Authors: Stella Barcelona
He blamed his weakness on her damn cleavage. He couldn’t resist. If Taylor was so hell-bent on doing investigative work, he wanted her to know what she was getting into. “Get in the car.”
“Why?”
“My appointment is about Lisa. If you want to come, get in. Or step away and let me leave. Your choice.” As he turned the key in the ignition, Taylor walked around the front of the car, then slid into the passenger seat. In seconds the car’s interior filled with the fragrance of gardenia, vanilla, and spice. It was a lush, languid scent, as heady for Brandon as a long sip of dark amber rum. It made him want to find the places on her body where she had rubbed the perfume.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, as the scent provoked mental snapshots of what she might look like underneath that halter top. Blood flowed to places in his body where it had no business going.
“What’s wrong?”
He drew a deep breath, blocking the images that flashed through his mind. “We’re late.”
They rode in silence for a few minutes, until he pulled onto the interstate. “Where are we going?”
“The East. Off of Downs Road. Black-Eyed Jack’s. A video-poker joint that features topless dancers and easy heroin scores. You know the place?”
He took his eyes off the road long enough to catch an arched eyebrow and a frown. “Of course not.”
“Oh, I forgot. You’re a woman with family names that are so important that no one bothered to give you an ordinary first name, like Cathy or Katie or Bridget. Strip clubs are way beneath your stature.”
“Are you always rude, or are you intimidated by debutantes and carnival royalty?”
Brandon chuckled. “Neither. I’m teasing,” but he wasn’t telling the whole truth. Women like Taylor reminded him that he wasn’t born into polite society and, no matter how hard he worked or how much money he donated to good causes, he’d never be welcome there. “Look. You should stay in the realm of luxury you were born into. Your type might play-act as ballsy assistant district attorneys, but you really would never dream of hitting the real neighborhoods of New Orleans, where the vast majority of its people live.”
“So this is a lesson for me?” She spat out the words. He thought about denying the truth, then decided to evade her question by ignoring it. She muttered, “Patronizing jerk.” Louder, she said, “How did you ever make anything of yourself with that Goliath-sized chip on your shoulder?”
Yet another good question from Taylor. “It isn’t a chip. It’s a deep, shattered canyon. Usually, it fuels my ambition. Evidently, with you, it makes me want to show how skewed your perception of reality is.”
“I don’t need lessons from anyone as arrogant as you. You don’t know me. You’ve only made assumptions,” she said, “and your assumptions are way off base.”
“Well, that may be true, but I’d bet that you’ll never understand what it’s like to be born ten insurmountable steps below polite society, but . . .” he shut up. He sure as hell didn’t need to explain the source of his attitude to her.
Not now. Not ever.
So he had a lot of incentive to do better than his grandfather, a notorious convicted felon and his father, a delusional, suicidal alcoholic. So it gave him more than a little attitude when he was around society queens like Taylor. He was never going to be so old that he forgot where he came from, which didn’t amount to anything positive. Big fucking deal.
“But? But what?”
Damn it, damn it, damn it.
Deep-seated curiosity was imbedded in her nature and on-target questions bubbled out of her as naturally as water from a well.
Damn it
.
“Well?”
Brandon rubbed the left side of his neck, trying to ease the feeling that a wrestler had a stranglehold on him. “But nothing.” He drove in silence until he approached the exit.
“So why are we going to a strip club?”
“My friend Marvin knows everything about what happens on the streets. Later, he’s going to where Lisa was killed to put out feelers. He’ll talk to people who would never talk to the cops, or me for that matter. Right now he’s at Black-Eyed Jack’s.” Brandon’s cell phone rang. He answered it without putting the call on the audio system.
“Yo, Brandon. Marvin. Where the fuck are you?”
The phone gave a stutter signal, indicating that another call was going straight to voice mail. “Just a few minutes away.”
“I’m leaving the bar. Headed home, but I won’t be there long. Go there.”
As Marvin broke the connection, Brandon fought the ‘oh-shit’ feeling that formed in his belly. Taking Taylor to Black-Eyed Jack’s, a nasty and seedy, but public, establishment, was one thing. Taking her to Marvin’s home was another thing entirely. He braked at a red-light. He could return uptown, drop Taylor at her car, then backtrack to Marvin, but it would be at least a half hour round trip. Once Marvin disappeared from his home, finding him wouldn’t be easy.
