Grace Under Fire Page 12

  She chuckled silently, laughing at herself and her silly precautions. All the safety paraphernalia in the world wouldn't make her an equal match for a real criminal. After closing her purse, she headed straight toward the warehouse. When she reached the door, she didn't hesitate to knock, loudly and repeatedly. She waited several minutes for a response, but received none. The door remained locked. She tried again, knocking again and again, until her knuckles tingled with pain. Still no response. After that, she tried knocking on the huge double doors. Nothing.

  Maybe there's another entry, around back, she thought. But in order to reach the back of the building, she'd have to go down the alleyway. Okay, just do it, she told herself. After all, it's still daylight. There aren't any boogey men waiting to jump out in the dark. But what if something did go wrong? These warehouses and the area around them seemed unusually quiet, not a single soul stirring. If she screamed, would anyone hear her?

  Don't chicken out now, an inner voice goaded her into action. She walked up the street, rounded the building on the end and found the alley that ran between the warehouses and the river. Pausing briefly, she garnered her courage and headed down the alley. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a couple of guys sprang out at her. Gasping, she jumped back and began trying to unlatch her shoulder bag. She made eye contact with first one man and then the other; and realized they weren't much more than boys. A couple of kids about Troy's age. One black. One white. Both scruffy-looking. Both smiling fiendishly.

  "What's a fine thing like you doing down here on the wharf?" the black teenager asked, his ebony eyes raking over her insultingly.

  "She's come to see me, haven't you, baby doll?"

  The redheaded, freckle-faced white boy came toward Elsa. She backed away … slowly … as her fingers circled the can of Mace in her purse.

  "Go away and leave me alone," she warned them.

  "You got a gun in that purse?" the redhead asked.

  Just as Elsa jerked the Mace from her purse, the black teen pounced, knocking the can out of her hand. When he snatched her purse away, she managed to clasp the whistle and close it up in her hand before he shoved her to the sidewalk. Hitting the sidewalk on her knees, she winced in pain. Oh, God, what a fine mess she'd gotten herself into this time. While she struggled to stand, the two boys emptied her purse, dumping the contents on the sidewalk.

  "She ain't got no gun," the redhead said. "Just a can of Mace."

  They rummaged through her wallet, pulled out the cash and tossed the wallet back on the ground. "All she's got is forty bucks," the redhead complained.

  "Yeah," the black teen agreed, then zeroed in on Elsa, who was trying to back away from them. "Maybe she's got something else she can give us to make up for not having no real money."

  Fear surged through her body; adrenaline pumped wildly through her veins. Elsa turned and ran, and in the process managed to get the whistle in her mouth. She could hear the boys laughing as they ran after her. She kept blowing the whistle, kept running. She made it to the end of the alley before they caught up with her. What now? she asked herself when she felt one of them latch his hand onto her shoulder. She knew one thing for sure and certain—she was going to give them the fight of their lives!

  Just as the redhead whirled her around, a deep baritone voice coming from behind her said, "Let her go."

  Both boys shifted nervously, but the redhead didn't release her. Elsa wondered who her rescuer was and if he could truly save her from these hoodlums.

  "Yeah, who's going to make us?" the black teen asked.

  "I am," the man replied.

  "So you got a gun. Big deal. We got guns, too." The redhead tightened his hold on Elsa.

  A gunshot splintered the concrete as it hit the sidewalk half an inch from the redhead's right foot, letting the boys know the big deal was that his gun was in his hand. The redhead jumped when the bullet hit so close, and in the process, released Elsa, who didn't waste any time turning and running. A tall, muscular man, in jeans and T-shirt, a baseball cap covering part of his shaggy brown hair, held a large, sinister-looking pistol in his hand. When the black teen took a step forward, as if he was going to come after Elsa, her hero fired his weapon again, this time sending the shot a hairbreadth from the other guy's foot.

  "You win, man. We're outta here." The redhead backed away.

  "Toss the lady's money on the ground by her purse," the man told them. "Then you can go."

  The redhead jerked the bills from his pocket, dropped them on top of Elsa's empty purse, then started backing away again. The black youth followed suit; when they'd backed up about ten feet, they turned and ran down the alley.

