasis with stone waterfalls. Inside, baseball blasted overhead, the chatter like that of any other sports bar on a Saturday evening. Occasionally, a group groaned or cheered as games and races played overhead.

Varón walked Kara to a table along a back wall, sat down across from her, and crooked a finger at a waitress. She was dressed in a bikini top that barely sufficed as a bra, with a skirt clinging to her hips a good six inches beneath a belly button ring. Kara caught herself looking away, instinctively worried that the skirt might slip, only to notice that all of the wait staff was female, and all dressed the same.

Andrew.
How many nights had he dragged in late? How many had he spent here?

Varón placed an order but Kara didn’t hear; she was too busy scanning the clientele for Federal judges or other people who shouldn’t find her here. Varón leaned forward onto his forearms. “You look skittish. Stop it.” He picked up her hand, lacing his fingers into hers and lifting both of their arms up onto their elbows, holding hands over the table. A lover’s gesture.

“Why did you bring me here?” Kara asked.

“We need to put out some feelers for your husband’s killer—without alerting the world that the killer is still alive.”

“The world,” she echoed. “You mean the people bringing in your shipment.”

“My colleagues would be as concerned about this new development as I am. The people here know how to be discreet.”

As he spoke, he gave a nod toward the bar, where two men broke from a ball game and approached the table. Kara took them in. One had a bleached-blond crew cut
and a neck the size of a redwood tree, with a Celtic cross tattooed on either side. A second was model-gorgeous—as tall as Varón, with light chocolate skin and ice-blue eyes, and dreadlocks collected in a tail at the back of his head. Both were dressed in knit shirts with sport coats over them. Kara was pretty sure why they wore jackets even in the summer heat.

These were Luke Varón’s hands and eyes and ears. Armed, trained, obedient. Ben Archer would have shit a brick knowing she was in their inner circle just now.

The model locked eyes with Kara and Varón’s fingers tightened on hers. The blond gave her a not-so-subtle once-over, and Kara knew she’d been thoroughly judged: Luke Varón’s whore for the night.

He tugged on her hand. “Scoot over here, honey. Make room.”

He hooked an extra chair with his toe and dragged it beside his. Kara bit back the insult and rose, moving around to sit beside him while letting his goons have the other two chairs. The half-naked waitress came back with a beer for Varón and a glass of white wine for Kara.

Varón barely acknowledged her to his men, except to say, “This is Krista.”

“Nice,” the bleached blond said, and the model said, “She got a sister?”

Varón’s lip actually curled. “Keep it in your pants, Burke,” he snarled, and Kara could feel his frame tighten. “Krista, this is Jared Beckett and Keith Burke. We work together.”

Which was as much as Luke Varón would say to his girlfriend
du jour
, Kara thought. She bit her tongue and played the part. Showed more interest in her manicure than in whatever the men were about to discuss but felt the blue gaze of the model—Burke—like a flame.

Varón pulled her hand to his lap, staking his claim. Illogically, Kara was thankful.

He leaned in over the table. “You may have heard about an explosion last night in Buckhead,” he said. “It killed an assistant DA and her kid.”

“Chandler,” said Bleach. “It’s all over the news. Strange time of night for a woman to take a boat out, so APD is looking at foul play.”

Varón nodded. “Cops will turn the Chandlers inside out, including looking at Andrew Chandler’s affairs again. Gonna get dicey, with a dead kid and all.”

Kara looked up and Varón squeezed her hand.
Easy
, said his touch.
Don’t show interest
.

But they were talking about her child and husband. These men had all known Andrew. They probably knew more about him than she did.

“Bad time for an investigation,” said the model. “Collado spooks easy.”

“Then we need to make sure he knows there’s nothing to worry about,” Varón said. His hand was heavy and warm on Kara’s hand. “You may also know that John Wolff’s wife has gone missing. It turns out Mrs. Chandler paid her a visit the night she disappeared.”

“Whoa,” said Bleach.

Varón paused to let a cheer die down at the next table. “Which explains the ADA’s middle-of-the-night boat ride. I’m thinking Kara Chandler had it in for Penny Wolff. She’d just passed the one-year-mark without her husband, maybe been nursing a grudge against Wolff all that time…” He shrugged, letting the others finish the thought for themselves.

It took every ounce of energy for Kara to keep still. He was starting rumors about her.

Bleach scowled. “Kara Chandler blames Wolff’s
wife
for her husband dying? That doesn’t make sense.”

“When was the last time a woman scorned made sense?” Varón asked. “All I know is the cops went to question Ms. Chandler about Penny Wolff in the middle of the night, and less than an hour later, her boat blew up and search teams are dragging the lake. Sounds to me like a woman who got scared and tried to take off before the shit hit the fan.”

