Devil's Deal Page 7

  “Okay, now we are getting somewhere. Sit your ass down and tell me what my Uncle Jimmy was into.”

  As he pocketed the cash, his expression again showed the processor between his ears was overclocking. He headed to the desk chair, but I motioned him to a plain one in the corner. I remembered what Uncle Jimmy had under his desk.

  “You told me you knew all about it.”

  “Well, since all your blood had drained from your head to your pants, you didn’t stop to think that I might be bullshitting you. I knew Jimmy was into something, but I wasn’t sure what until you started running your mouth. So, run it some more and then we’ll make a deal.”

  He reminded me of a rat Anthony trapped in one of our filing cabinets. He knew he was cornered and he still kept looking for a way to win.

  I tugged at my lacy harness. The heat in here was making the itching overbearing. “Richie, I don’t have all day and this thing is driving me crazy. Tell me about the gig you worked with my uncle.”

  He folded his hands behind his head. “Don’t feel the need to stay dressed on my account.”

  Even with his swollen nose and blood-streaked mustache taking any cred off his words that was the first funny thing he’d said all afternoon. Still, instead of laughing, I leveled the pistol at him. “Talk.”

  “Okay, okay. It’s a poker game. Friday nights. We’d rent or borrow a place or Jimmy would take that POS truck of his out to the lake to one of the fancy houses and sponsor it. Typically it was low-dollar, but the private games could be high-stakes. Jimmy ran the bank.

  “And Uncle Jimmy also made advances to players who were temporarily embarrassed for funds?”

  “Something like that.”

  Shit was starting to make sense. Shit like having a spring-loaded shotgun under his desk. Evidently, not everybody who visited his office was there to get a divorce.

  “Did any of the private games go farther toward Houston or San Antonio?”

  “Yeah. He would travel for the big-spending clients. We had a rep of running a clean game. I tried to get Jimmy to stack things in our favor but he wouldn’t. Damn if he wasn’t right. Word got out and we did pretty good for ourselves.” I picked up the odd note of pride in his voice.

  “We?”

  “I helped with the setup, checking players in. Drinks and stuff and whatever else he needed.” At that last he became intently interested in his dirty nails.

  It hit me. “I’m going to take a wild guess here. You were a client of Jimmy’s and he let you work it off being his errand boy. And I’m guessing sometimes the players wanted something a little stronger than whiskey to keep playing. You were in charge of the party favors.”

  “That and local collections. Jimmy handled it with the high rollers. So, are you taking over?” he said with a hopeful look.

  Relief flashed over me. San Antonio to Corpus Christi was military territory. The guns were probably debt payments, even the Cutter. Cool thing about those who walk on the wild side, is they tend to keep their mouths shut about it. Especially the ones with something to lose. For the moment anyway, there was nothing to see here.

  I needed to put an end to this. Dad schooled me hard in his version of the art of war. He believed you had to give someone a way out or they had no reason to stop fighting. It was time to give Richie his out.

  “Okay, listen up. Stella’s debt is paid. In consideration of this little misunderstanding between you and me, the local game is yours. Knock yourself the hell out. If you ever involve me or mine in your schemes ever again, I’m coming back and bringing friends who will make that nose feel like a mosquito bite. We are square. Do you fucking understand me?” I punctuated the last sentence with my pistol.

  One of the cool things about pack animals like Richie is they know when they’ve been beat. If he’d been a dog, I’d be looking at belly and a wagging tail. He swallowed hard, no mean feat with his blood-clotted nose, and said, “That oughta work.”

  That was my cue. I moved to the front door and unlocked it.

  “Richie, I highly recommend you go to the bathroom and clean up. I’m leaving and there’s no reason I should be coming back. Not unless you give me one.”

  After the close nasty air of the office, the light breeze was ambrosia. I took one look back; he was still sitting on the chair, staring at the floor. I decided to throw him another bone.

  “Hey Richie.” I slapped the side of my right knee. “The answer to your question.”