  Elsa released a pent-up breath and made direct eye contact with her rescuer. "Thank you."

  "What the hell were you doing back here in this alley?" He scanned her from head to toe. "You don't look like you belong anywhere around here."

  "I—I was trying to find someone inside one of the warehouses," she said, realizing as she spoke that her statement probably didn't make any sense to this man. "My brother works down there—" she pointed to the Garland Industries warehouse "—and I wanted to talk to his boss."

  Narrowing his gaze, the man studied her, as if he was wondering whether he knew her. "You made a big mistake coming down here. Go home and don't come back. Whatever trouble your brother's in, you can't fix it with his boss."

  "How do you know—"

  He grasped Elsa's upper arm, dragged her up the alley to where her purse and its contents lay. "Gather up your things and I'll walk you back to your car."

  She knelt, raised the flap on her handbag, shoved the contents inside and picked it up.

  After she hung the strap over her shoulder, she turned to him. "Do you work around here? Is that the reason you—"

  He grabbed her arm again and marched her up the alley, toward the end of the street. She quickened her pace in order to keep up with him. When they rounded the corner onto East Fifth Street

  , she stopped and dug in her heels.

  "Please, if you can, help me." She gazed pleadingly up at him, but his hard expression didn't soften. "My brother's life could depend on my getting him to quit his job."

  "What's your brother's name?"

  Elsa hesitated. She didn't know this man, had no idea if she could trust him. But he'd rescued her, probably saved her from being raped or perhaps even killed.

  "Troy Leone."

  "You promise me you won't come back down here to the warehouse, and if there's anything I can do to keep an eye on your brother, I will."

  "Do you know Troy?" she asked.

  He didn't reply.

  Realizing she'd lost the battle, she nodded. "I'm Elsa Leone. I want to thank you again for saving me."

  "You're welcome." His lips twitched, but he didn't smile.

  "And you're…?" she asked.

  He looked at her quizzically.

  "Your name?"

  "Rafe," he said softly, his deep voice little more than a whisper.

  When he tightened his grip on her arm and prodded her into action, she allowed him to escort her to her car. He waited for her to get inside, lock the doors and back out of the parking place. As she drove away, she glanced into her rearview mirror and saw him watching her departure.

  Who was he? she wondered. Her mysterious hero. Did he work on East Fifth in one of the warehouses? Was he just a dock worker or was he employed by Booth Fortier? He'd reacted to Troy's name as if he recognized it. So did that mean they had the same boss? If so, would it be possible for him to actually keep an eye on Troy? She'd probably never know because there was little chance their paths would ever cross again.

  Rafe. He'd said his name was Rafe. No last name. No real identity. Why was it that when she finally met a guy who made her blood pound and her heart race, he turned out to be someone she'd never see again, someone who might be a criminal?

  As she zoomed her little Honda along the twilight streets of St. Camille, her thoughts jumbled wildly. W
ith concern about her brother. And with visions of a shaggy-haired knight in shining armor.

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  « ^ »

  Charmaine waited in her room until everyone had assembled in Booth's office, with the door closed and perhaps locked. She didn't know; didn't care. Once—and only once—she had dared to enter Booth's office uninvited. During the first year of their marriage. He had taught her a lesson that day, one she never forgot. When she was certain nobody other than Nola might spot her, she left her room and tiptoed down the hall. After glancing around to make sure she was alone, she opened the door to the room directly above Booth's office—a large storage closet. While exploring the old house one day while Booth was away, she had discovered something very interesting about that closet, something she knew Booth knew nothing about, that perhaps only Nola and the housekeeper before her knew existed. There was a peephole in the floor between the closet and Booth's office. Who had cut through the layers of flooring and why, she had no idea, but someone, long ago, had found a way to spy on the lord and master in his study—perhaps in Booth's father's day. At first glance in the closet, the peephole appeared to be nothing more than a light spot in the dark floor. Since first discovering the hole, Charmaine had kept it covered with a large cardboard box. Downstairs in Booth's office, the peephole really wasn't noticeable because the ceiling was high and the hole itself was located near the hundred-year-old chandelier, which actually blocked the view from below but not from above.

