Deadly Secrets Read online

  The Llama smiled. “Go clean up for lunch. You’re stinking up the room. You’ve pissed yourself.”

  Startled, Kareem looked down and discovered the wet spot covering his crotch.

  Then, to Henry’s astonishment, Kareem stood tall and grinned.

  The Llama frowned, looking unsettled.

  “Here’s the thing about catching a tiger by the tail, man,” Kareem said quietly. “You can let it go. You can try to hang on to it. You try to kill it. But no matter what you do—that tiger’s gonna fuck you up before it’s all over.”

  The Llama stared at him, unblinking.

  Kareem turned and walked out with his head held high.

  The Llama blinked a time or two, clearly trying to regroup, then cleared his throat. “Tea, Henry?”

  Henry braced himself and tried to get a handle on his growing dread.

  “I’m good, sir.” Henry summoned his inner Robert De Niro. If De Niro could do calm and cool, so could Henry. Although, to be fair, De Niro had never had to deal with this pointy-eared psychopath who liked to play mind games.

  “Sit, sit.” The Llama waved at a chair. “How’s your hip treating you?”

  “Like a five-dollar hooker on the Vegas Strip.” As always, Henry ignored the invitation to sit in favor of standing at attention.

  The Llama chuckled. “And your heart?”

  Henry’s jaw tightened. The curse of the heart attack survivor struck again: being asked about your health every three goddamn minutes. Like the Llama actually cared about his health. Like this was a social call. Please.

  “It’s fine, sir.”

  “Good, good.” The Llama slurped his tea.

  Henry focused on the view of the bay and wished he could go all De Niro as Jake LaMotta in here. Pummeling the Llama would make him feel better. Oh, yes indeed.

  “I’m…going to need your help on another job, Henry. A small one.”

  “A…small one?” Henry asked. Maybe he was slow, but after all these years it still seemed to him that finding a person, setting up the kill, killing the person and then, finally, covering up the kill was always a big job. Especially when you’d never wanted to be in the killing business in the first place. “Excuse me?”

  “Won’t take long.”

  Henry took a moment to make sure he had things straight. He thought of his new, hard-earned house in Phoenix, where no one knew how he’d made his money or how much blood (some of it innocent; let’s be honest) he had on his soul. He thought of his age: sixty-four. He thought of how it had been two years since Alice’s dementia diagnosis, which meant that the number of times she’d continue to recognize him was zooming toward single digits, and she’d probably have to go to assisted living soon.

  Most of all, he thought of the Llama’s empty promises, the latest and greatest of which was that Henry’s job yesterday had been the last one.

  “But…I’m retired now.” Henry realized that a hard edge had crept into his voice, and dialed it back. “Sir.”

  “Retired?” the Llama said blankly. “Retirement’s not permanent, Henry. If Brett Favre and Michael Phelps can un-retire, so can you.”

  “But Albert’s taking over for me. He’s doing great. You said so yourself.”

  “There are some things only a master craftsman can handle.”

  Henry slowly shook his head. He was not hearing this. This was not happening.

  “Besides,” said the Llama, “it’s not a full job. Just a little surveillance.”

  With that, Henry’s sanity blew.

  “You let me go! You told me I was done! You gave me your word! A deal’s a deal!” Henry paused to gather the worst stone that he, an honorably discharged military man, could throw at anyone. “You're a snake! You belong in the tank with Andromeda! You just gave a speech about honor, but you have no honor!”

  The Llama shrugged, looking bewildered. “How much honor do I need in situations where I have all the power?”

  That was the moment Henry knew. The whole go with my blessing promise? It was a lie. Always had been, always would be. This monster would no sooner let Henry retire in peace to Phoenix than Gollum would wrap up the Precious and give it to Frodo with a satin bow on top.

  The world just didn’t work that way.

  And Henry was the fool who hadn’t known that retirement would never be in his future.

  The Llama gestured.

  Albert edged closer and planted a hand the size of a dinner platter on Henry’s shoulder.

  Henry glared up at the giant. “Really?”

  Albert shrugged. “He’s the boss.”

