The Secret Brokers

World Castle Publishing

Pensacola, Florida

Copyright ©
Alexandrea Weis 2012

ISBN:
9781938243615

First Edition World Castle Publishing
June 1, 2012

http://www.worldcastlepublishing.com

Licensing Notes

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews.

Cover:
Karen Fuller

Photos: Shutterstock

Editor:
Maxine Bringenberg

For My Du

The gray morning sky cast a cold veil over the sprawling New York high-rise buildings cluttering the skyline. Dallas August felt the chill of winter enveloping his body as he took in the view from his penthouse window. A blanket of white covered the trees in Central Park below, and he noted how Lasker Rink was still doing a brisk business. But winter would soon be drawing to a close, and Dallas knew he would no longer be able to blame the constant ache in his chest on the relentless cold. With spring looming on the horizon, he would have to consider another cause for his discomfort.
He
did not want to acknowledge the real reason for his heartache. Dallas believed giving in to one’s emotions was a sign of weakness, and there was no room for weakness in his world. Besides, she was a non-factor in his life now. She wasn’t his to love anymore.

He turned away from the window and gazed down at the cream-colored carpet as he tried to push the memory of her soft, white skin from his mind.

“Nicci,” Dallas whispered as a playful grin curled the edges of his lips.

“Ya say somethin’, boss?” a deep voice called out from the entrance to his office.

Dallas turned from the window to see a very tall, muscular man with coffee-colored skin staring at him. He was dressed in a white button down shirt and casual khaki pants. A .9mm Smith and Wesson pistol was holstered at his hip.

“Hey, Cleveland,” Dallas said as he nodded to his security guard. “And I told you before, don’t call me boss…just Dallas.”

Cleveland walked up to the dark oak desk in the corner of the room and laid the morning newspaper across it. “Ya look like crap, Dallas. Ya didn’t sleep again, did ya? Not like anyone could sleep in this here museum anyway.” Cleveland glanced around at the numerous photographs hanging on the walls of the man who had once occupied the penthouse. “Maybe ya should get rid of Simon La Roy’s things. Kind a creepy bein’ surrounded by a dead man’s stuff.”

“Everything stays,” Dallas ordered and then gave Cleveland a weak smile. “For now, anyway.”

Cleveland studied the lean torso of his employer. No matter what Dallas August told him, Cleveland could see that he was being torn apart by something. Dallas had lost weight, and his probing, dark blue eyes had circles beneath them. His long, chiseled face appeared to be haunted by memories, and his square jaw only seemed to add to the emptiness in his eyes.

“You’s still thinkin’ about that girl, ain’t ya?” Cleveland commented as he continued to stare at Dallas. “The one we rescued from that shoot out at Mr. Caston’s back in N’awlins. Nicci, Nicci Beauvoir—that’s her name.”

Dallas shook his head. He walked to the desk and picked up the morning newspaper. “Nicci Beauvoir is dead, Cleveland,” he said in an icy tone.

“Well, she sure ain’t dead to ya.” Cleveland rolled his eyes at Dallas. “And if ya treated her like ya treat me and everyone else in this here organization, I can see why she left ya sorry ass for the other guy.”

Dallas spun around and faced him. “What in the hell is that supposed to mean? I treat you and everyone else in this organization very well. The only reason I came back to this job was to save the people who would have been destroyed by Simon La Roy’s death.”

“That lie workin’ for ya yet? ‘Cause if ya ask me, takin’ this job was the easy way out. Ya didn’t want to fight for that girl ya loved so much back in N’awlins. And God knows ya don’t want nobody to know what you’s really feelin’.”

Dallas reflexively clenched his fists. “Are you finished?”

“I know I’m only supposed to be a security guard and all, but if ya ask me ya got a big wall up, and ya chase people away faster than a jackrabbit can haul ass across a field. Maybe if ya would be a little nicer and not snap at everyone like they was—”

“You’re right Cleveland, I hired you to be my security guard, not my analyst,” Dallas interrupted. “So if you have nothing else for me you can go back—”

“There’s a man here to see ya,” Cleveland cut in. “Says Lance Beauvoir sent him.”

Dallas raised his dark eyebrows. “Does this man have a name?”

“Don’t need none as far as I’m concerned. His face is on the front page of that newspaper there.” Cleveland pointed at the newspaper on top of Dallas’s desk.

Dallas scanned the paper and saw the round face of one of America’s most notorious crime bosses plastered across the front page.

Dallas looked up at Cleveland. “Carl Bordonaro?”

