Lethal Legacy: A Novel (Guardians of Justice) Read online

  “Hey.” Cole squeezed her fingers. “It’s my job to figure that out, and I’ve got a lot of resources to help me do that. You focus on staying safe. Did you schedule the installation of your new locks yet?”

  “Yes. The guy’s coming Friday.”

  He watched her in silence for a moment. “Why don’t you see if you can move it up?”

  “I thought you said Rossi didn’t bother innocent people?”

  “I said that was his pattern in the past. I’d prefer not to take chances in the present.”

  His quiet, intent tone told her he was worried. So was she. Dealing with speculation was one thing. Dealing with the Mafia was another.

  “I’ll call him tomorrow.”

  “Okay.” With one final press of her fingers, Cole released her hand and stood. “Would you like me to put the pizza in the oven for you? You didn’t have much dinner.”

  “No. Thanks for the thought, though. Why don’t you take it home?”

  “Nope. I had my share. You might be hungry later.”

  After all that had happened tonight? Not likely.

  He started for the door and she rose to follow him. On the threshold he turned toward her.

  “I’ll keep you in the loop as things develop.”

  “I appreciate that.” She folded her arms around herself. Wishing the tall detective inches away was doing the hugging.

  As if reading her mind, his eyes darkened and he shoved his hands into the pockets of his dress slacks.“I’ve always had a policy of maintaining a professional distance with the people involved in my cases, Kelly.”

  At his low, husky comment she hugged herself tighter and moistened her lips. “That’s prudent.”

  “But just so you know, when this is over, I’d like to get to know you a whole lot better. If you’re interested.”

  Her spirits rose. Maybe there was light at the end of this murky tunnel after all. “I’m interested.”

  Giving her a slow smile, he laid his fingertips against her cheek, his touch whisper soft. “That’s the best news I could get to end this Monday.”

  Then he was gone, pulling the door closed behind him.

  For a full sixty seconds, Kelly remained where she was, savoring his parting comments. And once more feeling as if her world had changed.

  This time for the better.

  11

  Alan Carlson picked up the bottle of cheap scotch he’d bought on his way home, twisted off the lid, and refilled his glass. For the third time.

  It had been a bear of a day.

  Make that a bear of a month.

  He tossed back the amber-colored liquid, then hissed out a breath as the alcohol burned a path down his throat and settled in his belly, sending out tentacles of warmth that loosened the knots of tension in his muscles.

  Better.

  A man deserved to relax after working almost around the clock over the weekend only to end his Monday with a kick in the gut.

  After topping off the glass again, he set the bottle on the kitchen counter and wandered over to the couch. It took all of ten steps to get there in the oversized cubicle he now called home. A far cry from the three-bedroom house he and Cindy had shared.

  And lost.

  That’s what happened when money had to go to pay gambling debts instead of a mortgage. Or utility bills. Or car payments. Or credit card debt. Every dime of it. From his paycheck. Their savings accounts. The trust fund Cindy’s uncle had left her.

  No wonder she’d moved out.

  No wonder she hung up on him whenever he called.

  Alan tipped the glass against his lips and swallowed another mouthful of the scotch. It didn’t sear his throat as much this time.

  Cradling the tumbler in his hands, he eased down onto the couch. He’d never been much of a drinker. A beer now and then, that was it. No hard stuff. Cindy had liked that about him. She’d also liked that he didn’t smoke. Or fool around. She’d always said she’d felt blessed to find a man she could trust. One without any vices.

  Until she’d found out he had one after all.

  A big one.

  Big enough to be a deal breaker.

  His hand tightened on the glass as he recalled the day, two years into their marriage, when he’d come home from work to find her holding the latest bank statement. The one he’d hoped to intercept before she opened it. She’d met him at the door, distressed and anxious, asking what he knew about the large withdrawals from her trust fund.

  He’d never been able to lie to Cindy. So he’d confessed.

  Her expression of shock, of betrayal, was scorched into his memory. As vivid as if that scene had taken place a week ago instead of a year ago.

