Grace Under Fire Page 17

  Rafe parked two blocks away and strode through the rundown neighborhood on the east end of town. The citizenry was a mixture of black, white and Hispanic. 1212 East 7th Street

  was a two-story house, probably at least seventy-five years old, with peeling white paint on the exterior and a few cracked windows. From the row of mailboxes near the front entrance, Rafe surmised there were six apartments. Damn small apartments would be his guess just from looking at the building. The minute he entered the foyer, he smelled cabbage cooking, a none-too-pleasant odor. He checked the numbers on the three downstairs apartment doors. 121 2-E was, as he'd figured, upstairs. As he made his way up the rickety, scuffed staircase, he heard the loud shouts of a couple fighting in one of the downstairs apartments.

  1212-E was on the left. Rafe raised his hand and knocked loudly several times. A long-haired, barefoot boy in tattered jeans and no shirt came to the door.

  "Yeah, what do you want?" The kid glowered at Rafe.

  "Troy Leone?"

  Giving Rafe his I'm-a-tough-guy glare, Troy said, "Who wants to know?"

  There was only one language a cocky, smart-mouthed kid like this knew. Rafe punched Troy in the middle of his chest, pushing him backward as Rafe moved into the apartment and, using his foot, slammed the door shut behind him.

  "Hey, man, what's this all about?" Troy took a defensive stance. One hand slid into the pocket of his jeans.

  "If you've got a knife, let it stay in your pocket," Rafe advised. He whipped the Beretta 8000 Cougar from its resting place beneath his belt, shoved Troy up against the wall and rammed the nose of the pistol under the boy's chin. "You've got a nosy sister, Leone. The boss doesn't like nosy women. She's gonna cause you trouble."

  "I'm not responsible for my sister. I've told her to stay out of my life, but she's been like a mama to me, so she won't leave me alone."

  "There's no place for mama's boys in our organization."

  "I ain't no mama's boy."

  "You willing to prove it?" Rafe eased the gun away from Troy's face, but kept it in his hand.

  Troy puffed out his skinny chest. "Yeah, I'm willing. Aren't I a good worker? Just ask Mr. Poarch."

  "Mr. Poarch isn't involved in this. I'm bringing you word from Booth Fortier himself."

  Troy's eyes widened in shock, and if Rafe interpreted his expression correctly, a healthy dose of fear. "The Booth Fortier."

  "That's right. Mr. Poarch didn't tell you who his boss was, did he?"

  "Hey, look, my sister isn't involved in any of this. I don't want Mr. Fortier to go after her or nothing. Okay?"

  There might be hope for this kid, Rafe figured. He was scared at the thought of working for Fortier and he still cared about his sister.

  "Mr. Fortier has a little job for you to do. If you're interested, it'll mean some extra cash," Rafe said. "But if it's not your thing, then we need to know now so we can terminate your employment."

  "What—what sort of job?"

  "Have you ever killed anybody?"

  Troy Leone turned chalk-white. "Nah." He shook his head.

  Rafe figured the kid was shaking like a leaf inside.

  "If you're interested in being part of the organization, you've got to be capable of following any order you're given. Now's the time for us—" Rafe pointed his Beretta at Troy "—and you to decide if you're in or out."

  "And if I'm out?"

  "As long as you keep your mouth shut, then we're square. You go your way and don't look back." Rafe gave him a few minutes to consider his only two options. "Well, kid, what's it gonna be?"

  "I—I'm not sure I could kill somebody."

  "Okay." Rafe put away his gun, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope that held five hundred dollars in crisp, straight-from-the-bank, hundred-dollar bills. This wasn't the first time he'd used his own money to help out a kid in trouble. "Consider this severance pay. And don't show up at the warehouse ever again."

  "And that's it? You'll leave my sister alone? And you won't come after me?"

  "That's it. Keep your nose clean, kid." Rafe saluted Troy, then left him standing there with his mouth gaping open and a stunned look on his face.

  Rafe's con wouldn't have worked with a tougher, meaner kid. Making a boy decide immediately whether he was willing to kill, willing to become a murderer, separated the redeemable from the hopeless. Once a boy had no qualms about murder, he was usually lost forever. Rafe was glad that Troy still had a conscience, not only for Troy's sake, but for Elsa Leone's sake.

