Chapter Six
Three days passed without incident.
Etta hadn’t heard from Grady. She didn’t know how to take it. Had her fortunes turned or was Hurricane Grady barreling toward her? Maybe he’d decided to do the smart thing and leave her alone. After all, it hadn’t worked out so hot for him last time.
In the interim, she’d kept busy. Etta had seen Justice a few times. He’d stopped by her house on his motorcycle once, offering to take her for a ride. Etta had declined, even though she’d longed to run off with him.
And she’d dropped by Hades Diner for lunch. Lo and behold, Justice just so happened to be there at the same time, so they’d eaten together. Etta told herself it wasn’t a date exactly, more like a chance meeting, with milkshakes. The truth is, she’d like to see more of him, even if she couldn’t admit it.
And then it all fell apart on a regular Tuesday morning.
When she walked in the office door, Etta found a floral arrangement waiting for her. The pot of succulents on her desk was wrapped in a big red ribbon. Grady used to send her those, right after they’d had a fight. It had been his way of making up.
Hmph fight.
The term made it sound as though they were sparring partners. Grady had fifty pounds of pure muscle on her, and he’d tossed Etta around like a ragdoll.
Forgive me, baby. You know what happens when I get mad. When you goad me, I can’t help myself.
There’s some screwed up psychology right there. Grady acted as though she’d provoked the beating somehow. As if she were responsible for his abuse. And when she’d been younger, Etta had accepted the blame. Once she was out of the relationship, Etta realized how crazy it actually was, but in the middle of the situation, it was hard to think straight.
Besides, Grady had a way of twisting her words, playing on her sympathies, and making Etta doubt herself. He specialized in good old-fashioned mindfuckery.
“Who sent you the plant?”
Etta jumped. She turned to see one of her co-workers, Gail Sanders, standing beside the desk.
Unlike the supervisors in her department, she didn’t have an office. Since Etta spent most of the time in the field, she had a cubicle, next to two rickety filing cabinets. Etta considered her car an office and only did paperwork at her desk.
“Um, somebody I used to know.”
She playfully arched her brows. “An old boyfriend, huh?”
“Nope.” Etta didn’t find it amusing. She’d grown to hate the site of the plants. They were called “sticks on fire,” a particular type of succulent, which matched the name. The tips were a pinkish red, and the base was green. The plant literally looked as though it had been set aflame.
“It’s beautiful.” Gail’s eyes narrowed on her. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I'm all right,” Etta lied. “But um, I have, er, allergies. Wanna take it off my hands?”
“Well, if you don’t want them, yeah. Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
Gail scooped the pot up and hustled back over to her own desk, while Etta sank down into her chair.
A rush of memories haunted her.
Near the end of their marriage, she’d called a domestic violence shelter in the middle of the night, while seated on the floor of the closet, the phone pressed against her ear, whispering in the darkness.
Etta had placed her feet on the door, barricading herself in, in case Grady woke up and discovered what she had planned. The social worker on the line had given her an action list, things to accomplish to ensure her protection.
Like the lady at the shelter suggested, Etta had stuffed a duffel bag of belongings behind the couch in case she’d needed to get away from him. She’d placed essentials in there—some money, clothing, important documents like her birth certificate. The first time Etta had escaped, she’d only lasted three days. Grady had wine and succulents waiting for her when she’d returned.
It had taken a few more stays at the shelter to finally leave, and she’d barely escaped with her own life.
Maybe she should’ve killed him that last night. Etta had the gun in her hand, her finger on the trigger. If she’d shot him, Etta wouldn’t be in this predicament right now. Grady would be in the ground, and she’d be free. Or maybe she would’ve gone to prison instead.
Had it all been worth it? Right now, it sure didn’t feel that way.
This had been a warning shot. He was letting her know he’d gotten out and he’d be paying her a visit soon. Etta made a mental note to check with the IT guy, and see if anyone had been spotted on the security cameras placing the plant on her desk. Etta doubted Grady had been so careless.
The choice of succulent had been deliberate in more ways than one. While she wouldn’t call Grady a pyromaniac, he had a thing for fire. He used to threaten to burn her alive. As a minor, he’d been charged with setting a little league dugout on fire. He’d only gotten probation and had to attend an anger management camp, but it was the start of a pattern.
Grady wanted to burn her new life down to the ground. And she vowed to be ready for him.
***
Justice sat in Sugar Daddies, a pink and mint green themed bakery in Crimson Creek. He’d been here once before with Vick. He could’ve gone to Hades, the diner owned by the Four Horsemen, but he couldn’t deal with the whispers and pitying looks.
Sugar Daddies was a bit girly for his taste, but the locals seemed to like it, which was always a positive sign. All of the pink polka-dotted chairs around him were filled. During his travels, Justice made it a point to eat where the townsfolk did because the grub was always better. He was due at Mary’s place in a half an hour, and he had just enough time to squeeze in a bite to eat.
Justice sat in a corner booth with a big cup of coffee and a pastry. He was nursing a case of the munchies, and he was about to bite into the sweetest looking cinnamon roll he’d ever seen. It was still warm from the oven and sticky to the touch.
