Merciless (4 page)

“I'm really sorry about walking in the rain, Mommy,” Markie apologized when they were back home in their small apartment. “I love rain,” he added plaintively.

“I know you do, sweetheart, but your lungs don't,” she said, trying to explain. “You don't like being sick.”

He shook his head. “I don't like making you upset, too.” He dived against her side and held on tight. “I love you so much, Mommy!”

“I love you, too, pumpkin,” she replied and hugged him back, hard.

“I'll wear my coat next time.”

They both knew he was lying. She'd just have to be more careful. It wasn't the rain, the doctor had told her, but the fact that Markie was sensitive to viruses and he'd had one starting when he got wet. It wasn't dangerous for a healthy child, but then, Markie had never been really robust.

The specialist changed his allergy medicines. Joceline talked to the drug company and they agreed voluntarily to give her the inhalers for a fraction of the retail cost. The medication seemed to be working, too. Markie perked up. His valleys and peaks leveled off and he settled into school with resignation. Joceline had a long talk with Markie's teacher and the owner of the day care, and an attorney who was kind enough to help her
pro bono
. For the time being, the bullying was curtailed. But they did mention that Markie was distracting in the classroom and set a date for her to come back, alone, and discuss it with them.

Meanwhile, Markie got better and Joceline got her nerves back together. There was still the question of a diagnosis for Markie's behavioral problems. She didn't know what to do. There was really nobody who could help except their doctor. She'd asked him about Markie and he agreed that it was possible that the child had attention deficit disorder. He was researching the medications and considering a reply for her.

She was doing well until Cammy Blackhawk stormed into the office and glared at Joceline as if she was a hooker.

“I would like to see my son,” she said haughtily.

Joceline, practiced at handling gruff and unpleasant individuals, gave her a vacant smile. “Of course, ma'am. Won't you have a seat in our modern and ergonomically designed waiting area?”

Cammy blinked.

Joceline picked up the phone. “Mrs. Blackhawk is here to see you, sir.”

Jon came out the door at once, looking oddly protective as he glanced at Joceline and then at Cammy.

“Hi,” he said.

Cammy stared at Joceline uncomfortably and then back at her son. “I want you to come to supper tonight,” she said firmly. “I'm having a soiree…”

“Soiree?” Jon asked, surprised.

“It's a French word, sir,” Joceline told him helpfully. “It means a small, informal dinner…”

“I know what it means!” he snapped.

She saluted him.

He rolled his eyes. “Cammy, I can't come. I'm having supper with Mac and Winnie,” he said firmly.

“Don't call me Cammy! I'm your mother!” she grumbled.

“And I don't want to try to eat while I'm being regaled with the latest fashion information,” he continued irritably.

“Many, many people buy specialized magazines to ferret out that information,” Joceline began enthusiastically.

“Do you mind?” Cammy snapped at her. “I am trying to speak to my son!”

Joceline saluted her, too, smiled again and went back to typing on the computer.

“Come in here,” Jon muttered, pulling Cammy into his office. He closed the door. “For the last time, I do not want to have supper with your matrimonial candidate!”

“She's a nice girl!”

His narrowed eyes glittered. “I don't want to get married! Winnie's pregnant. Why don't you go and overwhelm her with motherly advice?”

Cammy averted her eyes. “She's getting that from her own mother. I'm superfluous.”

“Well, you can advise Mac on being a father,” he countered.

“He's always being called away from the phone, and when I try to visit his office, he's always out,” she said irritably.

“You're a bulldozer,” he told her. “You don't think anyone can live if you're not telling them how to go about it.”

“I'm just trying to help,” she said, exasperated.

“You should have had more kids,” he replied. “It's ‘empty nest syndrome.' You're lonely and bored.”

“You're all alone,” she said miserably. “What will happen to you when I die?”

He was shocked by the question. “Are you planning to?”

She averted her eyes. “Don't be silly. I just want to see you happily married, like Mac is.”

“If it had been up to you, Mac would never have married Winnie,” he reminded her. “You thought she was after his money.”

“So I made an error in judgment,” she said, clearly uncomfortable. “But this nice girl is just what you need. She's
outgoing and social, always dressed in the latest fashion and she knows many people in high places.”

“So do I,” he reminded her.

“You need a family. You don't even date anybody. Well,” she amended thoughtfully, “there was that lawyer, but wasn't she just trying to get information out of you about a client?”

He didn't like being reminded of that. “I date when I feel like it.”