Hell
. He’d finish what he started. He reached into his glove box, pulled out a money pouch, settled it into his lap, opened it, then started counting cash as he drove. “Here,” he said, handing Taylor a stack of hundreds. “There are envelopes in the glove compartment. Double count for me, if you don’t mind, make sure there’s twenty here, and put this in an envelope.”
He stopped at a red light, counted out another two thousand dollars, and watched her glance into the pouch. “How much cash is in there?”
“Fifteen thousand.”
“Why do you carry so much?”
He handed her the other stack of two thousand dollars before answering.
“In another envelope?” she asked.
He nodded. “Do you know anything about plaintiff’s work?”
“In theory, but I can’t seem to get past the tacky television commercials.”
Brandon slid the money pouch into the bottom of the glove compartment. Four thousand would be enough for Marvin for tonight. “So you think my commercials are tacky?”
She arched an eyebrow. “Oh, come on. This can’t be the first time you’ve heard that your commercials are cheesy.”
He glared at her, but he really felt like laughing. She certainly called it like she saw it. “Tacky and cheesy? I should kick your well-dressed ass out of my car.” He nodded in the direction of a mini-skirted, tube-topped hooker on the near street corner. “Maybe you’d like to hang out with her.”
“You would not leave me here.” She turned her head slightly to the side, looking for confirmation. She was right, but instead of nodding, he scowled. “Actually,” she offered, “your commercials aren’t terrible. The legal tidbits are accurate, and you’ve tamed some of that used-car salesman persona you used to have.”
Her tone wasn’t exactly convincing as she extended the verbal olive branch, but he took it anyway. “I have toned the commercials down,” he shrugged, “and I really don’t care what you think of them. You’re not my target market.”
“What is your target market?’
He drew a deep breath, then thought, well, hell. She asked. His commercials weren’t geared towards his criminal clients. Those people seemed to find him, no matter what he did. They were geared towards his personal injury clients. “My market is that person who is suffering because of someone else’s carelessness, negligence, or greed. The person who wouldn’t otherwise get a lawyer and sue the son of a bitch who broke his life. That good client might be one in a hundred. Or one in five hundred.” He shrugged. “I love to find that person and make the bad guy pay. You’ve never done without. I’ve never done without. Some of my clients have, though. Money doesn’t fix everything, but it helps. When the really down-on-their-luck ones come to me, I front them money until the bad guys pay. That’s where the cash comes in. Not everyone has checking accounts and credit cards.” He paused. “Investigators like Pete handle the dirty work, but I like to do some of it. If I stay close to the harsh reality, it helps when I need to persuade a jury.”
For once she was silent. He counted to ten, wondering how long she could last. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.
“Then you understand,” she said, “the feeling of wanting to make a difference, to make things right.”
Well, she’d gotten his point, and now he understood hers. Damn. She was good. He glanced at her. Her gaze was unwavering and serious as she said, “I don’t know how to make a difference.”
He had to concentrate on his driving, because he could just keep looking at her, wondering what she was thinking. Staring at Taylor, though, wasn’t going to get them to Marvin’s house. “I’ll give the vote of confidence, Taylor, that you’ll figure it out.”
“Thank you,” she said, and for once, she didn’t ask a question.
Brandon checked his cell phone. Damn. The call that had signaled when he was on the phone with Marvin had been from Sebastian Connelly, his best friend and one of the founding owners of Black Raven Private Security Contractors. The company’s title suggested limits on Black Raven’s activities that didn’t really exist. In addition to providing security, the company had an elite intelligence division. Brandon had gone through Ragno, the head of Black Raven’s intelligence division, for information on Victor’s whereabouts. Although he’d told Ragno not to bother Sebastian with his query, Sebastian’s call made him wonder if she’d kept it to herself.
In polite conversation, and with Rose, his mother, and Kate, Brandon would have said that his brother Victor worked with an international security agency. In reality, Victor was a mercenary who worked for anyone who could afford his price, doing whatever they needed him to do. He was a brilliant hired gun with no morals. According to Sebastian and Ragno, Victor didn’t simply protect people. He killed their enemies. Black Raven knew this sort of information, because people like Victor often targeted Black Raven’s clients. Victor and Brandon didn’t talk frequently, if at all, but Victor managed to stay in contact with Kate and Rose. His failure to call Rose on her birthday, one month earlier, had worried Kate, because on Victor’s last few visits, both women thought he had seemed sick.