  “What?”

  “That’s how far my ink goes.”

  I closed the door on his stunned look, tucked the pistol back in my waistband, and walked away. It was time to deal with Dad.

  CHAPTER 24

  I’m never happier to have stopped drinking early the night before than right at dawn. That’s the magic hour for a hangover, when it either recedes to a spot behind my eyes or blossoms into full misery. The jury was still out on this one. I hoped tea and ibuprofen would keep it to no more than two or three on the Richter scale. Right now, it was florid enough to feel, but not inflicting any real damage. On the flip side, I doubted I’d see Stella for a week. After I told her about Richie, she’d pulled out the wine and made it to the bottom of the second bottle by herself.

  I was sitting at my little galley table and the tea was slowly winning the battle when Simon barked and nudged my ankle.

  Despite the hour, he still made me laugh. “Does somebody want to go outside?”

  Simon responded by pawing the back door and barking.

  “Chill, bro. I’m sure outside is exactly like you left it yesterday.”

  I fumbled with the balky door latch and mentally put it on the growing list of small repairs the motorhome needed. Simon was scaling my legs in a barking frenzy when I finally popped the door open and found Springsteen circa 1992 standing on my patio.

  Well, that is, if the Boss had been Texan and carrying a badge.

  CHAPTER 25

  Simon shot down the steps and made for his doghouse, keeping the cop in his line of sight the whole time. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I was nearly naked in front of a strange man. My pajamas for spring in southern Texas consisted of boy-cut underwear and a tight strappy knit shirt. The only difference between yesterday and today was that today I didn’t have a plan.

  This guy was cool. I’ll give him that. When the morning breeze freshening across the front of my camisole verified it wasn’t yet summer, he didn’t even blink. A hint of color across his cheeks showed me he wasn’t a robot.

  “Can I help you?” I might as well get this going. I made no effort to go back inside. Anyone who shows up before the roosters have finished their coffee gets me as I am and I have nothing to be ashamed of.

  At the sound of my voice, he ratcheted his gaze upward. His eyes were icy blue, the whites startling against his tanned skin. Another chill breeze and the corners of his mouth came up in a dimpled uneven smile, raising a blush of my own.

  “Counselor, I do believe we are going to have to update your dossier under the category of distinguishing marks.”

  At the sound of the booming voice behind him, the cop’s good humor vanished and a veil came over his expression. One of my worst nightmares strutted toward me. A nightmare wearing a white Stetson.

  I fought the urge to cross my arms over my chest. I will be damned if I’d let Daryl Fisk see me uncomfortable. “Well, if it isn’t Ranger Danger. Slow day? No feminists holding hands and singing at the Capitol?”

  The Texas Ranger and I had crossed paths before. Normally I don’t have a problem with cops, but Fisk is an unctuous prick on a good day. I enjoyed baiting him, although, we were usually separated by the defense table and I was wearing around two grand of designer attitude, not my baby-dolls.

  Funny, my current state of undress—the one that didn’t bother me with the cop I’d never laid eyes on before—pissed me off royally in front of Fisk. It didn’t help he looked me up and down with an exaggerated leer bordering on burlesque. I
hadn’t seen Fisk since I made a fool of him on the stand at the Machado trial. I’d enjoyed watching his shiny pockmarked face turn beet red as he realized he’d walked right into it. The color had started on his neck and raced skyward until it was visible between the freshly sharpened spikes of his crew cut.

  “I’ll ask again. What can I do for you? If I don’t get an answer in five seconds, this door is closing and only a warrant will open it again.”

  Fisk turned to the mystery cop who shrugged and bent to pet Simon.

  “Three, two—”

  “How do you know we don’t have a warrant?” asked Fisk.

  “Because I checked your khakis and you don’t have that little woody you always get when you’re on a power trip.”

  Go big or go home.