“You gotta a minute?”
Oh, fuck off.
With a grunt, he dropped the roll back on the napkin, licked his fingers clean, and glared at the stranger.
A tall, lanky man in a pair of jeans and cowboy boots stood next to the table. His silver belt buckle was so shiny, the damn thing nearly sparkled.
While he didn’t know which branch the man worked for, Justice could spot a lawman at twenty paces. Due to his training, he was more aware of his surroundings than most people. That and he was giving Justice the stink eye, which was another tip-off.
“A minute for what…?”
“A talk. I’m Agent Hawthorne.” He whipped out his badge and Justice squinted at it, unimpressed. “Call me Thorne.”
“Well, Thorne, I ain’t got nothin’ to say.”
The swiftest way to end up six feet under in these parts was cooperating with the feds. If Justice snitched, he’d have to deal with both the mafia and the FBI all up in his business. Not to mention the Four Horsemen. They preferred to handle their problems in house and dole out their own brand of retribution.
“Sure ya do.” The agent sat down anyway.
Justice grunted.
“You know, I thought out of everyone, you’d be most likely to open up, seein’ as how you were in the military.”
“You’ve been goin’ through our records.” Justice would have to let the club know, which would lead to a pain in the ass technology shuffle—a search for bugs in all their homes, new cell phones, and a boatload of cybersecurity.
Fantastic. Things are just gettin’ better and better.
“Yep.” He leaned across the table. “So why are you workin’ with the mafia? I can’t figure it out.”
“The mafia?” He chuckled. “Sounds like you’ve been watchin’ one too many Soprano reruns.”
A muscle worked in his jaw. “I’m sick of gettin’ the run around from you people.”
“Which people? Who else you been talkin’ to?”
“None of your business. The point is, I ain’t gettin’ nowhere because none of y’all will open your goddamn mouths.” Thorne grabbed his cinnamon roll and took a big bite.
“Now that’s just rude.” Justice hoped he choked on it.
“Ain’t it though?” he muttered around a bite of pastry. “If I can’t find somebody to cooperate, we’ll have to go to Plan B.”
“Which is…?” Justice already didn’t like the sound of it.
“I can make life really uncomfortable around here.” Thorne finished the roll in two chomps and then smiled. “Eventually, I’ll get one of you to break ranks.”
“And you think it’s me?” Justice laughed without humor. “You came to the wrong man.” Taliban fighters beat the stuffing out of him every single day for months and didn’t get squat. The agent didn’t stand a chance. “It’s gonna take a lot more than flashin’ your badge in my face. And you owe me $2.95 for the roll.”
“Bill me.” Thorne smirked. “Know what I think?”
“The question is, do I care?”
“Humor me.”
Justice sighed. “What do you think?”
“A buddy of mine was workin’ a case out here and he up and disappeared, almost like he fell into a black hole or somethin’. His name’s Chris Warner. Ring any bells?”
Yeah, it rang big clangin’ alarm bells.
“I seem to recall meetin’ an agent by that name.” Justice knew better than to lie.
“Now we’re gettin’ somewhere.”
“What about him?”
“I believe Beauregard killed ‘em.”
Justice made damn sure to keep his features even and disinterested. If Thorne was digging around the FBI agent’s murder, they were all screwed.
Christ Almighty. Those chickens came home to roost with a vengeance.
A few months back, Warner had been sniffing around Hell. Meanwhile, Beauregard had been trying to rope the Four Horsemen into a business arrangement, and when the club refused to cooperate, he’d shot the agent with Eddie Rollins’ gun, so her handprints were on it and everything.
Beauregard then tucked the gun away into his safe and took care of the body. The mobster told Axel, Eddie would go down for murder unless the club fell in line. So they’d been forced to cooperate or stand by and watch as Eddie got railroaded into an electric chair on circumstantial evidence.
Thorne studied him. “You don’t seem shocked by my theory.”
“Should I be?” He shrugged. “The family’s infamous. Sayin’ a Beauregard offed somebody is like tellin’ me the earth is round, or the sky is blue.”
“Yet, you’re workin’ for ‘em.” Thorne gritted his teeth. “And you didn’t answer my earlier question.”
“I’m doin’ a little bit of this, some of that.” He excelled at giving vague non-answers.
“Help me get the bastard.”
Thorne’s eyes were filled with an unholy fire. This wasn’t merely about a case, it seemed personal. Justice doubted it just involved a dead colleague, either, even if the man had been a friend. No, this wound, whatever it was, ran deep.
Justice understood the desire for vengeance. He used to fantasize about hunting down the men who’d captured him.
“Why do you want him so bad?”
“I’m only tryin’ to solve a case.”
“Nope, I ain’t buyin’ it. Who did Beauregard take from you?”
Thorne’s nostrils flared, and Justice knew he’d hit a nerve.
He ignored the question. “If you don’t, I’ll take your club and maybe even your lovely lady social worker down with you.”
It was an idle threat. He doubted Etta had so much as an unpaid parking ticket.
“That’s the federal government for you, always buttin’ its nose into people’s business.”
