CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

“The piano store?”

To say Annalise was surprised was an understatement. More like shocked, but also excited. The latter because Thomas has driven past the piano store with her once, and made a passing comment about a guy from work being an unlikely musician. But she’d never have thought it was the epicenter of the local gang that had ripped Michael’s family to pieces.

She gripped the edge of the iron latticework table in her fifth-floor flat and stared at him through the computer screen with wide eyes. “I drove past there. With your father. We drove past it one day.”

“Holy shit. What happened? Why?” he asked from the other side of the world. He was in his home, the steel counters of his kitchen framing the video screen.

“You and I went to the movies one Saturday afternoon, but before then your father had come over to play poker with Sanders and Donald. He drove me to your house. Do you remember?”

It was all so clear in her mind. It wasn’t as if she had been lingering on that particular memory for any reason, but now that he mentioned the piano shop, that day splashed to the surface of her thoughts with a particular kind of clarity.

“That’s where the Royal Sinners run the operation from,” he said in a breathless whisper.

“A piano store. That’s so clandestine,” she said, as the flutter of the French news station from a television a floor below drifted up through the late fall air. The weather was cool and crisp, and her terrace doors were open. The Eiffel Tower stood proudly a few blocks from here, and if she leaned far enough out the window, she could catch a glimpse of the flickering lights that lit it up at night.

He nodded. “My private detective found out last night. Apparently they run everything from there. Did you learn anything when you drove past it? Did my dad say anything unusual?”

She shook her head. “No. Not all. He simply noticed someone from work heading there. He didn’t give a name, but I remember he was big and broad, and incredibly tall.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed, and he hissed the name. “T.J. Must have been T.J.”

She clasped her hand over her mouth, shock coursing through her. She collected herself and said, “That was T.J.? Your father was surprised that he’d gone into the piano store. That was literally all he said about the place. It was a very fast conversation at the traffic light. But before then, we were chatting about work.”

Michael gestured for her to tell him more. “About the promotion he was looking for? He always told me he was hoping to impress the guy who ran the company. But nothing came of it. Obviously.”

“I overheard him and the others talking about ‘extra work trips’ at the game. I believe he said someone at work told him to stop asking so many questions. Then when we drove past the store, he said the guy heading into the shop had been giving him a hard time at work, but that was all.”

Michael’s jaw dropped. “That’s got to be the missing link. That must be how it’s all connected. If T.J. worked there, too, the Royal Sinners must have been operating somehow at the limo company.” He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “We looked into his employer when the case reopened, and the cops did, too, but nothing came up as a cause for concern. Even the guy who ran the place—he was squeaky clean, and now he’s long gone. Retired in Canada. Not a single blip or issue, but hell,” he said, stopping to blow out a long stream of air. “That’s how they operate. Under the radar.”

“Yes. If they run out of a piano store and have been avoiding capture for years, they’re smart. But you’ve figured it out,” she said with a smile, because she was so damn proud of him. His work had gotten the investigation that much closer.

Michael paced in front of the screen. “Everything must have been flowing through my dad’s company, I bet. Maybe the owner didn’t even know, and it was all right under his nose. And that’s how my mother met Luke in the first place. At a work party. I found pictures. So Luke must’ve been running everything—all these illegal operations through the back of the piano shop, but it was actually being funneled through West Limos. The drugs and the guns. And my mother was a part of it, since she was involved in selling drugs. That must be why the investigation was reopened. My mother was behind it all, but there were other people who had no problem offing my dad. Jesus fucking Christ,” he said, dragging a hand through his hair.

Annalise nodded sadly. “He said something about finding some discrepancies at work. Rides or items that were missing. Maybe they were missing because the Sinners were transporting guns or drugs, through the company and perhaps to the piano store.”

He snapped his fingers and pointed at her, his eyes lighting up with that aha moment. “You know, you’re beautiful and brilliant?”

“So are you.”

“I need to tell John.”

She waved him off. “Go, go. This is important. I’ll see you soon,” she said, and she was ready. Ready to have him come see her here in Paris, to have him in her home, to share some of her life here with him. She wanted to show him the local bakery, wander through the alleys, through the shops, take him to some of her favorite places in Paris. To make new memories with Michael.

“Nothing could stop me from seeing you.”

* * *

No one was home. Detective John Winston knocked on the door of Luke Carlton’s house at a quarter past ten. But the sound of his fist rapping on the wood echoed without an answer.

He turned around, scanning for Luke’s car on the street. He hadn’t seen it when he’d pulled up, but even so, he looked once more.

Course, the man not being home didn’t mean much. He might be at the piano shop. He might be at the grocery store again. It was hard to say.

John leaned to the right, trying to catch a glimpse through the window into the home. It looked just the same as it had when John was here over the summer. He’d interviewed Luke when the case was re-opened. The man claimed to know nothing. He played up the whole fear factor, sticking to his story of being terrified the Royal Sinners would come after him. In truth, they were in his back pocket, and the man probably figured he was still getting away with it. That his long and time-honored practice of hiding behind his fake life and pushing others to take the blame would keep working. Hell, even the handful of gang arrests made recently were for other crimes; none were related to the murder.

And so Luke kept going about his business.