  But he’d sworn to her the gambling debt was recent—and a mistake he deeply regretted. Told her truthfully that he hadn’t made any wagers for the first year and a half of their marriage. And he’d argued that if he could go that long without gambling, he could stop again. Taking her in his arms, he’d promised to clean up his act. Told her he loved her too much to risk losing her or destroying their marriage.

  And he’d meant every word of his impassioned pledge.

  But the rigid discipline he employed on the job had failed him in his personal life. The thrill of the wager, the buzz of the high-stakes game, the euphoria of winning—of beating the odds—had been too strong to resist.

  Cindy had cut him some slack for the first six months. Given him more chances than he’d deserved. But in the end, he’d lost it all. His home. His savings. His wife.

  All he had left was his job.

  A wave of self-loathing washed over him, and he rose. Too fast. The world tilted, and he grabbed on to the mountain bike propped against the wall, seeking support. It shifted, and he tightened his grip, holding fast to the only possession he valued. The one place these days where he could lose himself in a rush of wind and speed . . . and assuage the anxiety that kept sleep at bay. That’s where he wished he was now—pumping up his favorite Weldon Spring trail.

  Like that was going to happen anytime soon.

  He sucked in a lungful of air, and when the horizon leveled he started toward the counter with careful, measured steps. He didn’t want to have to explain a split lip from a fall against the coffee table. No one at work knew about the mess he’d made of his private life, and he intended to keep it that way. He’d come too far, taken too many chances, to fail now.

  The only gambling he’d done since Cindy had walked out seven months ago had been on his vacation in the Dominican Republic. A spur-of-the-moment trip to celebrate the arrival of the second payment for the job he’d done. But that had been penny ante stuff. Not real gambling. It had been more like . . . entertainment. Yeah. That was a better way to describe it. Instead of parasailing after his cycling excursions, he’d gone to the casinos. And once he’d depleted the two grand he’d budgeted for the tables, he’d stopped. Walked away. Cold.

  He should drink to that accomplishment.

  His fingers refused to cooperate, however, and he fumbled the bottle, splashing more scotch onto the counter than into his glass. As it ran across the nicked Formica surface, he groped for a paper towel and wiped it up. Two seconds later, it was gone.

  Just like his urge to gamble.

  That was the truth of it. He had his compulsion under control now. And in time, he’d convince Cindy he’d conquered it too. The day she’d left, he’d vowed to stop. Promised that in one year, he’d have his act together, debts paid off, her trust fund restored. No matter what it took.

  And it had taken a lot.

  But he was almost there. His last payment was due to arrive in less than four weeks. He couldn’t blow it now.

  Except fate was conspiring against him.

  All at once, his spirits plummeted, the numbing effect of the alcohol unable to dull the stark reality of his plight. For the past month, starting with the rotten timing of his vacation, he’d been plagued with bad luck. Had he been in town when Warren’s daughter had shown up with
her stupid tulip note, he’d have convinced her it was meaningless. Oozing empathy, he’d have admitted that while it was an odd coincidence, and while he understood she was having difficulty accepting the circumstances of her father’s death, the simple note wasn’t sufficient to warrant a new investigation in the face of such overwhelming evidence of suicide. He’d have smooth-talked her out the door, and that would have been the end of it.

  But no. He’d been sitting at a blackjack table. Or cycling up a mountain. Or soaking up rays on the beach. Assuming that since five months had passed without incident, the Warren case was as dead as Kelly’s father.

  Man, had he misread those cards.

  He wadded the liquor-soaked towel in his fist, clenching it so tightly a few drops of scotch leaked through his fingers despite his fierce grip.

  Just like stray facts were oozing through the cracks in the Warren case.

  To make matters worse, Taylor had gotten into the middle of it—and taken more than a professional interest in the daughter. He’d not only listened to her theory, he’d convinced her to search her father’s house for more evidence.

  And she’d found it.

  What had been the odds of that?

