Brody & Hannigan 02 - Grand Theft Lotto (9 page)

And he'd figure it out. He was brilliant at putting together subtle clues and making intuitive jumps.

She glanced at her watch. Almost midnight. No store in town would still be open. Oh hell, she thought, and started digging through her drawers for a pair of panties and bra that matched and looked reasonably girly. She laid them on her bed and kept digging, adding a set of silky tap shorts and a matching camisole to her small overnight case. Then for good measure, she tossed in the silk robe that had come with the tap shorts and camisole.

No Teddy bear. That was what Brody was for, right?

Grinning at her own nervous mental ramblings, she stripped out of her work clothes and took a quick shower, changing into the pretty underwear. Jeans and a figure-hugging Atlanta Braves T-shirt she knew Brody liked.

She took a last look in the dresser mirror. She looked…ordinary. Same old Stella Hannigan who met her in the mirror every morning.

With a sigh, she picked up the bag and headed for the front door.

As she reached her car, her cell phone trilled. Expecting it to be Brody again, urging her to hurry, she was surprised to find the number unlisted. She almost sent it straight to voicemail, but curiosity made her finger press "answer" instead. "Hello?"

"Thank God." That was Becky Barlow's voice. She sounded stressed. "I was afraid you weren't going to answer."

"Is something wrong?"

"I need your help, Stella. Can you meet me at the beauty shop?" Becky's voice was low and urgent, the tone setting off tremors in Hannigan's gut. She'd never heard her cousin sound quite so frantic before.

"Of course, but are you in trouble?"

"Not really. I don't know. I need to talk to you. Just come, please??" Becky hung up the phone before Hannigan could ask any more questions.

Frowning, she called Brody's cell number. He answered on the first ring, his tone eager enough to make her flattered. "How much longer?"

"Maybe longer than I thought," she admitted, not hiding her own regret. She told him about Becky's call. "It's probably nothing, but she's in an emotional state because of Dwayne and how it must be affecting Marie. I guess she just needs a sympathetic shoulder more than anything else."

At least, Hannigan hoped that was all it would turn out to be. She was getting pretty damned tired of murder and mayhem getting between her and her partner's very nice bed in a fancy midtown loft with a view of the city.

He'd promised her he didn't expect anything to happen between them that night, and he'd meant it. But working with Hannigan for as many years as he had meant a few of her better traits had started rubbing off on him. And one of her best traits, on that had saved his ass more than once, was her unshakable belief in being prepared. So he'd stopped on his way home to pick up a box of condoms.

One never knew.

A hard wind was kicking up by the time he parked in the lot behind his downtown loft, flapping the brown paper bag with his purchase so hard it almost whipped out of his grasp. A couple of fat raindrops chased him inside, and by the time he entered the loft, the tall windows that made up one long wall of the apartment were streaked with rain.

Had the call about meeting her cousin been an excuse to keep from coming over tonight at all? Had she changed her mind and used her family crisis to ease the blow?

He checked his phone messages, half-expecting to hear her voice on the other end of the call, begging off. But the only message was from his mother, reminding him of his father's upcoming birthday celebration a week from Sunday. "I know you're always on call, but if you can manage to keep the criminal element from interrupting our party on Sunday, that would be lovely," she said in a drily humorous tone that made him smile. "And if she's free, why don't you bring that partner of yours? We'd love to get to know her better."

Unerring motherly instinct, he thought with a smile. He wrote the date on his calendar—something he should have done long before —and made a mental note to ask Hannigan if she'd be interested in going.

She'd met his parents before, in more public settings, but if they were going to change their relationship from platonic to—well—not, he supposed she'd probably be seeing his parents more often. His father's seventieth birthday party was as good an occasion as any to get started.

He showered and—still thinking optimistically—shaved while he waited for Hannigan to arrive. Redressed in jeans and a long-sleeved black Henley shirt he knew she liked, he had just started sorting through his MP3 player to work up a playlist he knew she'd enjoy when three sharp raps on the loft door startled him. He glanced at his watch—barely after twelve. She'd made good time.