Burke finally pulled his gaze from Kara. “Pretty ballsy.”

“I met the woman, remember?” Varón said. “Trust me, she has balls to spare.”

“Boats don’t blow like that without help.”

“That’s where my head went, too,” Varón said. “Which makes me think she was trying to run away, and it all went wrong. You wait. This is gonna turn out to be something personal between Penny Wolff and Kara Chandler.”

“And there’s no chance she snowed everyone?” Bleach didn’t like it. “Maybe Chandler slipped away with a wad of cash and a bunch of new ID cards.”

“Cops started turning up body parts this morning. She and her kid are dead.”

The model shook his head. “I hope you’re right and it’s all personal. I’d hate to think a police investigation is going to turn up something that links Chandler to Macy’s before Collado comes ashore. I’ve got fifty Gs riding on this delivery.”

Varón stiffened. “First, let me correct your arithmetic, Burke: You’ve got fifty
more
Gs riding on it. Don’t forget the twenty you’ve already made. Which means you’re in this up to your baby blues. If Collado does bail out, it will mean the ring’s been compromised and every one of
us will be trying to catch the first plane out of here to a country without an extradition treaty. So,” he leaned back a bit and aimed the rest at both men, “publicly, I want you to make sure everyone in the operation hears that Kara Chandler went off the deep end over her husband, killed Penny Wolff, and tried to run away.”

They looked at him, obedient, waiting. They knew something else was coming.

“Privately,” Varón said, “I have reason to believe that John Wolff
didn’t
kill Andrew Chandler. Whoever did is still out there.”

Varón’s cohorts stared. Burke, in particular, turned to stone.

“Not Wolff?” he asked, and for the first time, Kara felt as if her presence around the table was forgotten. A pulse throbbed in Burke’s temple.

Varón looked him square in the eyes. “Not Wolff.”

“So we need to shake the trees and see what comes out. With
out
letting on that Wolff was innocent.” Varón turned to Bleach. “Check on the Macy’s contingent in Savannah. Now that the rest of the Chandler family is dead, people will talk in ways they wouldn’t before.” To Burke: “You track down friends of the kid—his name was Aidan—and see if there was anything his friends might have been afraid to talk about back when Chandler died. Follow up on Ms. Chandler, too—her hairdresser, her housekeeper, her girlfriends—find out what they’re saying.”

Bleach scoffed. “Good luck with that. She was one cool bitch. I can’t see her for warm fuzzy talks with the girls.”

Another squeeze of Kara’s hand. “You never know. She might have confided in someone unexpected. Desperation can do strange things to a person.”

Kara took a sip of her wine, hoping to cover the flush in
her cheeks. Dear God, Varón was smooth. Dangerously, fascinatingly smooth. To Burke, he added: “Don’t go out of town chasing any leads. I want you close for the next couple of days in case I need an extra set of hands.”

The model swiveled his gaze back to Kara. “Gladly.”

Every sinew in Varón’s body went rigid. “And here’s something else to keep in mind, Burke, something you won’t want to forget.” He spoke barely above a whisper, yet every syllable came out loud and clear. “I don’t share.”

Kara fidgeted; his caress had become a grip, the thin bones in her hand compressing. He sat back and lifted her hand to his lips. “Sorry, baby,” he said, and spread her fingers, touching his lips to the center of her palm. A stroke of his tongue sent a shot of sensation through her bones. The wine she’d been sipping—without any food in her stomach—brought a flush of heat.

Burke sneered, duly chastised, but eyes still flaring. Kara didn’t know if he was upset because of thwarted lust or if it was anger that Varón had so clearly pulled rank. Either way, she made the decision not to spend any one-on-one time with Keith Burke.

As if one-on-one time with Luke Varón was any better.

Yes, it was.

Varón leaned back. “I don’t have to tell either one of you that you’ll be well compensated for anything you turn up.”

The men took that as their dismissal and stood.

“One more thing,” he said. He ran a hand down Kara’s spine and around her waist, pulling her against his body. Kara wanted to rebel but didn’t, and his hand slid shockingly down over her hip. “Send messages through the secure line. I’m going to be out of touch for a couple of days, until the shipment comes in.” He cupped Kara’s ass
and looked down at her. “We won’t want to be disturbed, will we, sweetheart?”

Kara managed a twitter and Varón’s goons turned. Just as they left, the blond with the crew cut looked back at Varón. “Hey, you know who to talk to next, right? She’s upstairs.”

“Yeah,” Varón said, nodding. “That’s just where we’re headed.”