  Too small to make book on, that was for sure.

  Bad as that was, though, the news Taylor had shared with him and Paul two hours ago had been worse.

  His colleague had linked John Warren to the WitSec program. Traced him to Vincentio Rossi—a Mafia boss. Connected the dots and concluded Rossi had ordered a hit on Warren.

  And now he’d persuaded Paul to let him go to New York and talk to the guy.

  Muttering a curse, Alan hurled his tumbler against the tile above the counter. It shattered, sending pieces of glass exploding every direction, littering his kitchen with sharp-edged shards waiting to puncture his flesh. Slice through his skin.

  A perfect analogy for the minefield that had become his life.

  He grabbed the back of the kitchen chair, fighting against the raw panic clawing at his throat as the desperation of his situation slammed home.

  While he’d kept his part of the bargain by taking care of Warren, it hadn’t been a clean operation, as had been specified.

  Meaning he’d failed a mob boss.

  And the punishment wouldn’t be pretty.

  Raking his fingers through his hair, Alan began to pace, his feet crunching on the glass. Had he known his anonymous benefactor was associated with organized crime, that Warren had been in the crosshairs of the Mafia, he’d have said thanks, but no thanks, faster than a slot machine ate money. He wouldn’t have even considered grabbing the lifeline that had now become a noose.

  He tried to think coherently, but his instincts overrode rational thought, screaming at him to run. To disappear.

  Yet flight would be futile. Despite the alcohol haze clouding his brain, he knew that. They’d track him down just as they’d tracked down Warren.

  He had to figure out how to fix this before Taylor contacted Rossi. Try to reassure the Mafia boss a visit from St. Louis County detectives would be nothing more than a slight inconvenience, and that all the questions would disappear.

  Alan had no idea how he was going to do that. But he knew one thing.

  If he didn’t come up with a gold-plated plan to make it happen, he was a dead man.

  “Thanks a lot for hooking me up with the Mafia.”

  At the comment, Cole swiveled his chair toward his future brother-in-law. Mitch stood on the threshold of the office, one shoulder propped against the door frame, arms crossed, a wry quirk to his mouth. Yesterday afternoon, Paul had been noncommittal when Cole had requested that Mitch accompany him to New York. But Sarge had obviously made a decision overnight. He must have cornered Mitch the minute he arrived.

  Relief eased the knot of tension in Cole’s shoulders. Seeing his colleague in action after Alison had been abducted last spring had convinced him that in a dicey situation, he wanted Mitch watching his back.

  And it didn’t get much dicier than the mob.

  “I would think the Mafia would be small potatoes compared to what you dealt with in your SEAL days.”

  Mitch pushed off from the door and strolled into the room. “Maybe.”

  The vague response didn’t surprise Cole. Most of Mitch’s Navy missions had been classified.

  “So you want to fill me in?” Mitch settled a hip on the corner of his desk. “Paul’s briefing lived up to its name. He gave me all of two sentences.”

  “That sounds like Sarge.” Cole leaned back, linked his fingers over his stomach, and brought Mitch up to speed.

  When he finished, the other man arched an eyebrow. “I’d say Kelly Warren’s persistence paid off. Big time.”

  “And big time is what we’re dealing with in Rossi.”

  “Yeah. So what’s the plan?”

  “I want to have all my ducks in a row before I set up a meeting. I’m thinking by Thursday I’ll be ready to call him. How do you feel about getting on a plane next Monday?”

  “Works for me. What can I do to help in the meantime?”

  Cole grinned, straightened up, and rolled closer to his desk. “I’m glad you asked. Pull up a chair. This could take a while.”

  He needed a suicide note.

  Alan opened his eyes. Blinked at the ceiling. Swallowed past the sour taste in his mouth.

  Drinking half a bottle of scotch last night had scrambled his brain. And put him in a coma for . . . he peered at his watch . . . twelve hours.

  But it had also led him to reconsider the idea of a suicide note. So maybe the hangover was worth it.

