Bait the devil, p.7
Bait the Devil, page 7
“Is it an impossible scenario?” Angela asked.
“At this stage, it’s hard to say.”
Another drawn-out pause.
“You are your mother’s daughter.”
Dot smiled.
“You are more than capable of handling any conflict or horror thrown your way. You are a Ybarra.”
The statement, one her grandfather said over and over again when she was growing up, loosened the tension in Dot’s body.
“Eskerrik asko, ama.”
“Sleep. Tomorrow is on the horizon, and things will become clearer.”
They ended the call with their traditional goodbyes. Dot set her cell on the wide armrest and continued to stare at the starry sky while she smoked.
Halfway through the cigar, she picked her phone up, pulled up the photo of the tattoo, and studied it. The symbol burned into her brain.
Where had she seen this before?
A flicker of light. A memory of blood-smeared skin. The acrid odor of burned flesh.
Dot blinked at the images.
Wailing. Screams.
Twisted metal and powdered concrete.
Abbey Gate.
The memory flooded her senses. She had crawled out of the cockpit and stumbled toward the horror.
The first body she’d come across was a man, ripped in two by the blast, his ghutra thrown back to reveal the marking on his neck.
The same tattoo she’d seen on the shooter. On her phone.
Dot snuffed out her cigar and left the deck chair. There would be no sleep tonight.
*
The aged woman T.J. rented an attic apartment from said he hadn’t come around yet. Dot accessed their shared GPS locator and headed for his current location.
As predictable as she, T.J. found comfort in an outdoor shooting range. Where she preferred bow and arrows, he chose rifle and ammo.
The owner of the range waved at her when she entered the shop. He directed her to the lone outdoor range in use. Dot checked the time, noting it was coming on closing for the range. The owner assured her that he’d stick around as long as it took. The man being retired military himself, he recognized a troubled spirit when it walked onto his facility.
Echoing gunfire and the low lighting guided her to the range where T.J. had set up.
She called out to him, alerting to her approach. After he secured the range, he let her know it was safe to come.
T.J.’s setup was as she expected; his Mossberg with a night scope nestled on a tripod and a sandbag settled under the spot where he’d placed his elbows. He’d been prone versus sitting to shoot. His ear protection set pushed up to cradle his forehead, the ball cap turned backward. His beard was coated in dust, and grime smudged his tanned cheeks. He’d been at this a long while.
“How much did you win?” she asked.
When he got into a grump, T.J. liked to bet with the other shooters on the range on who could do what kind of shot and how close to a designated target they could get. He did this only with the guys and gals he’d shot against in the past, never with a newbie or a stranger. Everyone who bet with him knew his history and knew when he was in a mood.
T.J. had a tendency to lose more than he won. But it was never high stakes.
“A hundred,” he answered as he began stripping the gun down. “Thought you were going home to sleep.”
“You know that wasn’t going to happen.” She grabbed his hand to cease his work. “Look at me.”
He set down the items in hand and faced her. Seeing him like this, covered in dirt and kitted out for a firefight, reminded her of those days back on the FOB after she’d picked up him and his squad outside the wire. Years and a few pounds heavier around the midsection, he still looked like he could kick some serious terrorist ass.
“You got whatever was bothering you today out of your system?” she asked, nodding at the range and the rifle.
“Some,” he rumbled.
“I’ll take what I can get,” she groused. “I remembered where I’ve seen that tattoo.” This was going to hurt coming out of her. “It was on a … man who was killed … at Abbey Gate.”
“A refugee?”
“Maybe.” Dot bowed her head and blew out a breath. “God … there had been so many.”
T.J. took her by the shoulders and pulled her into his arms.
What a pair they were. Pieces of them broken beyond repair.
That reason had to be why T.J. was suddenly so gung-ho on finding Cade Porter. The far-off looks. Slipping into a blank state that was clearly his brain dredging up memories. T.J. had more instances of war’s trauma than Dot herself. There was something to the cockpit giving the pilot a sense of disconnect when it came to the horrors of combat.