He unlocked the door and swung it open, already smiling.

But it wasn't Hannigan standing in his doorway. It was Cade Sullivan, the boxer from The Body Shop.

Holding an enormous Colt .45 Combat Elite.

Chapter Ten

"You've got to help me, man!"

"Put the weapon down," Brody said with a calm he didn't feel. His own weapon was on the table by the sofa, several feet away. He'd never make it there before Sullivan took a shot.

"Look, man—" Sullivan waved the Colt, sending a shock wave rocking through Brody's body.

Brody held up his hands in the universal "I mean you no harm" gesture, but he was ready to dive for cover at the first chance possible. "I'll help you, but first you have to put the weapon down."

Sullivan lowered the barrel of the gun, though he didn't relinquish it completely. Still, the small concession was enough to make Brody's whole body quiver with relief. He gripped the doorjamb with one hand just to stay upright.

Cade stared at him, then at the gun in his own hand. An almost comical expression of realization washed over his face and he quickly bent and set the gun on the floor. "Sorry, man. Sorry! I wasn't—I didn't mean—" Sullivan sounded as if he were on the verge of weeping. "I didn't come here to hurt anybody. I need your help! Somebody killed Anton. You were there. You saw what they did to him. I'm afraid I'm next."

"How did you find me?" Brody asked as he picked up the Colt and ejected the ammunition.

Sullivan looked a little sheepish. "I followed you home from the police station."

Brody sighed, motioning him inside. He took the sofa, while Sullivan hunkered down, hunched and miserable looking, in the armchair opposite.

"Do you have any idea who killed Dwayne and Anton?" Brody asked.

Sullivan shook his head. "Not exactly. It could be a lot of people."

"People you and your friends at the gym were blackmailing?"

Sullivan's eyes narrowed. "You know about the pictures, then."

"You were involved?"

"It wasn't my idea. I just—" He looked a little sheepish. "Ladies like me, you know? And I have this little video hobby, you see."

"And you videotaped your...liaisons with women who might not be happy about evidence of those assignations getting out?" Brody said with delicacy.

Sullivan frowned at him. "I did some chicks that didn't want it to get around, you know?"

"The other day, we asked if you knew anyone who drove a black Kawasaki Ninja motorcycle. You said you didn't. Would you like to revise that answer?"

Sullivan looked sick. "Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"It's just—she'll know I was the one who told you."

"She?" Brody asked.

"She's the one who made me give Anton the videos in the first place. It's where he got the whole idea about the pictures."

"She who?" he prodded.

"That Barlow bitch!" Sullivan growled, his fists clenching. "She's the one who made me do it."

Brody felt as if someone had just put a cattle prod to his chest. "Becky? Becky Barlow?"

Sullivan nodded. "She's the one who drives the Ninja."

He shook his head, not ready to believe it. Not about Hannigan's cousin. Not on this man's word. "That bike was reported stolen."

"Yeah, check out those files you guys found at the gym," Sullivan said darkly. "You'll find that guy's name there. He gave the bike to Becky in exchange for her keeping his little spanking fetish quiet."

Brody tried not to react, but all she could think about was Hannigan on her way to the beauty shop to meet Becky. Alone.

Son of a bitch.

He rose to his feet, grabbing his weapon from the table by the sofa. "Sully, before we go any further, I should tell you that you're under arrest for extortion and possibly a gun charge. You have a right to remain silent. Anything you say from this point forward can be held against you in a court of law. You also have the right to an attorney, and if you can't afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you. Do you understand what I've just told you?"

"Yeah," he said bleakly. "And I guess I should call a lawyer, huh?"

Brody didn't care at the moment. "Just answer me this," he said as he pushed Sullivan toward the door ahead of him. "Consider it a freebie. Why would Becky kill Dwayne and Anton?"

