He was in the middle of feeding some of his clients’ financial documents to the shredder when his phone rang again. He didn’t recognize the number, so he let voice mail take it then punched the button so he could hear the recording in real time. The voice sounded foreign. Jamaican. Sinister. “I’m still waiting on payment, Garrett. You asked me to send Ms. Blake a surprise. I did. I’ll call back in one hour. If you don’t pick up so we can talk about this, the surprise will be on you.”
Bobby stared at the machine, puzzled. Replaying the message, he listened carefully this time, and at the end surprise widened his eyes. Was that the bomber he’d hired? It was the only logical conclusion, but how had the man found him? Panic wanted to grab him, but he took a deep breath and forced himself to think. Was Misha already singing? What had the caller meant about wanting money? The payment had been put in the mail last week, the same night the police picked him up.
Bobby stilled and got a sick feeling. Had they somehow intercepted the payment? Had they already tied him to the bombing? With effort, he calmed himself. If the message had been from the bomber, more than likely the man was just trying to shake him down for more cash, and he wasn’t going down like that. He’d paid him once, he wasn’t paying him again. To that end, when the man called back precisely one hour later, Bobby didn’t pick up.
JT decided it was a good thing she’d been laid up and had lost a few pounds because at her regular weight she’d never be able to fit into her clothes the way the Anthony men ate. Sunday dinner was a barbecue, complete with some of the best ribs she’d ever tasted. There was also chicken, coleslaw, baked beans, corn on the cob, and more of Pops’s French bread. She laughed as much as she ate at the antics of Pinky and the Brain. They poked fun at Reese, threw napkins and plastic forks at the screen in response to the terrible play of the hometown team, and treated her like a queen. They fetched her food, brought her second and third glasses of her favorite grape Kool-Aid, and spent so much time just looking at her that all she could do was smile and shake her head. By the end of the second game she was exhausted. This was the first full day she’d spent on her feet since the explosion, and her body was letting her know it was time to pull up. “I need to lie down for a little while,” she told them.
Concerned, Pops said, “We didn’t mean to wear you out. Reese, take her upstairs.”
JT tried to reassure him. “It’s okay, Mr. Anthony. I’m having fun. Just need to pace myself.”
His concern was still apparent. “Come on, Brian and Jamal. Let’s go watch the postgame show at my place.”
JT hated being the one to break up the party. “You all don’t have to leave.”
Reese countered, “Yeah, they do.”
Pops chuckled. “Cramping your style?”
“I am leaving in the morning, remember?”
Bryce rubbed his hands together and cackled like a mad scientist, “Which means we get to have her all to ourselves.”
Jamal added his cackles, and JT couldn’t help but laugh. They were something. “I’ll be up later, so you’re all welcome to come back for the Sunday night game.”
“No, they’re not.”
Pops shook his head at his eldest’s response. “Okay, Mouseketeers, let’s leave Kingfish in peace. JT, I’ll send you over some ice cream later.”
JT tried to decline. “I can’t eat another bite.”
“Maybe not now, but you might want something later. If Reese doesn’t have the force field up, I’ll leave it in the freezer, and see you tomorrow. By the way, one of my neighbors is a retired nurse. She’ll stop by in the morning and help you out with whatever you need.”
“Thanks.” JT was glad he’d arranged for some assistance.
“You’re welcome.”
So Pops and Pinky and the Brain headed across the field to Pops’s house, and she and Reese were left alone. Reese could see the weary slump in her shoulders. “Want me to carry you?”
“No. I can make it.”
“Want some company?”
“Sure.”
“Want a kiss?”
“Is Bret Favre going to the Hall of Fame?”
Looking down into her smiling face, he bent to kiss her, and afterward followed her upstairs. Climbing, she turned and said, “When I wake up, I want to take a two-hour bubble bath, and then you’re going to make love to me.”
“Oh really?”
“Yep. Now, if you’re not interested, I can call your brothers.”
He popped her on her lovely behind. “Quit playing.”
She laughed. “I knew that would get you.”
Lying in his bed, she took some meds and washed them down with a glass of water then handed the glass back to him. He was seated on the bed. “I’ll probably have nightmares sleeping, with all this food in my stomach. Where did your father learn to cook so well? He’s amazing.”
“Our gran owned a small restaurant on the south side of Chicago. Pops says he was about nine when she first put him to work.”
“I’m impressed. Do you all cook?”
“Yes, but none of us can come close to Pops. He is the kitchen king. We used to love it when he came off the road because we knew we’d feast.”
“When he was playing ball?”