“It’s our specialty,” Thorne said dryly. “I know she’s mixed up in this, too. I saw her hangin’ out at the strip club Beauregards’ aunt owns.”
“Yeah, her friend, Bonnie, is the proprietor, which is why Etta dropped by. And if you knew your ass from a hole in the ground, you’d figure out Bonnie don’t want anythin’ to do with her kin. The rest of them might be crooked, but Bonnie seems legit.” According to Etta anyway, and Justice trusted her instincts.
“Is that a fact?”
“It is.”
“Hmm.” Thorne stood and tossed his business card on the table. “Call me if you remember what it’s like to have a conscience.” And then he sauntered out of the bakery.
Like I needed more trouble.
***
When Justice arrived at Cobb’s place, he was in a foul mood. On the way over, he’d texted the information to Ace, but hadn’t heard back.
His frame of mind got even worse when he found Braxton Beauregard lounging at the end of Mary’s bed. Mary was ignoring him as she read from another enormous textbook.
Jesus. You can’t swing a cat in these parts without hittin’ one of these bastards. And Justice would love to hit one of them, preferably Byron Beauregard. No guns. Naw, this would be a hand-to-hand fight. He preferred to duke it out like a man.
“Well, if it ain’t a baby Beauregard.”
“I ain’t the youngest.” His nostrils flared. “Do I know you?”
“No, but I know your family.”
He was the spitting image of his big brother, even down to his telltale smirk, which must be hereditary, like the inclination to be an asshole. Justice would love a chance to knock him down a peg or two.
“Oh.”
“Hey, is this dickhead botherin’ you?” Justice asked Mary.
“Sorta. I’m tryin’ to cram in some readin’ today.” She blew a piece of stray hair away from her face.
“Don’t be like that, honey.” Braxton reached for her, and she scowled at the hand, and he wisely backed off.
“The lady wants you gone, so take yourself on home, son.”
“Fuck you, old man.”
“No thanks. You ain’t my type.” And who the fuck are you callin’ old? “Now git while you’re still able to walk on your own two legs.”
“Why don’t you make me?” Braxton stood and puffed out his chest.
Hmm, this day’s lookin’ up.
“Thanks, sounds like fun.” Justice grinned. He’d beat the snot out of him and send him home to Byron crying.
“Think you can handle this?” He ran a hand down his body like he had delusions of being a young Arnold Schwarzenegger.
Mary stood. “Uh, Brax, he’s former military. He’d wipe the floor with you, and I’d rather you not make a mess in here.”
Ha, she was more concerned about her stuff than the guy.
“He is?” His brows raised.
“Yeah, I am.” It was his turn to strut a bit. “And she’s right.”
Braxton paused to think “Whatever.”
“Great retort.” So Byron had received the lion’s share of the brains.
“I gotta go anyway.” Brax streaked out of the room, giving Justice wide berth on the way out the door.
When the dumbass left, Justice grasped her desk chair, flipped it around, and had a seat. Mary still didn’t look up. She had a pencil in her mouth, and frown lines marked her forehead.
“What’s goin’ on with you and Byron Jr.? Because you could do much better.”
She removed the pencil. “Don’t like the Beauregards, huh?”
“Nope. And how do you feel about ‘em?”
She shrugged. “Well, they’re sweet talkers and easy on the eye, too.” She lifted her brows suggestively, and Justice thought he just might puke. It’s a good thing he didn’t eat the pastry. “But I’m more into my studies at the moment. They’ll be time enough for men when I’m a famous surgeon.” Her face lit up. “Then I’m gonna date all the eligible bachelors in Boston. I’ll settle down when I’m thirty, and I’ll have two kids by thirty-five, and then who knows…?”
“Wow. You got it all planned out.”
“Yup. I write down all my goals and then revisit them every month or so.” She paged through a journal on the bed and showed him. Sure enough, she had a page of bulleted items, all of them lofty objectives.
“Well, I wish you luck.” He slapped his knees and stood, ready to hang out in the den once more. It was full of books, and he was thinking about taking on some James Patterson today.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
Mary hesitated a second. “What kind of business is my granddad really in?”
Is this my day for awkward Q&A sessions or what?
“You’ll have to ask him, sweetheart.”
“I got this awful feelin’.” Mary wrapped her arms around herself. “Like I’m missin’ somethin’ huge.”
“I don’t know what to tell you.” She wasn’t wrong, but feelings had a way of obscuring a person’s vision. Love could blindside a person.
“I think you know what to tell me, but you won’t for some reason.” Her head lowered and some of her sparkle dimmed.
“It ain’t my business.”
Justice felt like an ass, but he didn’t know what else to say. He’d heard a lot of rumors about her family. Allegedly, her mom and dad died in an accident, but Justice didn’t believe it. He’d always thought the old man had a hand in it.
“I see.”
No, she didn’t, and that was the problem.
“I’ll be next door if you need me.” He paused at the door and glanced back at her. “If I were you, I’d let it go.”
She shook her head. “We just met, but I already know you wouldn’t if our roles were reversed.”
Damnation, she was right.
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“I’m gonna find out eventually.”
God help her when she did.