“Yes, but you never feel like it!” she retorted. “You should have children to play with, now while you're still young enough to play with them and do things with them!”

“I'm not married, Cammy,” he said patiently.

“I noticed!”

“I lead a hectic life,” he continued. “Most women wouldn't be able to put up with the hours I keep.”

“Charlene is beautiful and she's very tolerant of your lifestyle,” Cammy began.

“She is not,” Jon shot back. “She said that I'd have to give up video games.”

“You play too many of them,” Cammy agreed. “You should have children to take up your spare time.”

“Don't you have anything else to do with your life besides trying to run mine for me?” Jon asked finally, exasperated.

“I am not trying to run your life. I want you to be happy.”

“Harassing me about marriage isn't doing the job.”

“It isn't harassment,” she groaned. “Son, you don't even have a social life.”

“I don't want one. I love my work.”

“You always have,” Cammy replied heavily. “You and McKuen, burying yourselves in dangerous occupations! The past has taken a heavy toll on both of you.”

“And on you,” Jon agreed. He kissed her forehead. “I know you miss Dad,” he said gently. “So do all of us. But you're going overboard with plans for my future. You have to let life happen. You can't force people to do things they don't want to do.”

“You'd like Charlene if you gave her a chance,” she argued.

“She's the most opinionated woman I've met recently,” he said gruffly.

“You're only upset because she said you'd have to stop playing so many video games,” Cammy replied. “And she's right.”

“She is not.”

“We can agree to differ. You should get out more. You spend too much time in this office with that woman out there,” she muttered.

“Joceline is my administrative assistant,” Jon replied. “She's also a competent paralegal. Who do you think found the link that solved the murder of Mac's little girl?”

Cammy frowned. “I thought it was McKuen.”

He shook his head. “Joceline dug out the information that broke the case.”

Cammy was evidently surprised, and not pleasantly. She shifted her feet. “She's disrespectful.”

“I haven't noticed that.”

“And she's got a child. She's not married.”

“She was going to be. Her fiancé died overseas in the military before he could marry her,” he said with faint defensiveness.

“She told you that?”

He nodded.

“How do you know it's the truth?” she asked with a cold smile. “Women tell all sorts of stories.”

“Why are you so antagonistic toward her?”

She didn't answer him. “If you won't come to supper, how about to lunch tomorrow?”

“It's a long drive to the ranch,” he began.

“I'm staying at the apartment in town,” she replied. “You'll come, won't you?”

He wanted a way out, but he was reluctant to refuse. Cammy was his mother. He didn't spend a lot of time with her, and he felt guilty.

“I suppose I could. If it's going to be just the two of us,” he added firmly.

“Of course,” she replied. She smiled. “Just us two.”

“Now, I have work to do,” he reminded her, opening the door.

“I'll have something nice for you to eat,” she promised. She smiled at him and impulsively hugged him. “That's my good boy. I'll see you tomorrow.” She kissed him, shot a cool look at Joceline and breezed out the front door.

“They do make Bengal tiger traps,” Joceline said thoughtfully. “Although you would have to dig a deep hole in the office.”

He wouldn't smile, he wouldn't smile…

She heard a muffled sound from behind his closed door, and she grinned.

 

That night she took Markie to a local restaurant that featured a video game arcade. It was filled to capacity.

“Let's try this one,” she said enthusiastically after they'd had chicken fingers and iced tea. “Here!”

“I like this one,” Markie agreed with a grin.

It was piloting fighter planes and shooting at an enemy on a huge movie screen. Markie laughed uninhibitedly, and so did Joceline. She enjoyed the once-a-month outing as much as he did. They had little money for frivolous things like this, but she didn't want Markie to miss out on entertainment that other children had access to. For a four-year-old, he had an amazing dexterity and skill at the game.

She was aware of movement behind her. Suddenly there were three other people in the compartment, parked on either side of her and Markie, putting game cards into the slots.

“Think you're good, do you?” Mac Kilraven chided. “Let's see!”

“Don't let him bait you, Joceline,” a very pregnant Winnie Sinclair said and laughed from beside him. “I can outshoot him! So can you!”

“A likely story,” Jon Blackhawk scoffed as he manned the console next to Joceline's.

“I thought you were having dinner with them at home,” she said to Jon, indicating his brother and sister-in-law.

“We did, but this is our favorite hangout,” Jon said. “We like the games.”