Sebastian’s voice message to Brandon was simple. “Hey. I talked to Ragno. I’ll try you later. Don’t bother calling me.”
The cryptic message was typical of Sebastian when he was on a job. Brandon passed Black-Eyed Jack’s and stopped at the next traffic light. Taylor shot him a questioning glance. He explained, “Marvin left the bar. His house is about a mile away. If you don’t mind, put your rings and earrings in the glove compartment with the cash.”
She at least had the good sense to give him a worried glance. “Seriously?”
“If your purse will fit, put it in there, as well,” Brandon said. “I trust Marvin, but I have no idea who, or what, might be at his house.”
Chapter
Five
Brandon slowed as he approached Marvin’s dead-end street. The one-story red brick ranch house was in decent shape, but aside from weed-filled grass, there was no landscaping. Two cars were in the driveway, one a Cadillac, another a Land Rover. Brandon recognized them as belonging to Marvin. A shiny red truck was parked in the front yard. Brandon thought it belonged to Marvin’s son, but he wasn’t sure. A large plate-glass window was front and center. A split in the draperies revealed a television’s flashing light. Brandon grabbed the two envelopes that Taylor had stuffed with twenties. He shoved them into his rear pocket. He pulled a Glock that he had borrowed from Pete from under his seat, along with his holster, which he snapped onto his belt.
Taylor gasped. “I thought that you gave your weapons to Joe.”
He grabbed a legal-sized envelope that he had wedged between his seat and the center console when Taylor had gotten into the car. “I did. This one’s from Pete. Joe didn’t tell me I couldn’t get another weapon, did he? I’ll come around to get you,” Brandon said, “and stay close.”
Brandon stepped out of the car, then met Taylor on the passenger side. A wide-chested Rottweiler ran from the corner of the house to them. The dog slowed within a few feet of them, then continued walking in their direction. The animal was Boy, Marvin’s pet. Boy gave a low, fang-bared growl. Taylor pressed close against Brandon, half behind his back and half smashed against his right arm, with fingernails cutting through his shirt into his forearm.
“Hey, Boy,” Brandon said, bending to let the dog smell his hand.
Boy snorted, licked Brandon’s fingers, then turned his muzzle to Taylor’s leg, against which he gave a loud, mucous-accented sniff. Boy stepped aside as a young man stepped from behind the home. Brandon nodded at Corey, Marvin’s twenty-year-old son, who held a black automatic pistol. “Dad’s inside.”
Marvin was in the front room, watching the Animal Planet channel, with an Uzi resting on the couch next to him and a laptop computer resting on his legs. He rose when they entered, putting aside the computer, but lifting the Uzi with him. Taylor was so close to Brandon he felt her body heat and smelled her perfume. Girl, another Rottweiler mixed with something else, was nursing a litter of puppies in a nest of blankets in the corner of the room. Girl lifted her head and glanced at them, then set it down again when she sensed no threat. Marvin was a solid block of a man, tall, with bulky arms, long black hair that was yanked into a ponytail, and dark, close-set eyes. After his gaze fell on Taylor, his glance returned to Brandon.
Brandon introduced Taylor, who managed to put a few inches between herself and Brandon. She extended her hand to Marvin, who shifted the Uzi from his right to his left hand and shook hers.
To Brandon, Marvin said, “Is this your idea of a date?”
“Not a good one, and not because of the location.” Brandon glanced at Taylor. She was wide-eyed, but otherwise expressionless, a cardboard cutout of the woman who had charged at his car earlier in the evening, bursting with anger and adrenaline, or the woman who couldn’t stop pressing his buttons with her questions. She was too far removed from her comfort level to even give Brandon an annoyed look for his glib comment. It was time to do their business, then leave. Brandon handed Marvin the legal-sized envelope. “Inside are photographs of Lisa.”
Marvin nodded. “I made calls. None of my soldiers did it. Still no leads?”
“No. Police are thinking crime of opportunity. Lone woman on a dark street. Two known crack-houses within three blocks. A suspected meth lab within a half mile.”
As Brandon relayed the information that he’d been given from a source on the NOPD drug squad, he heard Taylor draw a deep breath. He watched the last color leave her face. Brandon guessed that Joe hadn’t bothered to tell Taylor about the meth lab and the crack houses.
Brandon asked, “Second guessing your field trip to Melody Street?”
She bit her lower lip and looked away.
Brandon took that as a yes.