  “This can go two ways, Henry,” the Llama said. “Albert snaps your neck right now and dumps you in the bay after dark. It’ll be like you never existed. I’m not a fan of handling things that way. It’s wasteful. The other way is better.”

  Henry stared dully, waiting.

  “The other way, Henry, is that you go to Cincinnati for me, receive my generous payment, then return to Phoenix until I need you again. Isn’t that a better idea?”

  Henry stared at him through the red haze of his bloodlust. He thought about how he’d started out as this man’s private detective twenty years ago, made a wrong choice here, a slippery decision there (the soaring medical bills when his precious son Harry, rest in peace, turned up with leukemia had certainly given Henry a big shove down the wrong path), and wound up as the go-to guy when someone needed killing.

  And once there was one killing, the Llama had him by the short hairs.

  Once you got in, you never got out.

  Only Henry had never wanted in. He’d wanted to work a little extra to put something away for his and Alice’s retirement.

  The retirement that, he now saw, would never come.

  All because of this rotten SOB.

  Much as he wanted to say do it and take the snapped neck option, just so he wouldn’t have to live in fear for another day, he couldn’t do it. What would happen to Alice if he never came back and finished setting up her long-term care? It wasn’t like the neighbor would keep looking in on her forever.

  Henry stared at the man who’d just ended his dreams. He wanted to rip those ridiculous ears from that head and shove them up those wide nostrils. He wanted to spit on his dead body and dance barefoot through his blood. He wanted to feed this cancerous turd to his own snake.

  Motherfucker.

  The choice was clear: die right now, or die in a few years, when his heart got him, and take care of Alice while he could.

  “What do you need me to do?” he asked.

  The Llama grinned. “I want you to follow our friend Kareem to Cincinnati and make sure he lives up to his end of the bargain. And I want you to find that flash drive.”

  2

  CINCINNATI—PRESENT DAY

  “Hi, Jayne,” came that unwelcome and preternaturally cheery voice the second Assistant U.S. Attorney Jayne Morrison walked through the door and rounded the receptionist’s desk.

  “Dear God, woman.” Jayne cringed and kept her gaze resolutely on her phone as she scanned emails. Her law clerk, Sierra Davis, a bright-eyed busy beaver, fell into step beside her as they headed for Jayne’s office. “I am not Miranda Priestly. You are not Andy. This is not The Devil Wears Prada. Can’t you let me catch my breath before you accost me?”

  “Nope. The boss is waiting in your office.”

  “Oh, God.” Jayne groaned.

  “I figured you’d want a warning.”

  Jayne peeked into the kitchen, where a big pink box sat on the table. Her steps slowed and her discipline, which she’d hoped would be steely today but had so far only worked its way up to indifferent, faltered.

  “Donuts,” she said, veering inside.

  “Donuts are eight points,” Sierra said.

  Jayne searched the box’s contents for a suitable snack alternative. Something between one of the fat glazed donuts and the protein bar that was currently getting smushed at the bottom of her briefcase. She felt entitled to a small
treat, having just made a victorious return from court.

  “Blueberry muffin,” she said triumphantly. “That’s what I’ll have.”

  “Blueberry muffins are ten points,” Sierra said.

  “Well, there you go.” Jayne poured coffee and grabbed a donut. “I’m taking the heart-healthy option. Like a salad.”

  “Suit yourself.” Sierra shrugged as they resumed walking. “You’re the one with the weigh-in tonight.”

  Jayne, who’d already taken a giant bite, nearly gagged. “Tonight?”

  “Tonight.”

  Jayne pressed a hand to her guilty mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. Glanced at Sierra, whose size-six self would never understand Jayne’s size-sixteen, thick-girl struggles. With an aggrieved sigh, Jayne went back to the kitchen and tossed the precious pastry.

  “Good job,” Sierra said. “And Godspeed with the boss.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” Jayne said as Sierra walked off. “I owe you.”

  Sierra beamed and waved.

