Devil's Deal

  DEVIL’S DEAL

  A Juliana Martin Mystery

  Terri Lynn Coop

  The Necessaries

  Cover Design by Matt Norris of M.G. Norris Photography of Agawam Massachusetts. Contact Matt about book cover design, wedding photography, and the best in fantasy and cosplay portraits at mgnorris.com

  Edited by Jim Thomsen of Desolation Island Editing Services.

  Copyright © 2014 by Terri Lynn Coop of North Main Media

  www.terrilynncoop.com

  All rights reserved.

  Devil’s Deal is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  My big brother Ken left us in 2012, the same week my first anthology work hit print. I still have his copy. That I didn’t get to share it with him is one of my biggest regrets. But I know he’s still here with me: my best friend, number one reader, and personal lifeguard. As always, this one’s for you.

  Acknowledgements

  Bringing together a book takes help and encouragement. I’m a firm believer in the power of crowd-funding. It’s not only a financial boost through the tight squeeze of pre-production it’s also the vote of confidence and encouragement. My sincere thanks to those on this list, you made it happen for me via a Kickstarter campaign. This list also appears on my blog: terrilynncoop.com under the label “Devil’s Deal.” Check out the websites listed below and pay it forward. Support the arts!

  Keith Houin of The Science Fiction Show: www.myscifishow.com

  Rudy Panucci: blogs.wvgazette.com/popcult

  Mel Larch: www.radiofreecharleston.com

  In beloved memory of Max Gano

  R Thomas Riley: www.facebook.com/author.rthomasriley

  Ray Peden: www.writerontheriver.com

  Patti Wigington: www.pattiwigington.com

  Carole Oldroyd

  Foinah Jameson: www.foinahjameson.com

  Ross Cavins: www.rosscavins.com

  Michael J. Sullivan: www.riyria.com

  Tanya C

  Brian Irvin

  Thomas Salvisberg

  Carol Kabat

  Sandy Puckett: www.revelade.com

  Chris Davis

  Joseph Robison

  Sandra Morton DiGiovanni

  Sue Langford

  S.R. Clark

  Rachel & Melissa Stinar

  Madison Paige

  CHAPTER 1

  “I want out.”

  I squared my shoulders and said it louder. “I’m finished. I want out of the firm.”

  Silence.

  A loud honk told me the light had turned green. I hit the gas and made the short sprint to the next corner. Usually the downtown traffic made me crazy, but I was in no hurry today. I was telling my dad that I quit. He and his law firm could do their deals without me mopping up after the billionaire clients and their equally obnoxious offspring. I was tired of being his cleaner.

  After a sharp turn the wrong way down the alley, I parked in the trash-strewn vacant lot. The garage attached to our office building had been under construction for months and I’d made a deal with the owner to park here. So far, all he’d charged me was getting a nephew out of a marijuana jackpot. Given the price of parking in Dallas, that was cheap.

  I grabbed my briefcase and picked my way through the beer bottles and burger wrappers to a hidden door leading to the garage elevator. I’d already ruined my favorite pair of Manolos in this mess and had no desire for a repeat. At least the elevator was still running. When the job boss gave me the key, he said that until we were out of dutch with the city it was technically closed down, so keep it quiet. The price? One DUI. To avoid walking around the block to the front door, it was worth a couple of phone calls.

  I’m used to barter. It’s what I do.

  The door slid open at three, where my office was located. Since I wasn’t officially on the letterhead at Dad’s law firm, I insisted on being separate from the sixth-floor suite. Plus, I didn’t like it upstairs, with the Texas hair and two-thousand-dollar boots. I did my best work when I could blend into the background.

  The garage was silent with none of the jackhammers and swearing that had greeted me since the building inspector threatened to condemn the structure. A new touch was the ass end of a black Suburban parked by the landing. And voices coming from the stairwell.

  My suspicion piqued. There hadn’t been a non-construction vehicle on my floor in weeks. Ducking under the plastic chain sporting an Out of Order sign, I crossed the short breezeway to a window overlooking the front of the building.

  Holy shit.

  The half-circle drive was bumper to bumper with a conga line of the same shiny SUVs and a cadre of plain sedans. The sedans tipped me off. Each had a spotlight folded down near the driver’s side window. Cops. Locals and suits, probably some Feds in the mix. Somehow I doubted they were here for the nonprofit we let use the first two floors or the insurance company that rented four and five.

  They were here for the firm.

  The slam of a car door brought me back and I assessed my situation. Since the elevator was my secret with the contractor, they had no reason to believe I wouldn’t be coming in through the front or using the stairs. I was in a small alcove about four feet from the open elevator. The good thing about the maintenance key is that it stays where it’s parked. The Suburban faced the stairs and I was out of the line of sight of their mirrors.

  I didn’t breathe again until the lighted indicator dinged and the door slid open on the ground floor. Another cop car, this time a low-slung interceptor, sat near the stairs. I cursed myself for not noticing it on my way in earlier. Luck was with me again. Bad planning on their part kept me in their blind spot as I slipped out the side door.