"Dwayne had won the Lotto," Sullivan answered with a smile that looked more like a grimace. "He wanted out, and Becky didn't trust him."

Brody's gut twisted in a knot. "And Anton?"

"Because he didn't know about it until you came around asking questions," Sullivan said morosely. "He wasn't in on the ring, you see. The manager before handled things. Anton didn't even have a key to that back room, but I guess when you started asking around, he got curious. So he dug in the old manager's desk until he found the hidden compartment. Found a key in there, and he was all freaked out about the pictures he found. He was going to call you, but I tried to talk him out of it, you see—"

"How did Becky find out?"

"I think Clay Prentiss called her. He's another guy who hangs at the gym sometimes. He does the guys who like guys, Dwayne and I did the women, Becky and one of her friends from the beauty shop do guys who like girls. The other girl, Lana, also does girls and threesomes. Kinkier the better." Sullivan shrugged. "People like what they like, and that's fine. But if they don't want people to find out about it, maybe they should think twice before some of the freaky shit they do."

Despite having taken a shower less than an hour earlier, Brody felt the need to bathe again. Hannigan's cousin Becky was one of the blackmailers? But why hadn't she recognized her cousin?

Of course, some of the people in the photos had kept their backs to the camera. On purpose? They'd have known where the cameras were, after all.

He pulled out his cell phone and tried Hannigan's phone. It went straight to voice mail, and he growled a low profanity. Trying the lieutenant at home, he had better luck. Crane sounded annoyed, but his attitude changed quickly as Brody outlined the events of the last few minutes. "I can't wait for uniforms to pick up Sullivan. I'm closer to the beauty shop. I'm leaving him cuffed to the bottom rail of the stairs."

Sullivan started to protest but Brody's look shut him up. He hooked one cuff around Sullivan's wrist and the other cuff around the metal railing of the stairs leading up to his loft. "Don't give the nice policemen any trouble, understand?"

Sullivan nodded, looking resigned. "What if she finds me here? I can't even run."

His jaw tightening to stone, Brody shook his head, already halfway out the door. "It's not you she's after tonight."

Pearl's Cut and Curl was dark, the plate glass windows reflecting the muddy yellow glow of the streetlight on the corner as Hannigan stepped from behind the Impala's steering wheel and closed the car door behind her with a metallic thunk. The hair on the back of her neck prickling with warning, she reached under her jacket for her M&P compact .40. Out of habit, she checked the magazine and the round in the chamber, even though she'd loaded the weapon that morning and hadn't fired a shot since.

She looked at the darkened window of the beauty shop, weighing the possibilities. Maybe Becky hadn't called from the shop. Maybe she'd been on her way and something had delayed her. Maybe she'd gotten a call from her mother and had to leave.

Slipping her hand into her jacket pocket, she pulled out her cell phone and checked. One missed call, but it wasn't from Becky. Brody, of course.

She pressed his number on speed dial. He answered on the first ring. "Hannigan. Thank God."

The frantic tone of his voice set her nerves humming like a well-struck tuning fork. "Brody?"

"Becky's the killer," he said without preamble. "Tell me you're not at the beauty shop yet."

"I'm here," she said, her mind reeling. "Becky's not the killer. We saw the killer—"

"We saw a black-clad person on a motorcycle with a tinted helmet," Brody said urgently. She heard the motor engine noise on his end of the call. He was driving.

"What makes you think Becky's the killer?" It took a moment to realize she was hearing motor sounds on her end of the call as well. A car was approaching. Or maybe—

A motorcycle.

The sound grew louder, a familiar, air-ripping sputter that seemed to burst into full volume impossibly close behind her. Whirling, she saw the black Ninja whip out of the alley three storefronts down the street from her, speeding through the turn on a forty-five degree slant.

The rider was clad in black, as before, riding close to the curb where Hannigan stood. As she squinted against the bright glare of the motorcycle's headlights, Hannigan spotted the rider's hand come up, holding something long and thin.