  Jayne took a deep breath, worked up an oh, what a pleasant surprise! face, smoothed her navy jacket—damn tight button better not pop on her, not today—hiked up the front of her lacy camisole, which was, as usual, losing the battle to control her boobage, and went into her office.

  “Oh, hey, April,” she said. “Did something blow up while I was in court?”

  April Wilkes, Jayne’s supervisor, perched on the file cabinet. “Got a minute?”

  Jayne sat at her desk. “Of course.”

  “Kerry Randolph,” April said. “Your favorite confidential informant? It’s time to close him out. It’s been six months. His case has dragged on long enough. Cut him loose.”

  Wait, what?

  Jayne blinked and tried to come up to speed, but she felt like she was running alongside one of those high-speed European trains and trying to hop on board as it zoomed out of the station.

  “Kerry Randolph was Kareem Gregory’s right-hand man. He’s still a valuable CI. Why would we cut him loose? We’re not done with him.”

  “We are done with him,” April said. “He’s satisfied his obligation to us and told us everything he knows. Put him in the program if he still wants it, okay?”

  Jayne sputtered, too outraged to choke out a response.

  “What now, Jayne?” April asked, sighing.

  “What now? I don’t think Randolph told us half of what he knows. How is that satisfying his obligation to the U.S. government?”

  “He satisfied it as soon as he told us where Kareem Gregory’s warehouse was and we seized seven million dollars’ worth. And that was the deal: he gave us the warehouse and we give him immunity and WITSEC.”

  “That was Brady’s deal,” Jayne grumbled. DEA Supervisor Dexter Brady was the one who’d had the initial connection with Randolph and had promised him the moon, the stars and a pretty speckled pony if he sang like a canary and gave up his BFF, the drug kingpin. “I never would’ve agreed to that.”

  “Well, your higher-ups in this office did agree to it because we’re standing behind Brady and his team’s work,” April said.

  “But Randolph set up the whole money-laundering scheme—”

  “Not that again.”

  “Yes, that again,” Jayne snapped. “I mean…why am I the only one who has a problem with this? Randolph took his medical degree and training and used them in furtherance of a criminal enterprise. Which is conspiracy. Not only did he patch up his little drug-dealing friends whenever one of them got shot, he went over to the Dark Side and used his skills to set up a medical equipment company. Allied Medical Supplies. Remember that outfit? It took the proceeds from Kareem’s activities, purchased medical supplies, then took those across the border and sold them in Mexico. Then that money went to repay the cartel for supplying Kareem’s organization with the drugs in the first place. How many millions of dollars do you think Randolph’s little branch of Kareem’s organization laundered? But are we looking at him for conspiracy? Are we letting the medical board know about Randolph’s twisted use of his license and—”

  “We’re not reporting him up, Jayne. We’ve discussed this already.”

  “I know!” Jayne let out an incredulous laugh. “We’re not doing anything to him! No slap on the wrist! No revocation of his medical license! Hell, we can’t even hand him over to our friends on the state side of the drug task force to see if they can write him up a couple of parking tickets! Randolph gets the big jackpot—complete immunity! And now the taxpayers are supposed to foot the bill—excuse me, continue to foot the bill—for his protection in the program. We’re supposed to set him up with a new identity in a new town when we all know he’ll probably blow his cover and come back here the first change he gets? Are you kidding me right now?”

  “Jayne…” April said wearily.

  “Why can’t we just buy the SOB a one-way ticket to Montana and be done with him? Wish him a good life and send him on his way? Why does he need official protection?”

  “Because we have a signed agreement already—Randolph helps us out and we give him immunity and WITSEC. He helped us out. We got what we wanted. Kareem’s drugs are off the street. Kareem got himself blown up in the overpriced mansion he paid for with his drug money, thereby saving us the trouble and paperwork of having to seize that. The authorities in Mexico are going after the cartel, as usual, and the feds in Miami are on the job there. Hector, the other lieutenant, did us the courtesy of pleading out and then getting himself shanked to death his first month in the big house. There’s no one in Kareem’s organization left for us to pursue. It’s over. We’re not going to keep spending your time and our resources on this case. So your moral outrage about Randolph’s deal is irrelevant at this late stage of the game. Randolph was only Tom Hagen. Who cares about Tom Hagen once the Godfather is dead?”