They stood like this for a moment. She breathing in the scent of male musk, spent gunpowder, and dirt. He with his head bowed into her shoulder, his ear guards pressing painfully into her cheek.
T.J. lifted his head and shifted to look at her while keeping his arms around her. “If you want out of this case, we’ll leave it to someone else to handle.”
Dot stared at him. “What did you find in those journals? I want the truth of what you read between the lines, not what was written.”
T.J.’s delayed response was a good sign he was sorting out his thoughts, a typical maneuver on his part she had come to trust.
“Something bad went down while he was in the Corps. So bad he saved a bloodstained uniform and boots. Were they his? I don’t know. But we weren’t given the whole read in on his dossier.”
“You think his guilt is leading him down a bad path?” Dot asked, unable to bring herself to say that ugly word, suicide. Though he rarely talked about it, and didn’t elaborate much on it when he did bring it up, Dot was aware of his history with fellow soldiers who had crossed the line and were no longer with them. “Then we stick it out. We were the right ones to pick up this case.”
“Not if it’s going to get us killed. That isn’t why I got into the bounty business. And it sure as hell wasn’t the reason I asked you to join me.”
She frowned, analyzing what he said versus what he wasn’t saying. “Is this about Sloane?”
His former partner and her long ago childhood friend, Sloane Cross had taken a bullet while on Dot’s family ranch and nearly died from it. She had retired from the PI and bounty hunting business and was helping one of their other childhood friends run her bed-and-breakfast business.
T.J. made a noise as if to refuse, stopped, and sighed. “Maybe a little.”
“At least you’re being honest.”
He leaned back a fraction and reached up to take her ball cap and turned it around. With the ball cap set backward on her head, he let his hand trail down the side of her face and settled it on the juncture of her neck and shoulder.
“If you’re sure?” he asked.
“We see this to the end. No matter what comes our way.” She held up a finger and whapped his nose. “And this pretending you’re not having flashbacks ends.”
He huffed. “Practice what you preach, Ybarra.”
She wanted to kiss him. Sensed he wanted the same. But kissing and fucking hadn’t solved any of their issues in the past. Tonight, she wouldn’t go down this path.
She slipped free of his embrace and adjusted her ball cap brim forward. “Clean up here. We’ve got work to do.”
Chapter Eleven
Vivian stalked through the offices of McLaughlin, Pryor, Grainger, and Associates, scowling at the wide-eyed stares from fellow lawyers and paralegals. The sharp click of her heels sounded a lot like the crack of gunfire.
Despite the interior decorators’ best intentions for ease and comfort, the entire place had a clinical feel to it with its light-gray walls, muted blue carpeting, and white and silver furnishings. When Vivian had become part of the law firm, she’d expected dark colors and dark woods, with an overall sense of power and sexism. This was far from the case for the two lower levels.
She marched up the wide staircase to the third floor. Up here, the décor was more masculine in color and taste—dark wood trimmed walls painted gunmetal gray sporting trophy heads of elk, deer, and antelope. At the top of the steps, she turned left and made a beeline for the main office dominating the left wing where a taxidermy grizzly stood sentry beside a dark cherry wood door.
An empty secretary’s desk was stationed kitty-corner to the grizzly. Loren McLaughlin’s administrative assistant had retired more than a year ago, and he’d never bothered to hire her replacement. Rumors whispered by those who’d been around the longest said the reason for the delay was because Loren was about to cash out himself.
Vivian’s rapid-fire knock rattled the cherry wood.
“I’m busy” came the response to her summons.
Scowling at the door, she knocked again, harder.
“What?”
Plastering a fake smile on her face, she opened the door and breezed inside. “Loren.”
“Vivian,” Loren McLaughlin groused. “What brings you storming up to the third floor and banging on my door at this god-awful hour?”