“If we had a bigger apartment, I'd import some like this.” Mac chuckled. “It will be great for the kids.”

“Your son seems to like it,” Jon commented to Joceline as Markie took down another fighter.

“Look! I hit it!” He laughed.

“Good shot, there,” Jon agreed, smiling at the child, who smiled back.

“Get in much practice in real life, do you?” Mac asked the boy with a wink.

“I don't get out much,” Markie said in a very adult tone, and with rolled eyes at his mother.

Joceline laughed. “He's not allowed to carry antiaircraft weapons in public,” she said, tongue-in-cheek.

“Aw, Mom.” Markie sighed. “I never get to have any fun!”

“Tell you what, first enemy fighter jet that dives on you, I'll get you the best missile launcher I can find,” Joceline told him.

“Wow,” Markie said with pure worship in his eyes. “Thanks, Mom!”

She shrugged. “Nothing's too good for my boy,” she said, and winked at him. She fought down her discomfort at having Markie around her boss. She didn't want any
problems to crop up, and Jon Blackhawk's mother would be livid if she knew he was even playing video games with his administrative assistant outside work. But she wouldn't know. Hopefully.

Joceline and Markie walked toward the exit an hour later. They'd spent the balance on their game cards, although Mac and Jon had subsidized them, in a nice way.

“Thanks,” she told Jon at the door. “Markie had so much fun. So did I,” she added, but with averted eyes.

“It's all right to admit that you like something I do,” he murmured dryly. “You so rarely approve of my actions.”

“We wouldn't want you to get a superiority complex, would we, sir?” she asked.

“Why do you call him ‘sir'?” Markie asked.

“He's my boss,” she replied.

“Oh. Like those guys in the military call their bosses ‘sir.'”

“Something like that,” Joceline agreed.

“Does he put you in ‘time-out' if you do something bad?” Markie persisted.

“I would never do such a thing,” Jon assured him. “And your mother has never done anything bad.” He hesitated. “Nothing really bad,” he amended, giving her a speaking look.

“Menial tasks are not part of my job description, sir,” she reminded him. She smiled.

“Making decent coffee isn't menial.” He sighed.

“That depends on your definition,” she retorted.

“You shoot real good,” Markie told the tall man. He was looking pointedly at the bulge under Jon's jacket. “You got a gun.”

“That's right,” Jon told him. “I work for the FBI.”

“I know. Mom talks about you all the time.”

“We should go,” Joceline said, a little flushed. “Thanks again,” she added. “I'll see you Monday, sir.”

“Mommy…” Markie protested as she rushed him out the door.

Mac had been listening. He glanced at his brother. “Talks about you all the time, huh?”

“I'm sure he meant in a work-related way,” Jon said stiffly. “Joceline has worked for the agency for several years.”

“So have you.”

Jon glared at his older brother. “She works for me. Period.”

Mac pursed his lips, but he didn't reply. He just chuckled and went back to the table where Winnie was waiting for him.

 

Jon was out of humor when he walked into the office Monday morning. Joceline was still putting away her jacket and purse, having only just beaten him to work.

“You're late,” he muttered.

She pointed to the clock over her desk. She was absolutely on time. It was eight on the dot.

He shrugged and went into his office to see what he had on his day planner. The phone rang while he was searching it.

His intercom buzzed. “Yes?” he replied.

There was a pause. “It's for you, sir. A Mr. Harold Monroe.” She said the name pointedly.

He frowned and picked up the phone. “Blackhawk,” he said.

“Hiya,” he replied. “Remember me? I'm out now waiting for a new trial. I'll beat that trafficking charge. I got a great lawyer.”

“Congratulations,” Jon said. “I'll send over balloons.”

There was a pause. “Balloons?”

“For the celebration.”

“Cele…oh. Oh! Ha ha ha.”

“Was there something else?”

“No, nothing else. I just wanted you to know I was out.”

“Thank you.”

Another pause. “You made a mistake.”

“Did I?”

“Yeah. You want to be careful. My family gets even
with people who hurt it. Always. I'll be seeing you, Agent Blackhawk.”

He hung up.

Jon stared at the receiver before he replaced it. “It takes all kinds,” he muttered.

He was on his way out the door when Joceline called to him.

“Rick Marquez wants you to stop by his office while you're out,” she told him. “He says it's important.”

“What is it about?” Jon asked, turning.

She put a finger to her forehead and closed her eyes. “I see mountains. Trees. Birds flying.” She opened her eyes. “However, not being psychic, I have no idea.”