  The windows stared at me, but I resisted the urge to look. If the law saw me, I’d know soon enough. No bullhorn as I crossed the lot. No sirens as I shot out of the alley into traffic. On a hunch, I drove down the block to the public lot we’d rented for the employees and tenants. Sure enough, two of Dallas’s finest sat at the entrance with clipboards and radios.

  After five miles of spontaneous lane changes and random turns, I was sure no one had followed me. Parked at a gas station, I sent a text to my assistant Anthony.

  411

  His response confirmed what I already knew.

  5-0

  I gave the only response I could before powering down.

  <3

  My dad was a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t in the top one hundred. We had a plan for this. After popping the battery and SIM card out of my phone, I tucked the carcass under the front tire of my car. It made a satisfactory crunch as I backed out of my parking space.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Okay, now what?”

  The reflective linoleum table top wasn’t any more responsive than my rear view mirror had been earlier. Sipping iced tea in a no-name truck stop, I tried to pinpoint what this was about. The Martin Law Firm catered to an elite clientele. Elite, as in the minimum retainer was at least seven figures. On its face, the firm handled business and real estate. I knew better. Hidden behind my low-key legit criminal practice on the third floor, I cleaned up the legal messes of the rich and famous. I was also a courier, delivering discreet envelopes and briefcases of Benjamins wherever my dad needed them.

  And now the shit had hit the fan.

  I flipped open a burner phone from the batch I’d scored from one of the convenience stores down around Hatcher. Unlike the high-tech plastic shards I’d just left behind, they were pre-paid and totally untraceable. I’d picked up that hint from one of my clients. He’d never call my office
or business cell, only a burner.

  Dialing a number known by less than a dozen people, I waited as the call was switched and rerouted through a half dozen servers and at least one former Soviet republic.

  “Hello, who is this?”

  Even a lawyer whose primary clientele was other lawyers couldn’t track a thirty-buck phone purchased from a mini-mart with bullet-resistant glass in the windows.

  “It’s me, Juliana. Is it okay to talk?”

  That was actually a silly question. Gerald Loeb wouldn’t have answered the secure phone locked in his bottom desk drawer if anyone had been in the office.

  “I take it you’ve heard.”

  “I damn near walked into it. A little heads-up would have been nice.”

  “No time. It happened fast and without a hint of warning from any of our sources. Honestly, I thought you would have already been in your office when they arrived. Evidently, your father told them you were out of town and your assistant backed it up. I only spoke to him for a minute this morning before they served the warrants. I didn’t want to call your regular phone in case it was being monitored. So, I had to wait to for you to call me. I assume this is a secure line.”

  “Secure enough to run drugs on.”

  He laughed.

  “Good enough for me. Your dad should be processed by one. I’ll be there. Honey, they told me it was a no-bond warrant.”

  “What the hell? I thought this was a garden-variety fishing trip. What are the charges?”

  “I don’t know. You leave that to me. Don’t go home. I don’t want you in their clutches until I sort this out. Go to the second plan. There’s a package waiting for you. Since they think you’re on vacation, why don’t you get out of town for a few days?”

  I started to say something, but stopped. He was right. Hidden in his caring words was an unspoken I don’t need two clients right now.

  “Gerald, you said there’s a package at the second plan?”

  “Yes, your dad’s girlfriend dropped it here this morning with a message that it be delivered immediately. I couldn’t send it to your house, so I sent it there.”

  “Do you –”

  He interrupted me. “No, I don’t. Now go. I have things to do. Keep in touch.”

  The phone went dead.

  I traced patterns in the condensation on my glass. Part of me wanted to rage down to the Dallas County jail and find out what was going on. But another part of me, the part that could calmly convince a pregnant congressional aide that taking the check and the all-expense-paid trip to Canada was a good idea, knew better. That part of me knew I would be walking into a lengthy interrogation at best.

  I shuddered at the thought of the worst.

  Plus, I wanted to check out the package. What did Dad think was important enough to use his last moments of freedom to get it to me? That mystery would have to wait a while because I had one more thing to do. I paid my waitress and headed outside. I needed to get rid of my car.

  CHAPTER 3

  The taxi let me off about three blocks from my destination. I’d left my Honda Accord—better known as a chop shop magnet—with the keys hanging in the ignition at a strip-mall parking lot.

  That handled, I strolled to the safe house.

  Nicknamed “the second plan,” the elegant building was owned, on paper, by one of the half-dozen dummy companies the firm used to shield its private business. Most of the apartments were occupied by well-heeled older tenants. A handful of flats and the top-floor ballroom were kept for whatever we needed. Whether it was meetings, parties, or discreet accommodations for out-of-town visitors, the apartments were furnished and ready.

  The gold-and-scarlet-drenched doorman opened the door, but didn’t acknowledge me. He was extremely well-paid to not notice who came and went. For that same reason, there were no video cameras in the lobby or halls. My lawyer heels, which clicked so decisively on the floors of the courthouse, made no sound on the thick oriental carpet. I ignored the elevator and climbed the wide curved staircase to the second floor. The same keycard I used for my door at home opened apartment 2C.