“No, when he was driving rigs after mama died.”
“Who kept you when he was gone?”
“Sometimes my aunt would drive over from Chicago if he was going to be gone more than a week, but most of the time I was in charge.”
“Really?”
“Why do you think they give me such a hard time? Back in the day, when Pops wasn’t around, I ruled.”
“The Great Dictator.”
“Yep. I did the cooking, the cleaning, laundry, and made sure they got their homework done.”
“How old were you?”
“Twelve.”
“Lot of responsibility for a twelve-year-old.”
“I know, but Pops trusted me, and I didn’t want him worrying while he was away, so I made sure everything was okay here at home. Jamal and Brain gave me fits, but they helped out a lot too.”
She could imagine him at twelve telling his brothers what to do, taking care of the house. After the death of his mother, she bet he’d had to grow up fast, and that probably accounted for the serious undertone she sensed in his personality.
He bent and placed a kiss on her forehead. “No more stories. Get some rest. I’ll be across the hall in my office. If you need me, just yell.”
“Okay.”
Reese knew she was healing but he still worried. “You sure you’re okay?”
JT found his concern touching. “Yes, Reese. Just did too much, that’s all. I’ve never had to pace myself before. Takes a bit of getting used to. Wake me in three hours if I’m not up, please.”
He nodded and placed a parting kiss on her lips. “Okay. I’ll see you later.”
She snuggled beneath the lightweight quilt and closed her eyes.
True to his word, he awakened her later and began running the water in his big tub for her bubble bath. She had him dig through her bags until he found her soap and oils, and once he added the liquids to the streaming water, the scent of sandalwood and almonds permeated the air. Reese looked at the bottle. “So, this is why you always smell so good?”
“You like it, huh?”
He set it down and began undoing the buttons on the shirt she was wearing. “Very much.”
“Good to know.”
When the buttons were all freed, he slid his hands into the open halves and settled them on the warm skin of her waist. “Need help taking off your pants?”
The mischief in his eyes made her grin. “Think you can handle it?”
He smoothly worked his hands into her sweats, filled each big palm with a soft hip and squeezed suggestively. “You mean like this…?”
“Yeah,” she tossed back.
He tugged them down, took care of the thong, and she stepped free.
Naked but for his black shirt, her beauty was all his eyes could see. The truth be told, he and his rising manhood wanted her there and then, but the prospect of exploring her scented loveliness at his leisure once she was done was enough of an incentive, so he said instead, “Hold onto my arm so you don’t slip getting in.”
A few seconds later, using him as support, she was standing in hot frothy water. “I think I should sit backward, that way I can put my cast on the edge and it’ll stay dry and out of the way.”
He thought that sounded like a good plan but held onto her until she was submerged to her waist. The cast made the process awkward, but once she was settled in, she sighed with pleasure. “I may be in here forever.”
“Let’s hope not. Making love to a raisin could be tricky.”
She laughed. “Sounds freaky.”
They were both smiling. She looked up at her gorgeous knight. He’d been such a blessing. “Thanks for everything.”
“My pleasure.”
“No, that’s later.”
“Call me when you’re ready to get out,” he said, chuckling. “I’ll be on the couch watching the game.”
After he left, closing the door, she soaked and relaxed.
An hour or so later when she called, he came in with a large fluffy towel and helped her out of the tub. “That was wonderful,” she gushed. He wrapped her up and then surprised her when he bent and lifted her into his arms.
“You’re carrying me again.”
“Yep.”
He walked her out of the bath and into the candlelit quiet of his bedroom. The flames undulating in the fireplace gave off both light and heat, which was where his steps took them. She saw a thin mattress set out on the floor in front of it, along with a couple of pillows and blankets. The soft jazz playing in the background added to the very romantic setting. She was impressed. “More of your courting technique?”
“Yes. Is it working?”
“Oh, yeah.”
He set her on her feet. “Let’s get you dried off.”
The towel was used so gently and erotically that when he was done, she was left throbbing everywhere; her nipples, between her thighs. “Are you sure I can’t hire you?”
He began kissing her slowly, passionately. “What kind of man are you looking for?”
“One who’s good,” she whispered heatedly.
The kiss deepened before he trailed kisses across her throat and filled his hands with her yielding breasts. Teasing the nipples with his thumbs, he looked down into her lidded eyes. “How’s this?” He flicked his tongue against first one nipple and then the other before treating them both to a lingering welcome.
She shimmered in response. “That’s very good.”
