Dead Ringer

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WARNER BOOKS EDITION

Copyright © 2003 by Wylann Soloman

Excerpt from
Tell Me No Lies
copyright © 2003 by Wylann Solomon All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Cover art and design by Tom Tafuri Hand lettering by David Gatti Book design b
y
Glorgetta Bell McRee

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Thanks to all who helped make this book possible, especially Linda, Jo, Beth, GayNelle, and Trish, my friends and fabulous critiquers. To Professor Frank Wcislo for help with Russian.

A special thanks to my agent, Pam Ahearn, and my editor, Beth de Guzman, for taking a chance on me and my stories.

And as always, to the people who keep me sane while I slowly drive them crazy: Larry and Becca.

CHAPTER
1

"Baby, oh baby, oh baby."

Like a hot breeze, a hoot of laughter drifted across the night-lit airfield as Finn Carver descended from the charter plane.

The laughing man crossed his arms and leaned against the car parked on the edge of the Memphis tarmac, the runway lights illuminating him. "My, my, my, don't you look good."

But Finn was in no mood for teasing. "Cut the crap, Jack." He pitched his briefcase and overnight bag to Jack Saunders and tried to ignore the way the younger man was making a big production out of admiring Finn's tuxedo.

"Yessir." Jack gave a long, low wolf whistle. "The storm troopers have definitely arrived."

Finn eyed Jack's baggy Hawaiian shirt, worn loose over a pair of rumpled khakis. "I wouldn't talk. You could take a few fashion lessons yourself."

Jack grinned and shrugged off the criticism the way his always did. "Yeah, but then I'd lose the thing that makes me so... so me."

Behind them, die pilot hurried into the hangar, leaving Finn and Jack alone on the empty tarmac. It was past midnight, and the heavy delta air seeped beneath the collar of Finn's white dress shirt. But humidity wasn't the only thing making him sweat.

He scowled, crushing that thought. Nothing on earth would put him on the run, least of all a woman. He wrenched off the sleek black jacket and tossed it in the back of the car before folding himself into the passenger seat

"Come on, Jack," Finn called out. "It's not like the bad guys are going to wait while you get your rocks off ragging me."

Jack stowed Finn's bag and briefcase in the trunk, then slid behind the wheel. "I gather you want to skip the how are you's?"

"Just brief me."

Jack shook his head. "Someday you're going to learn to slow down and say hello."

"Jack-"

"Just trying to save your life here, buddy. You saved mine."

"I didn't-"

"You gotta learn to loosen up. You don't want to keel over from a heart attack before you're forty, do you?"

"Jack.. ." He could give the younger man a heart attack himself and his voice clearly said so.

Jack only grinned at the threatening tone.

Jesus, the guy was worse than a puppy. Nothing you did put him off.

But Jack held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, I get

it. Work, work, work. So here's the deal." Suddenly he was all-business. "I drop you off at the house where the party's at, then take your stuff to the motel Here's the address." He fished a business card from his shirt pocket and handed it to Finn. "I stashed a cop at the house to keep an eye on things. I'll drive back to the house, leave this car there, and catch a ride back with the cop." He reached into the glove compartment "Here," he said. "Credit cards, driver's license, social security card. Welcome back, Agent Carver."

Finn shuffled through the identification, saw his own name printed on everything, and replaced the cards he'd been carrying in his wallet for the past six days. He let out a tense breath and leaned back against the headiest. It was good to be clean for once. Twelve hours ago he'd been unshaven, scouring dockside bars and low-life coffee shops for even the slightest hint of where the package he'd been hunting might land. All he'd unearthed were the same rumors they'd been hearing for weeks. Something big, powerful, and nuclear was going on the market but no one knew where or when.

Then Roper had contacted him, said they'd found the girl.

Finn had grabbed a fast haircut, a tux, and boarded the charter almost before he'd had time to breathe. And now here he was, about to resurrect a ghost.

"You're sure this is her?" Finn asked.