  He sat up slowly, wincing when his stomach revolted as he eased his legs over the side of the bed. Heart pounding, he forced himself to take a deep breath. Another. Throwing up wasn’t an option. He needed to focus. To hold on to the idea taking shape in his mind.

  Kelly Warren had talked about the absence of a note after her father died. Had insisted that if he had decided to take his life, he’d have left her a farewell message to explain his actions, tell her one last time he loved her. And she hadn’t bought Alan’s response, that depressed people didn’t always behave in character. Instead, she’d insisted her father hadn’t been depressed.

  But a note in his own hand . . . that would be difficult to ignore. Especially if the handwriting was verified by experts.

  And he could make that happen, if necessary.

  Alan rose, gripping the back of the straight chair beside the bed where he’d dumped his phone, badge, and Sig Sauer before crashing, swallowing past the nausea when his stomach lurched again. No more drinking for him. He’d need a clear head to pull this off fast and clean.

  Coffee and dry toast high on his priority list, he padded barefoot toward the kitchen. Lucky thing he’d thought ahead and pilfered a few things after Warren’s death. The scribbled notes jammed in files, the to-do lists in the kitchen, the handwritten minutes in the man’s desk from a garden club meeting. Not the kinds of things his daughter would miss, but great insurance. Just in case things went south.

  Like now.

  He’d even taken a few blank sheets of the man’s stationery and pressed Warren’s fingertips to the paper.

  From the beginning he’d toyed with the idea of planting a farewell note. But involving other people in an operation increased risk. So he’d opted to forego the note—unless he ran into a glitch during the investigation.

  As it turned out, no note had been needed. He’d done such a superb job staging the death that no one had questioned his conclusions.

  Until the past month.

  He yanked open the refrigerator, grabbed the bag of generic coffee that had replaced his preferred Starbucks brand, and slammed the door. He should have gone with the note weeks ago, when Kelly started to raise a serious stink. It would have been easier to plant it back then, before she’d searched her father’s house.

  Instead, he’d panicked. Given in to a knee-jerk reaction. Tried to eliminate her—or at the very
least, distract her—by creating a life-threatening allergy attack. And he’d pulled it off masterfully, thanks to the disguise skills he’d perfected as an undercover detective with the Dallas PD.

  But panic was always a mistake . . . on the street, and in life. One he wouldn’t have made if he hadn’t been desperate to erase any roadblocks to a reconciliation with Cindy.

  The past couldn’t be changed, though. He could only go forward. Guided by logic and reason this time, instead of emotion.

  He fumbled with the top of the coffee bag, his fingers clumsy, his mind on the day’s agenda. Once he was sober, he’d check in at the office. Then he’d stop at the bank, withdraw the pilfered papers from his safe deposit box, and contact Freddie to arrange a drop. The sixtysomething former embezzler played it straight these days—for the most part—but he was the best forger around.

  And Freddie owed him for looking the other direction on a few occasions. In his eleven years as a cop, Alan had learned it didn’t hurt to cultivate favors with people on the shady side of the law. They could be useful sources in investigations—if they had a personal reason to cooperate. And Freddie had plenty of those. He’d do a little job for him, no questions asked.

  Once he had the note in hand, he’d figure out a plan to plant it where Kelly would find it—just as he’d considered doing in the days following the investigation if any questions arose. But he’d prefer to convince Rossi to sit tight. There was no hard evidence to tie him or the mob boss to the crime. In time, the questions would go away.

  If Rossi would give it time.

  He shook the coffee into a filter and settled it in the top of the coffeemaker, averting his face from the aroma. Usually, he liked the smell of coffee, but his stomach was still too unsettled from last night’s alcohol.

  Or perhaps the queasiness was due to the familiar fear vibrating along his nerve endings. The same fear he felt when luck turned against him in the middle of a high-stakes game, with the same symptoms—dry mouth, pounding pulse, fast respiration. Along with a crushing sense he was about to lose everything, but it was too late to back out.