  Charmaine eased the box aside, being careful that her actions created no sound; then she maneuvered herself down onto the floor and placed her eye directly over the peephole. She tilted her head right and left, searching the room for its occupants. She saw Jaron first, standing near the door, his arms crossed over his chest. Booth sat behind his massive desk, a lit cigar in his mouth, the smoke curling up and over his bald head.

  "Sit," Booth ordered.

  Hurriedly she scanned the chairs scattered about the room, all forming a semicircle around the desk. Oliver Neville sat closest to Booth. She noticed a black leather briefcase propped beside his chair. Aric, Curt, Ronnie and Charlie Dupree filled the other chairs. Her gaze lingered on Ronnie. Her lover. Her love.

  She sensed the tension in the room as everyone waited for the big boss to speak, to explain why he'd called the top-secret meeting. It had to be something important to have cut short Booth's trip to New Orleans. And it had to do with something legal—or rather illegal—to require Ollie's presence.

  "We've got ourselves a snitch in the organization," Booth said.

  A palpable silence filled the room, as if each man was holding his breath. Oh, God, Charmaine thought, some poor fool is going to die.

  "The guy's either one of ours or he's one of Lew Miller's group—either way, he signed his own death warrant when he screwed with me." Booth squinted his eyes menacingly as he puffed on his big, expensive Cuban cigar.

  Charmaine knew Booth was waiting to see if anyone in the room dared to respond. No one did. Booth grinned.

  "Somebody sent Grace Beaumont, former attorney general Dean Beaumont's widow, a letter telling her that I had her hubby and dear old dad bumped off because Dean was on the verge of securing evidence that proved a connection between our governor and me." Booth nodded to his lawyer.

  "We're relatively certain that no one in the governor's immediate circle knew about the hit on Dean Beaumont and Byram Sheffield," Ollie said. "That means the traitor is someone privy to Booth's most confidential business. Knowing that narrows down the possibilities and will help us discover the traitor's identity quicker."

  "You aren't implying that it's one of us, are you?" Charlie Dupree ran two fingers under his tight collar.

  "No one is implying anything," Booth said. "Ollie's telling y'all that each one of you is under suspicion, as are half a dozen other guys who have worked here at the house in the recent past."

  "I think everyone knows what happens to anyone who betrays you," Jaron said. "Why would any of us be that stupid?"

  "Damn good question," Ollie remarked.

  "I wasn't working for Booth four years ago," Ronnie reminded them. "I don't even know who these people—the Beaumonts—are."

  "We're aware of everyone's work history." Ollie directed his attention to Ronnie. "However, once inside the inner circle, like y'all are, you learn things, see things and become privy to all sorts of information. Sorry, Ronnie, but we can't rule you out entirely."

  "How are you going to find out who it is?" Aric asked. "I know it's not me—hell, I'd die to protect you, Booth, and you know it."

  Grinning like a Cheshire cat, his white teeth shimmering against his dark skin, Booth flicked the ashes from his cigar into a sterling silver ashtray on his desk.

  "What none of you knew is that we had an informant who gave Ollie the information we needed about Beaumont and his father-in-law the night they were run off the road … an informant who had reason to want both men out of the way. That informant is still working for us."

  Not by choice, Charmaine surmised. Once you did a job for Booth Fortier, you were never free from him, not ever. She wiggled to loosen the tension in her body, then switched from her right eye to her left eye as she continued gazing through the peephole.

  "Our very helpful informant let us know about the letter to Grace Beaumont," Booth told them. "It seems our traitor has now telephoned the lady and wants to exchange proof of my connection to Lew Miller for five million dollars."

  A hushed rumble reverberated around the room. Ronnie, Curt, Aric and Charlie shifted uncomfortably. Charmaine glanced at Jaron. He was sweating. Oh, Jaron, please, please, don't let it be you. But somehow in her heart she knew it was. Why would he risk his life for the money? Didn't he know Booth would catch him? Hadn't he learned anything after nearly twenty years with Booth? While she kept her gaze on her brother, he removed a white handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his face, then his hands, and returned the handkerchief to his pocket.