“He didn't say?”

“Apparently not.” She smiled vacantly. She cocked her head. “Would you like to know what the new skirt length is out of the Milan fashion shows…? Sir, it's not polite to turn your back on people who are talking to you!” she called after him.

“One day I'll strangle her,” Jon muttered to Rick Marquez while they were sitting at the detective's desk, drinking coffee. He'd just related Joceline's latest verbal coup.

Marquez chuckled. “You'd never replace her,” he commented. “I've seen paralegals come and go. Joceline is in a class all her own.”

“I know.” The other man sighed. “I wouldn't have half my cases solved without her. She can dig out informa
tion that I can't get. I have no idea how she pulls it off, either.”

“She's psychic,” Marquez said with big eyes.

“She is not. She's just very good with a telephone, and she can talk people into telling her things that they don't want to.”

“She's a paralegal. Why isn't she working for a judge or at least a firm of attorneys?” Marquez asked with a curious frown.

“She started out as legal secretary to a firm of attorneys. But the senior partner retired, several more attorneys joined the firm and she was doing the work of three paralegals with the pay of one,” Jon said. “We got her as a result. It was a good thing that Garon Grier didn't have her put on the rack when he started work at the office,” he added thoughtfully.

Marquez burst out laughing. “What?”

“He was used to female workers making coffee for him. Joceline doesn't do menial tasks. Or what she considers menial tasks.”

“Our administrative assistants make coffee,” Rick said smugly. “Good coffee,” he emphasized with a pointed look at Jon.

Jon sighed. “None of us can make drinkable coffee. On a bright note, our potted palm seems to thrive on caffeine.”

“Excuse me?”

“Everybody dumps their coffee into it when we aren't looking.” He chuckled.

Marquez sighed. “Oh, the adventure of working at a federal office.”

“At least we have decent expense accounts,” he replied. “We don't have to have a receipt for a cup of ice.”

Marquez made a face. “It was a very hot day and our air conditioner wasn't working.”

“You're from Mexico originally, and you live in southern Texas. You should be used to the heat,” Jon commented.

“Yeah. Go figure.” Marquez wasn't comfortable talking about his childhood. In fact, nobody except his adoptive mother, Barbara, in Jacobsville, even knew what his background was. And neither he nor Barbara knew the whole truth, but they were trying to find it. However, he had no plans to share that news with his visitor, even though he liked and respected the FBI agent.

“I didn't mean to offend,” Jon said, sensitive to the expression that flashed just briefly across the other man's face. “I know about racial issues. You might have noticed that my ancestry includes feathered headdresses and mounted combat.”

Marquez relaxed, and smiled. “So does mine, actually. One of my forebears was Comanche.”

“Really? So was one of mine,” he replied.

“No kidding? Small world.”

“My mother has Cherokee, my father was full-blooded Lakota,” Jon said.

Marquez's eyebrows arched. “Cherokees come from back East originally.”

“Yes, they were relocated on the ‘Trail of Tears.' Cherokees were rounded up in 1838 and removed to Oklahoma in late 1838 and early 1839, in the winter cold and snow without proper clothing, because of gold discoveries.” He shook his head. “One of my ancestors said that we could never coexist with a materialist culture, because we shared everything and the conquerors wanted to own everything,” he added.

“Interesting thought.” He put down his coffee cup and became somber. “Harold Monroe's been hinting about retribution to one of my informants.”

“I heard they cut him loose.”

“Yes, they did. Like the rest of his family, he has something of a reputation for revenge.” He looked pointedly at Jon. “He's been accused of racketeering, gambling, prostitution, you name it, but he's never spent more than a day in jail on any charge. One of the prosecutors in a murder case against his uncle-by-marriage died under mysterious circumstances, along with the only witness, and he was let go. Nothing was ever proven. You had Monroe in jail for several months while his lawyer worked to get the charges dropped.”

“He should blame himself for putting little girls in the hands of pimps.”

“That's not how he sees things. He said the kid was living in starvation-level poverty. He was just helping her find a better life. Simple.”

“Yes. I saw the result of that better life,” Jon said without elaborating, but the expression in his eyes was eloquent.
“Well, they can drop charges, but I still have witnesses who'll testify. One was the man who sold his daughter to Monroe.”

“That's the problem.” Marquez grimaced. “The witness says he won't testify and he's withdrawn his statement.”