God-awful hour was subjective. It was nine a.m.
The man behind the huge cherry wood desk didn’t bother to get up. Loren wore a tan Western-cut blazer over a light-blue button-down. The gradual progression of light skin to dark in his face indicated much time out in the sun under a wide-brimmed hat. Said hat—a fawn-colored Stetson—lay crown down on a shelf behind the aged lawyer’s gray head. Loren came from one of the oldest and largest Idaho ranching families and still had a hand in the operation. Word was his youngest son actually ran the outfit.
“What is going on with Hal Jones?” Vivian blurted, the irritation in her voice punctuating each word.
Loren scowled. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Not one iota.”
“Really? So, it hasn’t reached you that one of Hal’s troublesome clients got dumped off onto a lower-tier lawyer? A client who ended up an FTA in court, and when recovery agents went to retrieve him, they found a massacre at his residence and said defendant was missing. Then when we went to talk with Hal, we found he and his family gone. Poof! Vanished into thin air.”
Loren’s features morphed from perturbed to disbelief.
“And the final straw came yesterday when my cousin and her partner, the recovery agents sent to retrieve the FTA, were ambushed and fired on at Hal Jones’s home.”
Loren threw up a hand and cut her off. “What fresh hell is this?”
“Just as you said, fresh hell.”
Shaking his head, he closed his open case files and tucked them in a corner. “Okay, start from the beginning, and let’s not summarize it.”
As Vivian relayed the Cade Porter and Halloway Jones situation in more detail, Loren listened intently. Once she finished, he nodded.
“Better, Counselor.” He sat back in his large leather chair and placed intertwined hands on his chest. “Sit down, Vivian, you’re making me antsy.”
“I’d rather not.”
He leveled a stern frown on her. Squaring her shoulders, Vivian did as the old lawyer ordered and took one of the two chairs positioned before his desk. Once she was seated, he leaned forward and placed his hands on the desktop.
“First, I have no notion of where Hal has gone off to. Luke handles all the time-off nonsense.”
Luke was the head of the HR department. Time-off nonsense was Loren’s way of saying he didn’t like people taking a leave of absence for any reason. Probably why he was three divorces deep and estranged from most of the children produced from said marriages.
“Secondly, you said we went to Hal’s home. We being you, your cousin, and another man, T.J. Roman did you say?”
“Yes. I went because … well, they made me. But it made sense to have me along since Hal is a colleague.”
“Vivian, you’re a lawyer, not law enforcement. Why would you ever—”
“Loren, no offense intended here but cut the crap.”
“This is not crap, Counselor. By your mere presence in Jones’s home, you put yourself at risk for countless infractions, highest among them putting your life in peril.”
“We had no way of knowing there was going to be serious trouble when we went to Hal’s place. If something had gone south, I was in the most capable hands I would ever want to be in.”
“Being your cousin—what was her name again? And this T.J. Roman?”
“Yes, my cousin, Dot Ybarra.”
Loren mulled over this information. “What makes her so special that you’d trust her with your very life? Aside from her being your cousin, that is.”
Vivian gave him a wry grin. “Aside from being my cousin, she’s hell on wheels and one of the most accurate shots I’ve ever seen.”
“Ybarra? This wouldn’t have been the same woman who put the screws to that whackadoodle kiddie rapist months back? Made national news?” Loren asked.
“One and the same,” Vivian said.
“Be that as it may, it still doesn’t give you immunity from the blowback created if a serious incident with you involved had occurred. Bad press for you and this firm.”
Vivian returned Loren’s hard stare with one of her own. She’d faced hardened criminals and smug defendants with a penchant for sexist remarks that would make most women resign on the spot. Loren’s sourpuss attitude was a minor inconvenience.
“Are you quite finished scolding me?”
“Are you sufficiently reprimanded?” he asked.
“Were you under any illusion I was going to take your verbal ruler to the hand to heart and change my evil ways?”
He sat back in his chair with a huff. “One can always hope.”