The heat of desire flared like the dancing flames of the fire. Mindful of her injuries, he loved her gently and was careful to touch her softly so he wouldn’t cause her pain. He treated her as if she were as rare as she was precious; awing her with his technique and making her croon in response to his exploring hands and lips. The clean fresh smell of him and the faint dampness of his skin told her he’d showered too, and she wished she had two good hands to caress him with instead of one.
He undressed and they both knelt on the mattress to resume their play. When she grasped his straining manhood, his eyes closed and she didn’t think he cared that she only had one hand; one seemed to be more than enough. Moving her palm over him wantonly, she teased her tongue against his flat nipples. He groaned in response and she smiled, savoring the power she held.
To keep from exploding, Reese backed away. Eyes glittering with desire, he had her lie down then worshipped his way down her body from her lips to the shrine between her thighs. He conquered her, teased her; made her spread her legs so shamelessly for more that a few intense moments later the powerful orgasm buckled her and she shattered, screaming.
When she came back to herself, he whispered, “Come, ride.”
So she impaled herself on his condom-sheathed staff, loving the slide of his hardness as he filled her to the hilt. Reese wanted to stroke her like a madman, but mindful of her injured ribs, forced himself to go slow and let her set the pace. The rhythm was hot, seductive. He guided her with gentle hands on her waist and thrilled to the sight and feel of her moving above him and with him. He fondled her breasts and the tiny temple at the apex of her thighs. She came again and the heat and contractions of her sheltering flesh made him roar and grab her hips as his exploding orgasm sent him tumbling after.
JT had no idea what time it was when he finally carried her over to the bed, but because he slid in beside her and held her close, she went to sleep without a care.
She awakened the next morning to the sounds of
rain and thunder. Struggling up, it took her a few moments to remember where she was.
Reese.
She looked around but she was alone. There was a note on the pillow beside her:
I’ll call you later. Rest. Reese.
He’d written his father’s phone number on the bottom.
Disappointed because she’d wanted to see him off, she laid back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling. She was in love with Reese Anthony, and if she were being truthful with herself, had been for some time—maybe since that first meeting on the 5. She wasn’t sure she was supposed to tell him, though. To hear her girlfriends tell it, men changed once declarations were made. Relationships went from fun, easy and equal, to one where the man decided he was in charge and called the shots. Would Reese change if he knew how she felt? She had yet to meet a more caring, considerate individual. If he remained true to that person, there would be no problems, but if he started trying to manage her, they as a couple would implode. She wanted things to stay as sweet and as hot as they were, and she wanted him in her life, but she didn’t want to create a monster either, so she decided that keeping her feelings to herself was probably best.
She went into the bathroom to brush her teeth. When she finished, she ran water in the tub. After last night’s marathon loving, she needed to soak, and since taking a shower was out, another bath seemed the only logical solution.
She was pouring bath oils into streaming water when her phone went off. It was Special Agent Tate calling to give her an update on an envelope Bobby had placed in a post office pickup box the night he was interviewed by the police. “What was in it?” JT asked. Reese had told her about the interrogation but hadn’t mentioned an envelope.
“Five thousand, cash.”
“Cash. Who sends cash in the mail?”
“Apparently, Mr. Garrett does. Cash that tested positive for cocaine, I might add.”
“Really? Who was the envelope addressed to?”
“A P.O. box number in Cleveland that turned out to be one of those mail services you can use if you want to mask your real address.”
“So where was it supposed to go to next?”
“Funny thing. We tracked it from Cleveland to a similar service in Orlando where it was forwarded to another service in Boston.”
“Somebody’s really trying to cover their tracks.”
“Correct, and they did it well because from Boston it went to a private service in France, and that’s where the trail ends. The French are refusing to let us follow it without official red tape. By the time the Bureau does the paperwork, the envelope will be on to its next stop, which could be anywhere.”
The news was disappointing. “Do you think the money was for the bomber?”
“We’ve been listening to Garrett’s phone and we think it may well be.”
“So what do you do next?”
“We keep watching and listening. I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”
JT had just set the phone down when it rang again. It was Pops. “Morning, Mr. Anthony.”
“Morning, Ms. Blake. I’m supposed to check on you and make sure you’re not trying to get into the tub by yourself.”
She smiled. Reese knew her well.
“I’ll take that silence as a yes you were.”
“I plead the Fifth.”
He laughed. “Mrs. Boggs, my neighbor the nurse, is here. I’m going to send her over.”
“Thanks, Mr. Anthony.”
“The last thing either of us needs is Reese taking bites out of our butts.”
JT chuckled. “True that.”
“She’ll be bringing your breakfast too.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll be over later.”