  "We'll find our man before he can make the exchange," Booth said, "but that won't eliminate our problem. It seems Mrs. Beaumont has hired herself a private investigation team to dig into the accident that befell her family, as well as any connection between the governor and me."

  "Grace Beaumont has to be stopped." Ollie looked directly at Booth.

  "I want the lady warned. Tonight." Booth took a couple of puffs on his cigar, laid it in the sterling tray, then shoved back his chair and stood. "Charlie, I'm putting together a little package for the young widow and I want you to deliver it. Tonight."

  "Yes, sir."

  Charlie Dupree wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he was loyal to a fault and he hero-worshiped Booth. Although he was good to his elderly mother and had a soft spot for his pet parrot, Feathers, the guy had a vicious streak a mile wide. Like Booth, he actually enjoyed inflicting pain.

  "That's it for now," Booth said. "Y'all can go. And whoever our traitor is had better enjoy his last days on earth."

  When Jaron's trembling hand grasped the doorknob, Booth called to him. "Jaron, wait up. I want to talk to you. Privately."

  Charmaine held her breath. Did Booth already know that Jaron was the traitor? Was he going to question him, grill him, until he confessed? She couldn't just stand by and do nothing. But what could she do? Think, Charmaine, think!

  You could kill Booth, an inner voice advised her. Yes, she could kill Booth. She had dreamed of murdering the bastard in his sleep, had planned and plotted his demise numerous times.

  "Yeah, Booth, what do you need?" Jaron asked, and Charmaine marveled at how calm her brother's voice sounded.

  Booth walked over to Jaron, gripped his shoulder tightly and said, "Jed's back in Louisiana."

  "What?" Jaron's gaze darted up from the floor to meet Booth's steady glare.

  At the mention of Jed, Charmaine's heart missed a beat. She hadn't been in love with Jed in a long, long time, but she'd never forgotten him. And a part of her
had never forgiven him for leaving Louisiana without her.

  "It seems my nephew works for the Dundee Private Security and Investigation Agency, out of Atlanta." Booth loosened his hold on Jaron's shoulder. "He's the one heading up the investigation for Mrs. Beaumont."

  "Jed is? I can't believe… God, Booth, why would he—"

  "Look me square in the eye, Jaron, and tell me the God's honest truth—have you or Charmaine heard from him since he came back?"

  Jaron shook his head. "I swear on my life, neither I nor Charmaine knew Jed was back, that he was working here in Louisiana."

  Booth slapped Jaron on the back. "You can stop sweating. I believe you. You've always been loyal, always knew your place. I like a man who realizes when I own him. And you know that I own you and your sister. Always have."

  "Yeah, Booth. I know."

  Booth laughed. The sound sliced through Charmaine like razor-sharp blades, creating deep, agonizing wounds. She hated his laughter because when Booth was happy, it usually meant he had just inflicted pain on someone else.

  If Jed was back, if he was working against Booth, was it possible that he could help Jaron? Help her? If as she suspected, Jaron was the traitor, could Jed save him from Booth? There was no way she could contact Jed from the house, no way to get a message to him. If Ronnie would take her into town and allow her to make a phone call… But on what pretense could she leave the house again tomorrow when everyone knew she'd gone into town two days in a row?

  Charmaine eased up on her knees, scooted the cardboard box over the peephole, then stood up and opened the door just a fraction. She peered out, looking up and down the upstairs hall. Empty. Good.

  She opened the door all the way, hurried out of the closet and closed the door very quietly behind her. With her heart racing wildly, she tiptoed down the hall to her room. Once inside, she rushed to her dressing table, sat down and picked up her silver brush. She brushed her hair, counting the strokes as the bristles glided through her thick, curly mane. It was only a matter of time until Booth came into her room through the door that connected her room to his. She wanted him to find her sitting here waiting for him. Calm. Cool. Controlled. She glanced at the nail file lying atop the mirror-topped silver tray on the table. Could she kill him with the nail file? It wasn't very big, but if it went into his jugular vein…