“Now that we’ve circled the room a few times, let’s get back to why I’m here. Do you have any idea of what Hal got himself caught up in that would scare him into hiding?” Vivian leaned toward the desk. “Do you have any clue as to where Hal might have gone to ground?”
Loren sighed. “Vivian, I’m sorry, I don’t. For the last year, I’ve stayed out of the firm’s daily grind. As I’m certain you’ve heard the rumors, I plan to retire by the end of this year. I’ve left most of the day-to-day to Meredith.”
Meredith Pryor, the Pryor portion of the firm’s managers. And the instigator of the horrible décor on the lower levels.
“I would get with her and discuss this whole matter,” Loren continued, this time standing.
Vivian popped onto her feet. “You don’t have any inkling on Hal’s life outside of the firm?”
“Hal was close to Charley; in fact, I think they spent weekends fly fishing or golfing or whatnot. I’d ask him. But check with Meredith first.” Loren rounded his desk and showed Vivian to the door. “Might I add, if this is as dangerous as you’re making it sound, you should consider not involving yourself any further. Having one missing lawyer is too much.”
“I’ll be fine, Loren.”
He opened his door and paused to study her. “You’re a damn fine lawyer. Extremely intelligent. Don’t let your cousin and her partner drag you into anything.”
She gave him a half-hearted smile. “You’re thirty years too late for that warning.” She nodded to Loren as she exited his office.
As she passed the secretary’s desk, she heard the door click shut behind her. Vivian halted and looked back. Was Loren serious about not having a clue on what was going on?
Or had he just put on the best acting performance of his life?
Whatever the case might be, she’d have a one-on-one with Meredith and see what the she-dragon had to say.
Vivian was about to take the steps down when a hiss followed by her name halted her. She turned and followed the beckoning hand into the older case files room. Once she’d entered the room, Charley Ash, a fellow attorney and apparently best buds to Hal Jones, closed the door and locked it.
Vivian gave him a glare that could peel paint. “If you plan to molest me in some way, I’ll—”
“Whoa, chill, Vivian,” he said as he passed her, holding his hands up as if surrendering. “Come with me.”
The room they were in was situated like a library graveyard. Ancient law books and aging white banker’s boxes covered in dust on tall bookshelves made narrow pathways to the far wall lined with old metal filing cabinets. Vivian swore she’d felt a spider swing past her face.
Charley stopped and faced her, peering past her shoulder. “Good,” he said in a low voice. “Don’t speak too loud.”
“Why?” she asked in a whisper.
He pointed to his ear and then circled the room. Vivian looked around, didn’t see anything that looked like a listening device or even a video recorder. She made a pinched face at Charley.
“Not like that,” he said quietly. “This is about Hal and that defendant of his.”
“Cade Porter,” Vivian supplied when Charley faltered.
“Yeah, him.” He turned to a light silver filing cabinet and unlocked the top drawer.
“Where’d you get a key for that?”
“I’ve always had it.” He opened the third drawer and pulled it out as far as it would go.
The drawer was crammed with old case files. Vivian noted some of the dates on the folder tabs going back to the seventies. At the back of the drawer, sitting in a five-inch gap between the last file and the drawer’s panel, was a black leather portfolio. Charley picked it up and held it out to Vivian.
“We were never in here. I did not give this to you. And you say nothing to anyone about this or what is in it. Understood?”
She took hold of the portfolio, but Charley held fast.
“Understood?”
“Yes, I understand.”
He released his grip on the portfolio. “Find a way to get this out of here and the building without anyone noticing it.”
“How do you expect me to do that? I didn’t exactly walk up here with a huge bag to stuff things into.”
He looked about and grabbed up an old banker’s box. He yanked the lid off and peeked inside. “Empty.” He thrust it out to her. “Grab some of those books and pretend you needed to look up an outdated law or something.”
He’d lost his damn mind. “No one is going to believe that.”