  The cop barely stifled a laugh as he turned his attention to giving Simon a belly rub while Fisk spluttered. He took off his Stetson and I was gratified that his scalp was an angry red.

  “One—”

  “Let’s do this by the book. Are you Juliana Martin?” the cop said in a drawling baritone that didn’t need to shout to be heard. He gave Simon a final head pat before standing.

  “It’s a simple question. One we all know the answer to. I’m Special Agent Ethan Price with the FBI and you apparently already know Ranger Fisk.”

  “Yes, I’m Juliana Martin. Officers, what brings you to my little camper out here on the prairie?”

  “We were hoping to sit down and talk with you. May we come in?” asked Price.

  “No.”

  His crooked smile said I had to try. During the ensuing silence I noticed Price had cheekbones that could cut diamonds. His hair was on the shaggy side for the FBI, but he held himself with the comfortable air of command I’d seen in other Feds.

  “Would like you like to step out and have a seat?”

  “No.”

  What happened next surprised me. They both stood there. Fisk worked the brim of his hat and Price crossed his arms. They seemed not to know what to do next.

  “Two questions,” I said.

  “Fair enough,” said Price.

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “No, Miss Martin, you are not under arrest.”

  “Am I free to go?”

  “Absolutely. But you’ll get used to seeing me.”

  Don’t tempt me.

  “Agent Price, is this about my father?”

  “That’s three questions.” Price didn’t say anything else as my little traitor of a dog came back to him and sat up on his hind legs for more attention.

  “Humor me.” The tea was losing ground against my headache.

  “Yes. This is about your father. There are people down at the sheriff’s office who would like to talk to you, informally, about the situation.” Price’s words were low and measured.

  Fisk had retreated back under his Stetson and sneaked sideways glances at me and Price as he leaned against the generic cop-mobile. I had a feeling he was the driver in this one.

  So, this was it. The game was on. This time my shiver had nothing to do with the breeze.

  “Agent Price, I have one last question. Does someone in this group have a big enough pair to make the deal? I’m only having this conversation once. There will be no calling the mothership for permission. If the answer is no, come back when it’s yes.”

  “The answer is yes.”

  “You don’t know the deal.”

  “The answer is still yes.”

  I hadn’t expected that. I figured this was a palaver where they would spew and strut and then the suits would set up the real meeting. Price was saying the big boys were in town and ready to rock. That carried weight. I knew I should call Gerald. He’d go absolutely batshit when he finds out I talked to the cops without him. This deal was on me. They either met my demands or not. If they arrested me, I’d lawyer up and they wouldn’t get what they wanted.

  “Miss Martin?” That baritone again.

  “I’m only the messenger boy here and I need to report in. Will you be coming with us or driving separately?”

  “I haven’t said I’m coming yet.”

  Price flicked the screen on his phone. “How long do you need?”

  I was losing control of the situation. “Simon and I will be ready to go in twenty.” I stepped back inside.

  “That damn dog is not coming,” said Fisk.

  “No Simon, no me. Price, why don’t you give Ranger Danger your phone and let him call in and tell whoever is waiting that I slammed the door in your faces?”

  Before Fisk could move, Price said, “Twenty minutes will be fine.” He scooped up Simon and put him on the top step. I didn’t like the way his gaze measured me.

  CHAPTER 26

  Thirty minutes later, Simon and I were in the backseat of the beige government sedan. I decided to ride with Fisk and Price because I didn’t want to give them a chance to talk any more about me or make any phone calls before we arrived at the station. An added benefit was the chance to look my fill at Ethan Price, who purposely kept the conversation light as we drove downtown.

  This was insane. I was heading, alone, armed with only a Chihuahua, into a discussion about my father’s life, and all I could think about was how Ethan Price was the best-looking man I’ve ever seen. It was like someone had taken all my preferences to the guy store and brought him back made-to-order.

  The turn into the county complex’s circular driveway brought me back to reality. A product of Clinton-era law-enforcement funding, the elegant pseudo-plantation-style facility was a reminder of what was waiting for me.