  “Randolph didn’t help us out.” Jayne slouched deeper into her chair, disgusted. “He helped himself out.”

  “Well, cheer up,” April said brightly. “He ran with thugs, and any remaining thugs we’ve forgotten about will probably take care of him for us. They don’t like snitches. Anything else?”

  “Yeah,” Jayne said. “You and I both know Randolph hasn’t told us everything he knows about their Miami connection. Why can’t we press him on that a little more? CIs always have one more secret up their sleeve. Their secrets are like roaches. For every one they reveal, there’s a hundred more they don’t.”

  April shrugged. “I’m not convinced he knows anything about Miami. Kareem kept his organization compartmentalized. You know that. It’s one of the reasons he was so big and powerful. Any one of his branches never knew what the other branches were doing or even who was in the other branches. So why would you think Randolph knows anything about who’s doing what in a hub city like Miami? I’m betting all Randolph ever did for the organization had to do with Allied Medical Supplies.”

  “Why speculate? If you let me work with him a little longer, we can get the answers—”

  April raised a hand. “You’re exhausting, Jayne. You know that? You’re a nightmare when you dig your heels in about something. It’s what makes you such a good prosecutor. But sometimes you need to know when to drop it. And I have something else in mind for you. We’re working on a joint task force to take a look at the W-80 issue—”

  “W-80? What’s that?”

  “No one’s sure yet. We think it’s a nasty synthetic opioid that’s gaining traction in the community. There’ve been another two overdoses this week. We need to nip it before it becomes an epidemic. And I want your expertise on it when the time comes.”

  “Great,” Jayne said, slightly mollified. “Count me in. But back to Randolph—”

  “No.” April went to the door. “We’re closing him out, and I don’t want to hear another word about it. Now cut him loose.”

  She walked out, leaving Jayne to fume in impotent silence.

  She glared at the bottom drawer of her locked file cabinet, where Randolph’s file, wh
ich weighed a good ten pounds, was housed. She thought of his ongoing debriefing, and all the countless hours she and various DEA agents had spent grilling Randolph about the intricacies of his criminal activities. And now he was getting off scot-free.

  Randolph had never committed any violent crimes—not that he’d admitted to, anyway—but still. He was a criminal who’d never seen the inside of a jail and now never would. The injustice of it left a bitter taste in her mouth.

  Un-fucking-believable. Your tax dollars at work, folks.

  Still grumbling, she picked up the phone to call his lawyer and tell him the news.

  3

  “Hey, Brady.” Jayne knocked on the open office door of her longtime pal and colleague, DEA Supervisor Dexter Brady, a few days later. They’d had a minor blowup last weekend, and there was no time like the present to clear the air. “Got a minute?”

  In his shirt sleeves with his elbows resting on the desk and his skull-trimmed head bent low over his paperwork, Brady didn’t seem any too happy about the interruption. Or maybe he still wanted to strangle her for having the nerve to comment on his personal life last Saturday, when they ran into each other at the rock-climbing center.

  But what did he expect? He’d been floating around like a smiley-faced Mylar balloon with his apparent new woman, Kira Gregory, otherwise known as the widow of everyone’s favorite drug kingpin, Kareem Gregory, on his arm, and Jayne had lost it. What the hell was a career law enforcement officer and, incidentally, one of the two or three remaining heterosexual single men in the tristate area—an all-around good guy—doing with the complicit trophy wife? Since they were old friends who’d worked on many a case and task force together, she’d let him have it. He’d told her to stay the fuck out of his personal life. Now here they were, both still as frosty as the icemaker in Jayne’s freezer back at home.

  They needed to clear the air.

  Brady regarded her with brown eyes that were narrowed and flinty. “Jayne.”

  Heart sinking, Jayne looked over her shoulder at Brady’s secretary, who’d walked her back. “Thanks. Can we have a minute? Oh, and my law clerk is meeting me here. Tell her I’ll be right out.”