  * * *

  Getting anything accomplished at the office this afternoon had been impossible. Every time Grace had heard a phone ring, she'd tensed. Why hadn't he called back? She knew what Jed thought—that the man had been found out and silenced. After all, if he was still alive, why hadn't he shown up at the designated time and place? After hours of waiting, trying desperately to hold on to the least bit of hope that the opportunity to get her hands on documented proof against Booth Fortier wasn't lost to her forever, she'd finally given up and let Jed drive her home.

  They had eaten a late supper of tossed salads and cold cuts, but she hadn't had much appetite. The adrenaline rush she'd experienced at Terrebonne Park had depleted her energy and left her stomach tied in knots. After nibbling at her food, and assuring Laverna that everything was delicious, all she'd wanted to do was take a long soak in her bathtub and go to sleep.

  Jed had hovered over her, as if he thought she was so fragile that the day's disappointment might shatter her. He had offered her his strength, but she'd turned him away. She didn't dare chance a repeat of last night's intimacy. Not that the idea of making love with Jed didn't appeal to her—it did. But she'd never been a woman for casual affairs, for going-nowhere relationships. Until Jed, she'd never had sex without being in love, and something told her that, given half a chance, she'd fall head over heels for her big, rugged bodyguard.

  Jed Tyree wasn't her type, of course. He was a little too rough around the edges. Marty Austin had been a sweet man, gentle and easygoing. Although not worldly-wise, he'd been schooled in good manners and was, to his very core, a gentleman. Dean had possessed many of her father's personality traits—strong, dependable, sophisticated, aggressive. No rough edges. And her father had adored him almost as much as she had.

  What would Daddy think of Jed? she wondered. Oddly enough Grace believed her father would have liked Jed because Jed wouldn't have been the least bit intimidated by Byram Sheffield.

  Jed … Jed… Why is it that if you're Mr. Wrong, being in your arms feels so right?

  Grace sat at her dressing table in her large, luxurious bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. Just thinking about Jed affected her. Her cheeks were slightly flushed. Her nipples stood at attention. And a sexual ache pulsed between her thighs. Her body would never forget being loved so thoroughly. But not as thoroughly as she and Jed had wanted.

  Stop thinking about him! She snatched up the hair dryer, turned it on, tossed her long hair over her head and let the hot air style her natural waves. The only thing she should have on her mind was getting justice for Dean and her father. Her first priority—her only priority—should be proving the connection between Fortier and Miller. She couldn't allow her attraction to Jed to sidetrack her.

  Once she finished with her hair, she went into her massive walk-in closet and chose a pair of pink silk pajamas, with shorts instead of pants. She slid her feet into matching slippers and tossed the matching robe over her arm. When she neared her four-poster bed, she halted and stared at the turned-down covers. Her mind revisited last night's events and the early hours of this morning … and all she could see was a mass of tangled sheets and Jed Tyree's big naked body. The sound of his voice, deep and sultry, echoed in her ears. The erotic phrases he'd whispered to her. The satisfied groans and moans that had excited her beyond all reason.

  If she wanted him, all she had to do was walk across the hall and knock on his door. If she wanted him? Mercy!

&n
bsp; Stop this right now, she told herself. Go to bed, go to sleep and tomorrow you'll return to square one with the investigation and back to a friendly business relationship with Jed.

  Grace crawled into bed, turned off the light and closed her eyes. Images of Jed flickered through her mind. Her eyelids popped open. Damn! She punched her pillows, flopped over and peered through the windowpanes at the slice of moon high in the dark sky.

  She kept telling herself to go to sleep, to think about work or about going with Joy on her next shopping spree to New Orleans. Her body relaxed. She inhaled and exhaled several times. See, that was easy, wasn't it? she told herself.

  An hour later, Grace was not only still awake, but she had tossed and turned so much, she'd worn herself out. She had checked the digital lighted clock on her bedside table every five minutes. And no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't stop thinking about Jed Tyree.