“So the cops think some druggie or thug grabbed her purse. If that’s it,” Marvin smiled, revealing gold caps on his top front teeth, “I should be able to find out who. My people don’t pop women for a few bucks. The better gangs don’t. Others,” Marvin shrugged. His eyes fell on Taylor. “They’d kill only cause they could. Some for a purse, some for a notch, or maybe because they want the cops in a neighborhood where a competitor has a lab. There’s a war now over prime turf on the river side of Claiborne and your friend might have been caught between the bullets.”
“Don’t help me if it causes trouble for you,” Brandon said.
Marvin rolled his eyes. “There’s already trouble. Those inner city fuck-ups have no respect for nothing. I’m happy to look into this. It’ll stir shit up. I’m sending Maria and Anna Maria away to the beach. Don’t want them here, at home.” He put the Uzi on the couch, opened the envelope, looked at a photograph of Lisa, then shook his head. “It’s a damn shame.” Dark eyes met Brandon’s gaze. “If there’s really no talk,” Marvin said, “that’s odd. Everybody talks here. Not to any cops, but to each other. If there’s no talk, well, that would be interesting, wouldn’t it?”
“Absolutely.” Brandon handed Marvin the two white envelopes. “There’s two thousand in each. One envelope is for you, for tonight. The other is for you to spread around. Make it clear that there’s a reward for solid information. Not bullshit. Something that leads to the trigger man.”
Marvin nodded, as Boy barked in the front yard. He put the envelopes down, picked up his Uzi, and was still a minute. Brandon held his breath, listening as the barking stopped. Marvin’s cell phone rang. He answered it, then laughed. He ended the call. “Fucking cat,” he explained, as Marvin’s wife, Maria, and their young daughter, Anna Maria, entered the living room. They were olive-complected, with long dark hair and dark eyes. Maria rolled a black suitcase, while Anna Maria, a miniature, five-year-old replica of her mother, rolled a small pink suitcase. Brandon had met them before. He told them hello, and introduced Taylor. Anna Maria had a long ponytail, with a big pink satin bow with chartreuse polka dots. She wore pink pajamas, with bright green trim.
Anna Maria glanced at Brandon and Taylor, then scooted to her father, who bent and lifted her with his free arm.
Aww hell,
Brandon thought, as he got an eye full of the beautiful child in Marvin’s arm and the Uzi that Marvin held in his other hand. This wouldn’t sit well with Taylor. Anna Maria pressed her face into her father’s chest, then turned back to gaze at Taylor, to whom Anna Maria whispered, “You’re pretty.”
“Thank you,” Taylor said. She was pale. Brandon could see that her hands were shaking, yet she managed to focus on Anna Maria and give the child a smile. “So are you. I bet that you’re a smart little girl, too.”
The little girl beamed. “Anna Maria Paquin is my name. I can spell, too. P-a-q-u-i-n.”
“That’s very, very good,” Taylor said.
“I can spell dog too. D-o-g.”
“That’s great.”
Anna Maria rested her head on her father’s chest, while her gaze stayed on Taylor. Brandon stared at the young girl, the big man, the pink satin bow, and the Uzi that seemed like it was as much a part of Marvin as his hand.
Damn it.
He glanced at Taylor. She had kept her voice steady when she spoke, but she was so pale that she looked like a wax mannequin of herself. She glanced at Brandon. Her hazel-green eyes were wide, her expression was blank. She lifted a shaking hand to smooth her already-perfect hair. Jesus. He had to get her out of there.
“Anna Maria,” Maria said, “kiss your daddy.” The girl obliged. “We gotta go.”
Maria kissed her husband on the cheek, then took her daughter’s hand as Marvin stooped and steadied Anna Maria on the ground. The child broke free from her mother’s grasp and ran to Girl and her puppies.
Brandon said, “We’re going.”
Marvin nodded. “Wait.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket, made a call, and asked, “Clear?” He broke the connection and nodded to Brandon. “You’re good. I’ll be in touch in the morning, or sooner,” he said to Brandon, “let you know what I figure out.” Marvin walked out with them, with Maria and Anna Maria at his side.
Brandon guided Taylor by the elbow to the passenger side of the car, then opened the door. She sat without a word. He hesitated, waiting for a question, like
what the hell were you thinking, taking me to a place like that?
If not that, he expected a retort, a sharp, sarcastic comment like
Gee, thanks, Brandon, for that lesson.