Cleveland nodded. “He’s waitin’ in that fancy room with the old Egyptian stuff.”

“It’s the drawing room,” Dallas corrected as he glanced down at the stainless steel watch on his wrist. “And those are ancient Greek vases, not Egyptian.”
“Do I look like I give a damn?” Cleveland turned back to the office door. “And if the two of you’s want coffee, then go and gets it ya’self. I’m the security guard, not the goddamn butler,” he asserted as he stepped into the hallway.

Dallas rubbed his hand over the back of his neck and silently cursed. If Carl Bordonaro had ventured outside the safety of his New Orleans lair, then something big had to be up. His thoughts quickly turned to Nicci. Perhaps something had happened to her. He then shook off his apprehension. He knew she was safe with her husband, David Alexander. David would have contacted him before now if there had been a problem. He and David had been in touch constantly ever since he had returned to New York to take over Simon La Roy’s network of specialists. Burying himself in Simon’s business of buying and selling secrets had kept Dallas going over the last several months. It was only at night, alone in Simon’s king-sized bed, when the past caught up with him. His thoughts would always stray back to Nicci in the darkness. He missed reaching for her, touching her skin, and holding her slender body against his. That was the hardest part of loving someone—letting go. He sighed once more into the silence of his office, then squared his shoulders and headed for the door. Time to get back to work.

When Dallas walked into the drawing room, he saw a short, round man in his early sixties, with a bald
head and a pasty face, admiring Simon’s collection of ancient Greek vases. He was dressed in a tailored gray suit, wore thick, black-rimmed glasses, and seemed to sport a
five o’clock
shadow despite the early morning hour.

“
Loutrophoroi?” the man queried in a deep voice as he turned from the mahogony
display cabinet
.

Dallas eyed the black and red vase the man had been admiring. “They belonged to Simon. I have no idea what it’s called.”

“Used for weddin’s and funerals in ancient Greece, I believe,
” he said in his thick New Orleans accent. The man lifted his big brown eyes to Dallas. “Quite a collection the little guy had,” he added, seemingly amused.

“He was an avid collector of art and antiques.” Dallas placed his hands behind his back and stepped into the room. “Lance gave me the impression that you never left New Orleans, Mr. Bordonaro.”

“Oh, I leave all the time
,”
Carl Bordonaro acknowledged as he surveyed the room. “The feds try to keep an eye on me, but there are ways to get around their tails. Lots of ways.”
He held his hand out to Dallas. “And you can call me Carl.”

Born and raised in the tough Irish Channel of New Orleans, Carl Bordonaro had learned from an early age to embrace a life of crime in order to get ahead in the world. His underworld dealings had landed him on every FBI Most Wanted List for the past fifteen years. But like many Louisiana politicians, Carl Bordonaro seemed immune to federal indictment, having survived five arrests with no criminal convictions.

Dallas took Carl’s hand. “How is Lance?”

Carl Bordonaro gave Dallas a firm handshake. “Waitin’ anxiously to become a great uncle.”

Dallas let go of the man’s hand. “From what David tells me, she doesn’t have long to go.”

“Yeah, Lance told me Nicci is due in another few weeks.” Carl dipped his head. “I mean Jenny, of course. Still haven’t quite gotten used to her new identity yet. I guess she’ll always be Nicci to me.” He paused and stared into Dallas’s eyes for a moment. “And to you too, I think,” he suggested with a grin.

“So what have I done to garner this unexpected visit?” Dallas asked, desperate to change the topic of conversation.

“It’s not what you have done, my friend. It’s what you’re about to do.”

Dallas raised one eyebrow. “About to do? I’m not sure if I like the sound of that.”

Carl moved toward a mahogany chair not far from the display case. The chair was upholstered in the same blue and cream fabric that covered the walls. He looked from the chair to the walls and shook his head.

“Simon La Roy always was a flamboyant little guy.”

Dallas eased his way across the room to a chair close to Carl’s. “He tried not to let his sexuality influence his business, but his restraint did not seem to undermine his decorating skills. All in all, he was a very private man.”

“Yeah, well.” Carl sighed as he took his chair. “Now he’s a very dead private man. Lucky for you the world wasn’t too upset to hear of his passin’.” He looked about the room once more. “Seems you have worked yourself right in here. Lance told me you have had very little opposition to your takin’ over his business.”
“Once it was finally leaked to the press that Simon was dead, there was little to no resistance encountered. Many of Simon’s past associates were more than pleased to hear of his death. Seems the man had only enemies—myself included.”