For a split second, the image of Dwayne's ruined throat flashed through her mind. Before the image faded, her hand came up, gripping the M & P and taking aim.

The motorcycle swerved. The rider's hand swept toward her, swinging the object he held through the air in a forward whipping motion, straight toward her face. Ducking down and sideways, she managed to evade whatever whiffed by overhead and fired her pistol, not at the rider but at the motorcycle tire. The rubber tire expelled air in an explosive rush, and the back of the skidding bike careened toward her.

She threw herself forward. Felt the hard rush of air as the tail of the motorcycle passed within heart-stopping inches and slammed with a crunching shriek of glass and metal against the front panel of her car.

Three hard thuds later, the night stuttered into silence so harsh and deep Hannigan might have thought she'd gone deaf, were it not for the rattling cadence of her own pulse in her ears.

She turned in quick, adrenaline-fueled twitches, scanning the world around her for further threats even as she assessed the current state of things.

One black and chrome Ninja motorcycle lying on its side in the street where it had skidded after bouncing off the front of her Impala. One black-clad rider, lying on the sidewalk near the front window of Pearl's Cut and Curl, one leg twisted in an unnatural position. Front panel of the Impala crunched and accordioned by the impact. Another deep dent on the front hood—where the rider had hit after impact?

A faint voice, rising in tenor, wafted toward her from somewhere nearby. She'd dropped her phone at some point. She still had her pistol. It sat hot and heavy in her clenched fist.

As she bent to see where the errant phone had ended up, she saw something long and thin sticking out from behind her front tire—a fire iron, sleek and sharp at one end. The muscles of her neck twitched as she remembered something swinging toward her out of the darkness.

"Hannigan!" Brody's voice was louder as she crouched by the car. She spotted her phone by the back tire and reached for it. "Brody?"

"Oh, my God." His voice was raspy with relief. "I thought—"

"I'm okay. The guy on the Ninja, not so much." She stood and looked over the battered hood of the Impala, watching for any sign of movement in the crumpled body on the sidewalk. There was nothing. The leather-clad body lay twisted and still, the helmet scuffed but still in place.

"Stay right where you are. I'm about a block away."

She heard the sound of his car engine now, humming in the stillness of the night. Closer and closer, until she saw headlights, then the familiar lines of his Dodge Charger. "Oh, look at you," she said with a faint smile as he pulled up next to her. "You brought the muscle car."

He didn't cut the engine, just jammed it park and was out of the car before it finished rocking. She forgot, sometimes, how freakin' tall and imposing he could be, how he could tower over her and make her feel tiny and fragile.

Then his arms roped around her, pulling her against him until she thought she might smother in the soft, worn cotton of his T-shirt. He smelled like coffee and fear, and she hugged him close, deeply glad to be in his arms. He pressed kisses to the top of her head, to her forehead, her temples, the curve of her ear, before crushing her mouth beneath his. There was no sensuality to his kiss, just a fierce desperation that rattled through her like an earthquake.

Only when she felt herself growing lightheaded did she push him away so she could take a long, deep breath.

He closed his eyes a moment, as if finishing a prayer, then looked over at the biker's body. "Is she dead?"

"I haven't checked," Hannigan said, not missing his choice of pronouns. "You said she. You really think it's Becky?"

"It's a long story, but yeah. I think it might be." He put out his arm as she started toward the body. "I'll check."

"You don't know what she looks like," she pointed out.

He sighed, nodded and caught her free hand in his as they walked up on the curb and warily approached the body. Somewhere in the distance, she heard sirens wailing, slowly increasing in volume.

"I called for back-up," Brody told her as they stopped by the body. "Keep your weapon on her. Just in case."

Hannigan leveled her pistol at the still form, bracing herself. Her heart rate had slowed after the initial adrenaline surge, but it still continued to pound out a dirge-like cadence of dread. Please don't be Becky, she thought as Brody bent and flipped up the visor.