  Neither man spoke as we parked. Price got my car door and I caught a whiff of soap and aftershave as I passed him.

  Concentrate, Juliana. Concentrate.

  With Simon draped over my arm like a furry bracelet, I let Price escort me down the long central hall. It was well before regular business hours, but faces popped into office windows along the way. I’d changed into the same outfit I’d worn to the prison—chic, understated, and expensive. It screamed Houston and Dallas. If someone caught my eye, I glared until they turned away.

  After some twists and turns and entry through two key-carded doors, we were in what had to be the sheriff’s lair. The carpet was thicker and the paneling real wood instead of veneer. I could hear muted voices in the distance. Fisk veered off into an office and Price steered me toward a large conference room.

  He gave a single sharp knock and opened the door. Fear zinged through me. I wasn’t any place new to me, but I’d always been the one opening the door. I’d always been the lawyer, never the client. The reassuring platitudes I’d uttered over the years flashed through my head and revealed themselves as hollow bullshit.

  Shake it off. This is your party. C’mon, let’s do this thing.

  Giving Simon a little kiss on the head, I walked into the conference room and sat at one end of the football field of polished oak without saying a word. From the corner of my eye Price raised his brows, but stayed silent.

  From the other end of the table, the four men, all dressed in nearly identical suits and power ties, looked up in unison.

  “Good morning, Miss Martin. Care to join us?” The one closest to me pulled out a chair next to him and gestured to it.

  I didn’t move. The silence yawned.

  The man at the far end of the table scribbled something on his notepad. I knew his face well. Aaron Snow was the U.S. Attorney for Northern Texas. Not a U.S. Attorney, the U.S. Attorney. He was head of the entire federal shop. To his left was someone I’d only met socially. Assistant Attorney General Leo Jackson ran the criminal division of the Department of Justice. He reported straight to the AG. The white Stetson on the étagère told me that the third was a Texas Ranger, a big man with a familiar face that I couldn’t hook up with a name. The fourth looked like a spear-carrier.

  Price had been right. I was staring down the sum total of law enforcement in my part of the country and I wasn’t moving.

  “Would anyone
like some fresh coffee? Miss Martin, you prefer tea, correct?” Price elegantly broke the stalemate. He also unnerved me by knowing I like tea.

  “Yes. May I have some water as well?” In a moment, a steaming mug, a bottle of water, and a cup appeared in front of me. I opened the water and poured some for Simon. Standing on the table, he lapped it up and wagged his tail at the group. The die was cast. The party was at my end of the room.

  The assistant caught on first. He stood and collected the empty cups. I caught the subtle nod to Snow, who pushed back his chair and stretched. One by one, they poured coffee, checked texts, and moved closer to my end. Leo even gave Simon an ear scratch. Price sat down last, farthest from me, across from the dour Texas Ranger. The victory both buoyed and concerned me. I decided to break the silence.

  “As I’m here voluntarily, may I ask a few preliminary questions?”

  “Of course you can. This is a professional meeting,” said Snow.

  I contained the laugh, but I’m sure the smile slipped through because the Ranger’s scowl deepened.

  “You already know what I’m going to ask. Am I free to go and is this being recorded?”

  Jackson answered. “You are not in custody. My assistant is taking some notes, but there is no recording device. Are you satisfied?”

  I gave a shallow nod behind my tea cup. If they were lying, I’d be asked to speak up. Their silence told me this was off the record. “Okay, the prosecution speaks first. I’m listening. And please leave the interrogation tactics in the closet. No need to build rapport. Speak straight and I’ll answer straight.”

  CHAPTER 27

  “You’re aware of all the charges against your father? Both state and federal?” Snow was taking the hint.

  I finished my tea. Instead of Price, the assistant refilled it. “Yes, I am fully aware of the charges. I am also aware the Dallas County District Attorney is not at this little soiree. Do you have his proxy or will I have to go through this again with him?”