  Maybe a brandy or some sherry … or even warm milk—yuck—might soothe her into sleep. She'd try anything. Well, not anything, she amended. Just as she got out of bed and reached for her robe lying on the nearby armchair, the telephone rang. She stared at the antique-style, crystal contraption as if she'd never seen it before. Who was calling at nearly midnight? she asked herself. Please, let it be the man who has the Fortier/Miller documents. Let him explain why he didn't show up at Terrebonne Park today and make arrangements for another meeting.

  On the fourth ring, Grace reached out and picked up the receiver. By the time she had it to her ear, her bedroom door swung open and Jed stormed in, the portable phone in his hand. Their gazes met for one brief moment.

  Gripping the phone, Grace said, "Hello."

  "How are you, Mrs. Beaumont?" The voice was disguised, so she wasn't sure who he was. Was it the man who had missed their appointment today? Or was it someone else? Maybe it was the same person who'd called to tell her about the gift waiting outside the gate last night.

  "Who is this?"

  "I'm the gift-giver."

  Grace's jaw clenched; her gaze darted to Jed. He walked over to her and put his hand on her shoulder, squeezing reassuringly.

  "What do you want?" Grace asked.

  "I have another present for you."

  If the next present was anything like the first one, she didn't want to see it. "I don't like your kind of gifts."

  A rumbling chuckle vibrated through the telephone line. "Like it or not, I've delivered another little gift and you can find it in the same spot where your other gift was left."

  "You can take your gift and—" The dial tone trilled in her ear.

  Grace slammed down the receiver and turned to Jed. "Whatever it is, I don't want to see it."

  "Good girl." He kissed her on the tip of her nose, then when she leaned toward him, he slipped his arms around her and held her. "I'll call in a couple of Dundee agents to pick up the package. There's no need for you to even go downstairs."

  She lifted her head. "I don't want to see whatever it is, but I need to know what he's left this time. You can just tell me what it is. Okay?"

  He grasped her shoulders. "I'll go in my room to make the necessary calls. I want you to stay here in your room."

  "I don't think I can stay up here alone. I want to go downstairs with you, but I promise I'll stay in the house and not go outside to look at whatever sick present he's sent me."

  * * *

  Jed phoned Dom and Kate and explained the situation, then he waited downstairs in the foyer with Grace, just as they'd done last night. What he knew that Grace didn't know was that this gift would be much worse than the first one. Escalating cruelty was Booth's trademark style. Jed had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. His gut instincts kept warning him about tonight's present, but he tried to shut out the all-too-real possibility.

  "What's taking so long?" Grace asked.

  "It's been only fifteen minutes."

  Grace sighed. "This is driving me crazy."

  Yeah, and seeing her like this—a bundle of nerves—was really getting to him. He didn't like this helpless feeling. Waiting. Not knowing. Certain and yet uncertain. The torment Booth was putting Grace through, the hell he'd made of her life four years ago, was another reason to hate his uncle.

  "Why don't we go in the kitchen and fix you something to drink," Jed suggested. "If you've got some ice cream and cola, I'll make you a float. How does that sound?"

  "It sounds like you're trying to take my mind off what's happening."

  "I guess my strategy isn't working."

  Grace smiled and his gut tightened. She was just a woman, like so many other women, but nothing more than her fragile smile turned him inside out.

  "Has anyone ever told you that you're a good man, Jed Tyree?"

  "No, ma'am. You're the first."

  "I can't believe that."

  Jed grinned. "Well now, a few ladies have told me that I'm good," he said jokingly. "But they were referring to certain talents that—"

  "That I've been privileged to experience firsthand." Her gaze locked with his. "Those ladies were right, you know."

  Jed felt as if his racing heart was going to jump out of his chest. God help him, if Grace didn't have him tied in knots. How did a man react when a woman told him that it had been a privilege to be his lover?

  "Ah, Blondie, you sure know how to make a man speechless."

  "That'll be the day." Her smile widened, reaching her eyes and putting a sparkle in them.

  He reached out to touch her, to skim the back of his hand over her cheek. His cell phone rang. His hand froze in mid-air, then he retrieved his phone from the clip-on holder and punched the On button.