If the man stuck to his schedule, and he sure seemed like the type, that meant John might need to track him down at the piano shop this evening. But as he returned to his car, heading out of the neighborhood, he considered whether arresting the man at that place was the smartest approach.

That would be like walking into…well, into target practice. The shop was the center of their gun trade, and if John wanted to keep this arrest as quiet as he possibly could until he had T.J., too, he needed a different way in.

Food was the path.

* * *

When evening rolled around, John’s partner headed inside the grocery store, strolled around the aisles, and reported back via text.

John nodded to himself with a small sense of satisfaction. Luke Carlton was indeed a man of routine. That routine was his camouflage. It had shielded him for years. His clockwork schedule had made him appear one way to the world, and that masquerade made it possible for him to live a life of crime undetected.

John waited by the automatic doors of the supermarket—ready.

Tension coiled in him, but a kind of excitement, too. This was why he did what he did. The chance to clean up the streets. Put the bad guys behind bars.

After his best friend had been paralyzed by a drive-by gang shooting when he was fourteen, John had vowed to always do his part to keep this town safe. Sure, Luke Carlton had done so much more than sell guns. But all John needed was probable cause to take the man in. Thanks to Michael’s tip, coupled with the weeks of investigation, John and his men had been able to amass the necessary evidence.

He could taste the possibility of justice in the air.

The doors slid open, and his partner crossed from the tiled floor of the grocery store onto the sidewalk.

Briefly, a small knot of guilt wormed its way through John as he thought of Marcus, the courageous boy who’d helped them start down this path. Marcus and the rest of his family would be safer, though, he reminded himself. The sooner John could dismantle the Royal Sinners, the better off everybody in this town would be.

Sixty seconds later, Luke Carlton neared the exit of the grocery store. It was a little after six on a Tuesday evening. He carried two bags of groceries. He wore jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. His gray hair was freshly combed, as if he’d taken a shower before he ran his errands.

Luke didn’t notice the two men in slacks and button-downs loitering outside the local market. He kept walking, his keys in one hand, whistling under his breath. Sounded like Beethoven, something he’d probably taught to a young student recently.

John burned with frustration over the freedom this man had enjoyed for so many years. But it was also Luke’s Achilles’ heel. He thought he could keep it up indefinitely, living like an average guy.

John stepped away from the brick wall he’d been leaning against and stopped in the path of the head of a dangerous street gang. An average, ordinary guy.

“Pardon me,” he said, shifting to the right to avoid John, as if he’d truly just bumped into him. Funny how Luke didn’t even look up. If he had, he might have recognized the detective he’d lied to a few months ago.

Fucking mild-mannered piano teacher, my ass. But the guy had pulled it off, living a double life for years. That was about to be blown wide open.

“Good to see you again, Luke Carlton. You’re under arrest,” John said.

The second the words left John’s mouth, Luke dropped his grocery bags and bolted. It was an instant reaction—he took off along the sidewalk of the cavernous store, running like hell.

John went after him, sidestepping the bunch of bananas, the trail of cans, and the chicken that had spilled from the bags. Luke had more speed than John would ever have expected. He ran past a line of shopping carts, grabbing the handle of one and yanking it out onto the sidewalk.

John dodged the cart, and his partner was right behind him as Luke rounded the corner into the back lot to the side of the store. Luke seemed hell-bent on escape, and John completely understood his drive. The man had lived a scot-free life for two decades. That could drive a man to run like hell. But so could the pursuit of justice, so could dogged determination, and so could years of running every morning before the sun even rose.

John had all that in his favor.

Even though the bastard was fast, he wasn’t fast enough. No fucking way was John letting Luke Carlton get away from him in the back parking lot of a grocery store.

With his heart pumping, his feet pounding, and his breath coming in fast, powerful spurts, John neared him. Ten feet, five feet away now. John closed the distance across the asphalt, stretched out his arm, grabbed the back of his shirt, and tackled him.

Luke twisted in his arms. “Let me go. You’ve got the wrong man.”

He was like an eel, flinging and swishing and desperately coiling his body. But John wasn’t letting go, and as his partner reached them, the cuffs were ready.

John yanked Luke up, pinned both wrists, pushed him against a dumpster, and slapped on the handcuffs.

He breathed out hard. “As I was saying. Good to see you again, Luke Carlton. You’re under arrest for illegal gun trafficking.” Then he rattled off a litany of violations that this man had committed over the years, from selling guns without background checks, to peddling weapons to convicted felons, to giving firearms to fugitives.

And at last, they took him in.

* * *

The next morning, John paid a visit to Lee Stefano, to see if he could get that punk to serve up some details on T.J.’s whereabouts. Weeks in jail had worn him down. He wasn’t so keen on “protecting their own” anymore, so he named a few spots that T.J. had been known to frequent. An interesting list, to be sure. John had a hunch where they might be able to nab the guy. Bringing in T.J. would require some stealth. The man was already wanted, so John would need the element of surprise on his side, and he knew how to pull it off.

He called Michael Sloan to ask for his help. Michael said yes, then John cleared his throat, shifted gears, and asked him for the number of the cute blonde. He’d had Mindy on his mind since the night he met her.