"People told me you had a problem with trust," Jack said in a mock mournful voice, "but I didn't want to believe it." He reached for a manila envelope imprisoned by the visor in front of him, flipped it into Finn's lap, and started the engine.

As the car pulled away from the hangar, Finn slipped out the surveillance pictures and swore softly.

"What'd I tell you," Jack said. "It's her."

"Now this is hard to believe."

"The eyes don't lie."

Finn nodded thoughtfully. No, they didn't, but pictures did. He'd have to see for himself. "Where is she?"

"At Seaman's digs. Partying. Hence the party clothes." Jack nodded toward Finn and the tuxedo he wore.

"I thought Beaman just died."

"A week ago." Jack gave a cynical snort. "But everyone handles grief in their own special way."

Finn slipped into silence, thinking about the woman in the pictures. He didn't know much about her, but what he knew was keeping his palms slick, even in the air-conditioned car. His record was piss-poor when it came to working with women, especially this kind. Third-rate "actress," second-rate country singer, first-rate gold digger.

Well, everyone had their talents.

And clearly men were hers. Old men. With lots of money. Lucky for him that was exactly the skill he needed right now.

Yeah, real lucky.

"Beaman was what," Finn said, scanning the report enclosed in the envelope with the pictures, "soul mate number four?"

"And counting," Jack replied. "She chews 'em up and spits 'em out. Can't help but admire her, though. At least she's well paid."

"Those extra bucks are going to come in handy since old Uncle Sam doesn't pay top dollar."

"That's assuming she'll do it."

"Oh, she'll do it. With Beaman out of the picture, her free ride's gone-"

"She's vulnerable," Jack said, egging him on. "Probably lonely, afraid-"

"Exactly. Just ripe for the picking."

Jack shook his head. "Jesus, you're a cold bastard."

Not cold enough if his sweaty hands were proof. "It's a cold world, Jack, and we're the ones keeping it from getting colder. I do what it takes to get the job done."

Twenty minutes later Jack headed up a long winding drive that led to a large estate overlooking the Mississippi River. A columned portico set the front of the house off from the stately brick wings on either side. Greenery climbed the brick; thickly flowering shrubs, adorned the entry way. The house was old and dignified, or it had been. Right now lights blazed out the windows like cut-rate diamonds, and raunchy, bass-heavy music pounded so loudly through the front door Finn could hear it outside.

His pulse notched up, pushed by a big fat slice of deja vu. Scanning the grounds, he checked the perimeter and picked out Jack's cop, who was dressed as a uniformed valet.

At a nod, he came to the driver's side. Jack rolled down the window and murmured softly, "Everything okay?"

The cop knelt to window level. "Party's still going strong. The other valet tells me it'll rage for hours yet." He eyed Finn curiously. "Heard a rumor they were sending in some hotshot undercover guy. If it's you, you're in for a real treat, pal. But I got some advice." He leaned in close and grinned. "Make sure you hold on to your zipper."

* * *

Angelina Mercer stood in a corner of Arthur Bea-man's large, luxurious living room and watched the party swirl around her. Because of the June heat and the crash ofpeople, the air-conditioning Was set at arctic, and she was cold.

Truth was she'd been cold for a week. Ever since she found Arthur Beaman crumpled on the floor, dead from a massive stroke. Tears pricked her eyes but she blinked them away. God, she missed the old man.

She looked around at the drunken bodies crowded into Beamer's house. The party was exactly as he'd specified: loud, crowded, and full of booze. He would have loved the send-off.

Too bad it wasn't doing much for her. She looked down at the vodka in her hand. She should be drunk; she needed to be drunk.

Trouble was, she didn't feel like drinking tonight.

Darling girl,
she heard Beamer's crusty voice say in her head,
life is too short for the mopes.

Suddenly she felt the old man frowning down on her from wherever the hell he was now. And more than anything, she wanted to wipe away that frown and put the mischievous smile back on his eighty-year-old face.