“I’d like the company.”
“So would I.”
At about the same time on the West Coast, law enforcement agents and canine officers affiliated with the L.A. offices of the FBI, Transportation Safety Administration, and Homeland Security were conducting routine security checks on some of the state’s small airports. Because most of their focus had been on larger facilities like LAX and the ones in the Bay area, little airports had been given low priority. The airport targeted for inspection that morning was a tiny postage-stamp-size operation with a landing strip that was little more than two tracks in a field. The corrugated metal hangar sheltered four small planes. The uniformed dog handlers walked their canine companions around the first three aircraft without encountering any problems, but when they neared the fourth plane, Lucky, a drug dog, let the humans know to call for a warrant. After tracking down the airport’s manager, an aging gray-haired hippie named Doyle, they were given the name of the owner of the plane in question.
“Name’s Bo Wenzel,” the nervous looking Doyle said.
The FBI agent took out his phone and called it in. The remaining agents went with Doyle back to his office to take a look at the records of Wenzel’s flight plans and to await the arrival of the tech teams.
Three hours later the techies had come and gone. They’d found traces of coke on the plane’s controls, floor, and seats. The flight plans showed Wenzel making a series of trips to Tijuana. The agents placed a call there, but the airport there couldn’t provide verification that Wenzel ever landed or had taken off from there.
Reese was in New York only one hour before he had to grab a flight back to L.A. The commissioner had received a call that morning from the FBI about Bo Wenzel being brought in for questioning on cocaine smuggling, and someone from the commissioner’s office needed to be on site. Reese was that someone. Neither he nor Commissioner Tay McNair had any idea what the investigation might turn up, but the commissioner wanted to have all the facts firsthand, in case it became necessary for the league to step in and take over the running of the team. Matt Wenzel had proven to be a competent GM, but if he was involved too, no one would be in charge.
Reese was hoping this might shed some light on the Pennington case. He also hoped the answers would come quickly because he was missing Jessi. Last night’s lovemaking had been incredible, and even though they hadn’t been able to swing from the light fixtures because of her injuries, he added the sensual evening to a growing list of memorable JT moments. Before leaving for the airport that morning, he’d wanted to wake her and kiss her good-bye, but she’d been sleeping soundly. One day hadn’t been nearly enough time for them to be together, and now he was on a plane touching down at LAX.
After deplaning, he called Mendes. The captain had been notified about Wenzel, and said that the Feds were on their way to pick him up even as they spoke. Mendes gave Reese the address of the office and told him one of his detectives would meet him there. Reese grabbed a cab.
Bo was on the phone talking to Ham. No one had seen Garrett. Ham wanted to shut down the operation until he was found. There was no indication that Garrett was being held by the police, which led Ham to believe that he’d either left town or gone underground. Bo was about to respond when a man and a woman in dark suits appeared in his doorway. “Got visitors,” he said cautiously into the phone. “I’ll call you back.” Closing the phone, he looked at the man and woman, who he thought had to be FBI, and asked, “Can I help you?”
He was right. The woman identified herself as Special Agent Brenda Tate and asked him, “Are you Mr. Bo Wenzel?”
“I am.”
“I ask that you come with us, sir. We have some questions about your plane.”
Inside, Bo shook, but he held it together. “Has something happened to it?”
“We’ll talk about it at our office.”
“I’m calling my lawyer.”
“That’s up to you, sir, but for now you have to come with us.”
A grim Bo grabbed his keys, phone, briefcase, and hat, then walked to the door. Matt was standing off to the side. He looked ashen.
“Call my lawyer,” Bo snarled as the agents escorted him out.
At the Federal Building, Tate led the questioning as Reese, behind the one-way glass, studied Bo Wenzel’s expression and movements. Wenzel didn’t look particularly nervous except for unconsciously tapping his fingers on the table where he was seated. Tate was walking him through the trips to Tijuana.
“Now, you say you flew down to drop donations off at an orphanage?”
Bo nodded. Since his lawyer had yet to arrive, he was being cautious with his replies. He knew that by law he could’ve refused to answer any questions, but he didn’t want to appear uncooperative and maybe piss the lady agent off. He also wanted to know how much, if anything, the Feds had on him.
“And your contact down there?”
“A padre named Gabe Lawrence.”
“Are you aware that Mr. Lawrence is a federal fugitive?”
Bo paused and weighed his answer. The lady agent was looking into his eyes. “I knew him years ago in Texas. No idea he was wanted.”
She gave him a small smile. “He’s a Mexican citizen now. We’ve been trying to bring him back to the U.S. to face charges for years.”