I really needed that.
Taylor stayed silent, though, and glanced at him with pained eyes as he shut her door. He walked around to the driver’s side. Once again, in the confined space, he became aware of the lush scent of her expensive perfume. It wasn’t overpowering, and that was the problem. He wished that he didn’t like it, but it was delicious, a subtle siren song that vaporized her into his thoughts. He started the car and lowered his window for outside air. He didn’t want to be distracted. He drove away from Marvin’s, past Black-Eyed Jack’s, and stopped at a red light. Her gaze was fixed on a distant point. Her jaw was set, but he detected a slight tremble in her lower lip, and her shoulders shook. She lifted a hand to her eye and ran her index finger along the corner, blotting away a tear.
Aw hell.
It was the second time that evening that he had reduced Taylor to tears, and, although he hadn’t cared much about it the first time, now he felt like a heel. Hell, the sight of Anna Maria and the Uzi had made even him queasy.
“I’m not stupid,” she whispered. “I know that this is a high crime city. I also know that I lead a privileged, pampered life.” She pulled her purse out of the glove box, fished out a folded, monogrammed handkerchief, and dabbed at her eyes. “My foundation work keeps me aware. I don’t delegate everything. I study the grant requests. I analyze the needs. I visit the sites. I go to public schools and community centers. I wanted to be an assistant district attorney so that I could make a difference. It’s my dream job and yet tomorrow is my last day. I haven’t made a difference. When I see a sight like that I realize that I’ll never really make a difference. I don’t know how.”
As she wiped the tears from her eyes, Brandon considered the possibility that Taylor might be nothing like what he expected her to be. The thought was disturbing, because so far that evening he had ridiculed her for going to Melody Street and patronized her by trying to teach her a lesson. He had acted upon assumptions involving her names and her wealth, and he wasn’t usually so judgmental. In his business, he couldn’t afford to be, because assumptions distorted cold, hard facts, the kind that either won or lost cases. His uneasiness prompted him to say something nice. “I’m sure that you do a lot more good than you’re giving yourself credit for.”
Taylor gave him a half smile. She straightened her shoulders. She sniffed softly, wiped at the corners of her eyes, then unfolded the handkerchief and gave a delicate press between the tip of her nose and her upper lip. She had either been trained regarding the ladylike way to cry in public, or she was born with knowledge of how to look pretty while crying. Either way, it worked, as her eyes found his. “I don’t often come face to face with that kind of reality.”
“I’m sorry,” Brandon said as he tore his eyes from hers and focused on the road. “I shouldn’t have taken you there.”
***
Brandon had accused her of being naive and silly, and crying only proved him correct. Taylor willed herself to stop, and somehow, the tears did. “Once I realized what kind of man you were dealing with,” she said, “once I saw that watchdog and that young man, a boy, really, with the gun, I braced myself for violence. Or even to see a drug addict, on some kind of trip.” She drew a deep breath. “I could have handled that kind of thing, but not that beautiful little girl. He was holding an assault rifle while he held her. That little girl shouldn’t be exposed to that.”
“Marvin’s not usually on edge like that, and Anna Maria isn’t normally around when he is.” He gave her a sideways glance, a serious one, and a slight head shake. “I wanted to keep you from hurting yourself with your investigative efforts and thought the seedy scene at the bar would do that. I shouldn’t have taken you there. I’m sorry, and I really mean it.”
She decided to take advantage of his remorse by pressing the question that had been bothering her ever since Joe’s interview. “Lisa didn’t originally go to you for legal advice, did she?”
He gave her a serious glance, one that was even more penetrating than the non-smiling, analytical gaze that seemed to be his default expression. “No.” He parked in front of Lisa’s house as Taylor digested the fact that her hunch had been correct. He continued, “She did not. How did you know?”
“Joe’s question assumed that she went to you for legal advice,” Taylor said, “and you hesitated when you answered.”
“I did not.”
“Yes. You did,” she said. “And something in your eyes made me wonder. She was a post-graduate history student, she’s studying spies of World War II, and the rest is a guess, given your family history. You can either confirm that she was looking at your grandfather’s treason case now, or not. I’ll know exactly the subject of her research, when Professor Landrum returns my call in the morning. Once I know, Joe will know, and if we have to go the long way around to figure this out, well,” she shrugged, “that’s going to make you look like you were hiding something. I don’t think that’s a position you want to be in, is it?”