“No problem,” Jon said. “I know where we can find three more witnesses in the same family, two of whom are perfectly willing to testify despite any threats from Monroe.”

“Give me their names and we'll help you locate them so you can get depositions, since it's a federal charge he was arrested on,” Marquez replied. “Why didn't the witnesses come forward before?”

“Because they fell through the cracks,” he said. “We had one witness, the father, who gave us a deposition, and the mother, as well as a sister. The federal prosecutor didn't think he needed more than a handful. Now we do.” He shook his head. “I hope they don't go the way of the witness who was supposed to testify against Jay Copper at his trial about the death of that teenager in Senator Sanders's case. He accidentally fell off a ten-story building.”

Marquez wrote down the names of the witnesses. “We do our best,” he said defensively.

“So do we, and it wasn't a criticism. Unless you're really psychic, you can't foresee a murder in your city.”

“It would be nice if we could.” Marquez sighed. “I just hope Monroe doesn't walk on this one.”

“With the federal charges dropped on a technicality,” Jon said, grinding his teeth at the so-called technicality,
which involved a slipped link in the evidence chain, “and new charges pending, the ball may be in your court if we can't make ours stick. You can still get him for trafficking, though. We'll help.”

“He won't walk. I promise.” He narrowed his eyes. “But you watch yourself.”

“You're giving Monroe too much credit,” Jon said. “He's a beer short of a six-pack.” He pursed his lips. “Maybe two beers short of a six-pack.”

“He may be, but he's dangerous. You got him on a trafficking charge. But he's worked his way out of numerous other charges including one daylight robbery. That one was committed as a juvy—” which meant a juvenile offender “—and he only drew a few days in detention before he turned eighteen.”

“Yes, he managed to get first offender status and kept his nose clean until his record was wiped,” Jon said. “But he was twenty-five when he was accused the next time, and he got a good attorney, courtesy of his boss, Hank Sanders, the racketeer brother of Senator Will Sanders who's up on murder charges.” He smiled. “Hank turned out to be a good guy. He saved my brother's butt in the standoff with Jay Copper, just after Mac and Winnie came back from their honeymoon.”

“Some honeymoon, trying to convince Senator Will Sanders's wife, Pat, to tell what she knew about the murder of Kilraven's wife and little girl,” Marquez amended.

“Which she did, but Copper ordered the murder of Mac's wife,” Jon said somberly. “He said that the perp,
the late Dan Jones, wasn't ordered to kill Melly, Mac's little girl, but I never believed him. One of his idiot goons turned state's evidence and verified that Copper told Jones to get both the wife and child. He'll pay for Melly's death, and Monica's. The D.A. has asked for the death penalty.”

“Good luck to him,” the other man said cynically. “Juries don't like to order it.”

Jon nodded. “I had to sit in a death-penalty case once. You think, this guy should die for the crime he committed. But when you put your vote to it, and realize that you're ordering the guy's death, well that's a whole other thing.”

“A matter of personal conscience,” Marquez agreed. “A very hard decision to make, for any human being.” He studied Jon. “But it's you I'm worried about. Monroe may be an idiot, but he has an uncle who's knee-deep in the local mob, Jay Copper, and a brother-in-law who's been in and out of prison for years, Bart Hancock. Hancock walked on accessory charges linked to Jay Copper's arrest, because the tape Winnie got of Copper telling the story of the murders went mysteriously missing. Hancock has been implicated in two murder-for-hire plots and never got much past arraignment. He makes sure there are no witnesses.”

“There's something in the back of my mind about Hancock. Wait! Now I remember,” Jon said. “Joceline dug up some information on him that was supposedly classified. Don't ask—” he held up a hand “—she has sources.
Anyway, Hancock was in spec ops in Iraq during the 2003 invasion.”

“That's right. He worked with a private contractor. There was a big stink about civilian casualties, and Hancock was in it up to his neck. His buddy was an officer in the private corporation that ran the coverts, and he cleaned up Hancock's record so he wasn't prosecuted.” He sighed heavily. “They say he killed children and enjoyed it.”

Jon's jaw set. “What a sweetheart.”

“Isn't he, though?”

“Yes.”

Jon's mind was busy. The man who died linked to Melly's murder, Dan Jones, was a bit of a mystery. Jon had always wondered if the man was really going to confess that he'd done it. He didn't seem the sort to kill children. But Jay Copper's spec ops nephew, he had been friends with the perp, and the accomplice who'd gone with the perp to commit the murders was never found. What if…?