  Momentarily blinded in the gloom, I shot the deadbolt by touch. I turned on a couple of lights, but left the curtains and shades closed to discourage the neighbors. Compared to my sleek modern loft, it looked like a tacky movie set from the 1930s. At least, it was cool, thanks to the high tech air-conditioning system brute-forced under the glossy hardwood floors, it was comfortable, and it was safe for the moment.

  Alone in this silent velvet-lined cocoon, it hit me. My life had changed forever, and it wasn’t even lunchtime.

  I kicked off my shoes, mixed a drink, and spotted a file box I didn’t recognize on the dining room table.

  Okay Dad, what’s this all about? There’s only one way to find out.

  I sipped my drink and flipped back the lid. Inside the box was a small gym bag, a leather-bound notebook, a cream vellum envelope sealed with the pattern of my father’s class ring, and surprisingly, the laptop from my office.

  I ran my finger over the ridges in the red wax. When I used to laugh about his ritual, Dad told me an envelope can be steamed open, but nothing got past the seal without damaging it. He called it old-school security. Obviously, he wanted me to know whether or not I was the first person to read his message.

  Out of habit, I made sure the seal was intact and the edges not lifted. Satisfied, I slit the envelope and pulled out two sheets of stationery covered in a strong neat script I recognized immediately. I knew it was genuine. Curled up in a big plush armchair, I read his message.

  Dear Juliana:

  I’m sorry to sound melodramatic, but this letter has good news and bad news. The good news is since you’re reading this, you escaped the dragnet. I don’t know if Dana caught up with you or if you managed to slip past the cops and got this box at the safe house. The bad news is obvious. I only got word this morning from my contact in the Dallas PD. I didn’t want to risk calling you. My guy told me there were taps all over the place. The law played this one close and quiet.

  I decided to let them take me at the office. At least I could rage and bluster about client confidentiality and generally make an ass of myself as they tossed the place. Play to the balconies so the clients knew I didn’t go down without a fight. I can only assume they cleaned out your office as well. My guy inside said the warrants were all in order and they were loaded for bear.

  Gerald will have the details by morning I am sure. My guess is it has something to do with our Rockhound client and our dealings on his behalf with those bad-tempered gentlemen in the garish uniforms.

  So, what’s in the box? I headed to the office early and grabbed your laptop. They can tear your office computer apart, along with the firm’s servers, but I know this computer is where you did our private business.

  Next is the journal out of my safe. With me on ice, only you can decode it. There’s a world of bargaining power in the book. Finally, there’s something else from my safe that’s my gift to you. Use it wisely.

  You are officially on vacation. Stay in the country and lay low. You’re capable of going off the grid. If you get caught, act appropriately shocked, but cooperate. Don’t make it easy on them. Give Gerald some time to see how deep this goes. This is on me, not you.

  Love you Punkin: Dad

  I smiled at the endearment. He hadn’t called me “Punkin” since I was fourteen and he and Mom had split up for the last time.

  Damn.

  I hadn’t thought about Mom. After the fireworks settled, their divorce had been icy professional and her multi-million-dollar settlement had come out of completely clean assets. She would get a visit, but I couldn’t think of anything they could threaten her with. I toyed with the idea of calling her, but, at least for today, decided to let her tell the truth when she said she had no clue where I might be.

  I fixed another light drink and lifted the gym bag. I’d carried enough of these to know exactly what it contained.

  Hmm, ab
out ten, maybe twelve pounds.

  I did the math in my head.

  Thanks, Dad.

  I unzipped the bag and confirmed it. There were ten bundles of hundreds. At fifty large per bundle it came to a half million dollars. The firm’s petty cash fund.

  It was time to plan my next move.

  CHAPTER 4

  I had no reason to hurry and had a better chance of slipping out of the city unnoticed if I waited for the beginning of rush hour. Around eleven, I ordered in Chinese for lunch and then took a carb-crash nap. After a long soak in the claw-foot tub, I exchanged my downtown armor—an Armani suit and Ferragamo Mary Janes—for some gym gear I’d stashed at the apartment.

  I was going to need different clothes. Too new or too stylish, and I’d stand out in the small towns. Too thrift-store and I’d draw the wrong kind of attention from law enforcement. So, a combo look was in order. An All-American chain store invisibility cloak was my best bet, with nothing hinting at five hundred grand under the spare tire. That would be my fun for tomorrow.

  I read his letter again. One line stood out:

  “My guess is it has something to do with our Rockhound client and our dealings on his behalf with those bad-tempered gentlemen in the garish uniforms.”

  I knew exactly what he was talking about. Rockhound had always been more trouble than he was worth. The stench of those deals lingered like something I couldn’t scrape off my shoe and had involved gym bags that weighed a lot more than this one. I shook off those thoughts. I would have plenty of time for speculation once I was shed of Dallas.

  In the butler’s pantry was a wall-mounted key box. We kept some junkers and econo-boxes around for the staff and any guests who needed a low-key ride. I grabbed a couple of rings and packed everything—laptop, notebook, bathroom stuff, three burner phones, and my half-million allowance—into a well-worn leather messenger bag. After turning out the lights, I locked the door behind me, and wondered if I would ever see this apartment again.