  "Tyree here."

  "Jed, it's Dom. I'm sending Kate up to the house to stay with Ms. Beaumont. After she gets there, you'd better come on down here. I've already put a call in to the sheriff, so they should be here soon."

  "Damn!"

  "You already know, don't you," Dom said.

  "I've got a pretty good idea."

  "Fortier's gift to Ms. Beaumont weighs in at about one-seventy-five. He's got his hands and feet bound, hogtied actually, and he's got so many stab wounds in him that his body looks like a knife thrower was using him for target practice."

  "I'll be on down as soon as Kate arrives."

  "Yeah, you do that," Dom said. "And in the meantime, I'll get in touch with Sawyer and he can handle the Feds."

  "Send Kate on up."

  "Open the gate and she'll be on her way."

  Jed punched the Off button and replaced his phone, then turned to Grace. "Kate Malone is coming to the house to stay with you. When she gets here, I'm going down to the gate to wait with Dom until the law arrives. He's already called the sheriff's department."

  "The law?" Grace paled instantly. "It must be truly horrible if Mr. Shea has contacted the sheriff. What did Booth Fortier send me this time?"

  Jed looked at her point-blank. "He sent you the body of the guy who betrayed him."

  * * *

  Chapter 14

  « ^ »

  Jed headed down the driveway at a fast trot, then ran the last few yards over to where Dom stood just beyond the open gates. Security lights beamed brightly on either side of the brick pillars and illuminated a good twenty-foot circle. The hogtied body waited for him, undisturbed since it had been dumped—several feet off the main road and directly in front of the entrance to Belle Foret. When Jed approached, Dom moved away from where he'd been standing near his rental car.

  "I looked him over, but didn't touch anything," Dom said. "I'd say this guy was tortured for hours before he finally died. He's a bloody mess. But there's something odd."

  "What would that be?"

  "He's covered with stab wounds, but there's not even a bruise on his face." Dom snorted. "It's as if whoever ordered the killing wanted to make sure this guy was recognized without any problem."

  Jed glanced at the lump of human flesh, neatly tied with rope—like a gruesome gift. "It's a fresh kill. There's no rotting
odor, only the smell of recent death. And some of the blood on his wounds looks like it hasn't dried out. Hell, he could have been finished off right here."

  Jed moved closer. The body lay on its side, so the man's back was to him. Black hair, cut short. Jed circled the body, then bent down on his haunches and took a closer look. He felt as if he'd been poleaxed. He shot to his feet instantly.

  Jaron! Jaron Vaden. Older. A mask of torment on his face. But there was no mistaking those dark Creole looks.

  Why, damn it, man, why? What the hell were you thinking trying to double-cross Booth? You were probably his right-hand man. What would possess you to do something so stupid?

  "What's the matter?" Dom asked. "You've got an odd look on your face."

  Jed walked a few feet away from the dead man and kicked the fence so hard a sharp pain shot through his foot. A string of curses burst from his mouth as he curled his hands into fists.

  "Hey, what's going on?" Dom took several steps toward Jed. "You know this guy?"

  A shot of salty bile zipped up Jed's esophagus. It had been years since the sight of a dead body had caused him to puke. But then, it wasn't every day a man got a look at the end results of an old friend's life. There had been a time, back in their teens, when Jaron had been his best buddy. God, but they'd shared some good times.

  "I knew him," Jed admitted. "He's Jaron Vaden. One of Booth Fortier's personal entourage. And Booth's wife's brother."

  "He ordered his own brother-in-law killed?"

  Jed snorted, then chuckled. "Yeah, it isn't the first time he's murdered a brother-in-law. When Booth sets out for revenge, no one is safe." Hadn't Booth killed Jed's own father? Why did it surprise him in the least that he'd have no qualms about killing Jaron?

  "Look, if you'd rather not be here, I can handle things with the sheriff. You can go on back up to the house and—"

  "I'll stay. I want to see the sheriff's reaction or the deputy's, whoever the hell shows up. I should be able to tell just by the way they handle things if Booth's got the law around here in his hip pocket."