“Didn’t know that either.”
The questioning continued, and in response, Bo spun a tale about how he’d run into Lawrence on the streets of Tijuana and been asked to help the orphanage. In his mind, he thought his story sounded innocent enough; he was simply a man trying to do a good deed. But it was understood that Tate hadn’t dragged him in just to chat, so he braced himself for whatever might be coming next.
“What can you tell us about the night of April third?”
Bo responded with a perplexed look, but inside the panic bells were screaming. “That’s the night Gus Pennington was killed. Have you turned up something?”
She offered him another small smile. “Where were you that night?”
“Looking at some property.”
She glanced down at her notes. “Ah, that’s right. Says so here. You were going to provide Mr. Anthony from the commissioner’s office with the name of the realtor you were with.” She met Bo’s blue eyes. “I’m not seeing any indication that you did.”
“Got busy and forgot.”
“Can you provide it now?”
He froze. Her manner was pleasant as she waited for his answer. He gave her the name of a realtor who owed him a favor. “Carson Adolph.”
She picked up a sheaf of documents and began to read through them. “This is a list of all the realtors in the state of California, and I see Mr. Adolph’s name here at the top.” She pulled out her phone and made a call. When it went through, she said, “This is Special Agent Tate from the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” She paused for a moment, then stated, “Yes, ma’am, the FBI. I’m trying to reach Mr. Adolph.”
Tate looked Bo’s way. “Good. Adolph’s secretary says he’s in.”
Bo wanted to shit.
She began questioning Adolph, then turned toward Bo as she stated, “So, Mr. Wenzel wasn’t with you that night? I see.” She listened for a few moments more, then responded, “I appreciate your help in this matter, Mr. Adolph. I agree. Mr. Wenzel must have been gotten his dates mixed up. Thank you.” She closed her phone.
Bo didn’t move for a moment and neither did Tate, until finally she said, “Let’s leave that part of your story for now, shall we?”
He nodded curtly.
“You’re aware that the forensics done on the conference room in your offices where Mr. Pennington was murdered turned up traces of cocaine.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I—I’d heard rumors.”
“Did you know that cocaine has a signature chemical compound, depending on how it’s manufactured?”
Bo shrugged and shook his head. “No.”
“The chemical makeup of the cocaine found in your conference room is an exact match of the cocaine found in the interior of your plane this morning, Mr. Wenzel. How do you explain that?” Her eyes were steady, serious.
Bo swallowed inwardly. He was a cooked goose. “I don’t know, so I’m not saying another word without my lawyer.”
She nodded. “That is your right. We’ll continue at that time.”
On the other side of the glass a pleased Reese nodded. Stick a fork in Big Bo Wenzel. He was done.
Pops’s neighbor, Mrs. Boggs, turned out to be a godsend. Not only did the woman help JT in and out of the tub, but she’d brought along a shower chair and a plastic sleeve with elasticized openings that she could pull over her cast to keep it dry. To her further delight, she learned that the retired nurse did hair out of her home to supplement her pension and social security checks, so later that morning, JT got the works: wash, relaxer, and a trim. When Mrs. Boggs was done, JT was a bit tired out from all the activity, but she looked good.
So much so that when Pops brought over lunch, he checked her out and said, “Wow.”
JT was seated on the rocker on the porch, enjoying the warm May day. She shook her gleaming cut and said, “Looks good, doesn’t it? I think I’m going to kidnap Mrs. Boggs and take her back to California with me.”
“And the ladies around here will walk there to drag her back.”
“I wouldn’t blame them. She’s special. Thanks for asking her to come by.”
“No problem. Brought you a turkey sandwich, some chips, and some raw carrots.”
He set the tray on a wire café table in the center of the porch and began to unload it. “Brought my lunch too.”
“Good.” She walked over and sat down in one of the chairs. “I’d like the company.”
They ate and talked. She told him about her family and its Old West roots, and he told her about his family’s links to Louisiana.
“We are descendants of the House of LeVeq. They were
gens de couleur libres
.”
She did the translation. “Free men of color?”
“Very good. We have African, Spanish, and French blood in our veins. The free Black citizens of Louisiana were pretty wealthy in the years leading up to the Civil War.”
“How interesting. The House of LeVeq? Do you have a crest?”
“I’m sure there was one back then, but it’s been lost through time.”
“We still have our Granny Loreli’s derringer. She was a gambling woman.”
He grinned. “A derringer? So you come from a long line of tough women? If she was a gambler, she had to be able to take care of herself.”