Читать книгу Hidden Agenda - Maggie Price - Страница 11

The following evening, Linc watched his new partner slide into the passenger seat of the hunter-green SUV he’d checked out from OCPD’s asset forfeiture inventory. Firing up the engine, he noted with relief she’d forgone her come-and-get-me perfume for their first visit to The Hideaway. All he could smell on the crisp November air was the aroma of soap and skin.

A half hour later, he decided the warm, natural scent of woman that slid around him—into him—was far more enticing than anything bottled. Damn near erotic, he amended as he whipped the SUV into The Hideaway’s parking lot, gravel crunching beneath its wheels.

“What is it about macho guys and pickup trucks?” Carrie asked while scanning the vehicles crowding the lot. “Clue me in, Reilly. Do guys believe that driving a pickup enhances testosterone production?”

Linc took a measured breath, which failed dismally at easing the tightness in his gut. “The macho drug dealer who owned this SUV must not have thought so.” He killed the powerful engine, then gazed out the windshield through the frozen twilight. In the yellowish glow of the sodium-vapor lights that illuminated the lot, he counted about ten pickup trucks to every car. “Neither do I,” he added. “My personal vehicle is a Cadillac Allanté.”

“Cops don’t count,” she said, flicking down her visor and popping open the cover of the vanity mirror. She fluffed her dense, wild hair, the mirror’s bright light enhancing the gold and fiery-red accents. Studying her, Linc noted she’d used a heavy hand tonight when applying her makeup. Instead of giving her a cheap look, however, the smoky eyeshadow, dark liner and emergency-exit-red lipstick enhanced the smoldering, alluring mystique she must have been born with.

He scowled, annoyed he felt a glimmer of curiosity over her last comment. “Why doesn’t the kind of vehicle a cop drives count?”

“They’re armed. On the macho scale, a cop packing a gun is equal to some redneck civilian driving a pickup truck.”

“McCall, that has got to be the biggest pile of…”

Linc let his voice trail off when a going-to-rust blue Chevy rumbled into the slot on the SUV’s passenger side. Seconds later a burly man with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail climbed out of the Chevy. Shoulders hunkered beneath his denim jacket against the cold, he lumbered toward the bar’s entrance.

“Recognize him from the mug shots you studied?” he asked.

“Howard Klinger. a.k.a. Howie Kling.” Carrie snapped off the mirror. “He has priors for larceny. Was once nabbed on a residential burglary charge, which got reduced to possession of stolen property.”

“Good memory, McCall.”

“Comes from all those years riding patrol. You have to keep track of the baddies and what they’re up to.”

“Yeah.” Linc also possessed a cop’s honed memory. One that enabled him to picture in detail the portion of a snake tattoo captured two years ago on a grainy surveillance tape. He was haunted by the possibility that the tattoo had been one of the last things his wife had seen. Most nights he jerked awake in a cold sweat, half expecting to see the dark, slippery tail of the snake slithering beneath the closet door. Recently, a snitch had seen a pool player at The Hideaway with a similar tattoo. If Linc didn’t spot Kim’s killer on this visit, the assignment he’d engineered for himself gave him the luxury of spending as many nights at the bar as necessary until the bastard showed.

“Where’d you go, Reilly?”

He slicked his gaze across the SUV’s front seat. Carrie sat unmoving, studying him with the open scrutiny of a cop.

“Just running over the details of this assignment one last time,” he stated. “Ready to get started?”

“Ready.” Leaning, she nudged her purse under the seat. “So I don’t have to keep track of it all night,” she explained.

“Where’s your gun?”

“Inside my left boot.”

He looked down, saw she had on black leather boots with low, spiky heels. “No cowboy boots for you, McCall?”

“I put a lot of thought into image, and decided to go with my own unique look. Since our undercover personas have money to burn and no jobs, I opted for a mix. Jeans and silk. Toss in a little faux fur.” She shook back her hair. “What’s the verdict, Reilly? Like the combination?”

His gaze moved down her short, mink-look fur jacket to the black jeans that molded her trim butt and slim legs. “The look works for me,” he answered calmly, even as his blood stirred. “What are you packing in your boot?”

“A .25 baby Browning. How about you?”

He shifted his left leg, felt the reassuring hardness of the automatic secured in the leather insert he’d had sewn inside the top of his left boot. “Brought my .380 Sig. Let’s go.”

What had been on Reilly’s mind? Carrie mused as she slid out of the SUV into the dark, cold air. She doubted it had been their assignment as he’d claimed. She could think of nothing about a covert bar investigation that would set his mouth in such a grim line and transform those yellow-gold eyes into hard, cold chunks of amber.

Her thoughts scattered the instant Linc settled an arm around her waist and nudged her against his side. When her shoulders did an instinctive jerk, he glanced down.

“We’re hot for each other, remember?” he asked while bass rhythm coming from the bar thumped on the night air.

“Right.”

His arm tightened on her waist. “You need to get used to this.”

“No problem.” Despite the layers of clothing they both wore, she was aware of the strength in his arm, of the hardness of his thigh against her hip. The faint, spicy fragrance of his aftershave made her insides clench. She gave silent thanks he didn’t know about the little flips going on in her stomach.

Flips that had no business being there, she told herself. It wasn’t like he was someone she could consider jumping into a relationship with. The man had maybe murdered seven people. Even if he turned out to be as innocent as a virgin, he was a co-worker. Her partner. She’d learned the hard way the pitfalls of getting romantically involved with another cop.

She swallowed around a knot of tension as she and Linc crunched their way across gravel through the sea of vehicles. To get her mind off her flipping stomach, she focused on the structure coming into view.

Linc had mentioned The Hideaway’s management had set up shop in a vacant farmhouse. The place hadn’t totally lost the look, Carrie judged when they advanced up the steep steps leading to an old-fashioned wraparound porch. She checked both ends, half expecting to see a wooden swing hanging from ceiling hooks.

“Want to bet about a zillion drunks have toppled down those narrow steps?” Linc asked.

“I’ll pass.” The weathered boards beneath her feet vibrated with music. “You’d rake in all the chips on that one.”

“I know.” Grinning, he raised a shoulder beneath his scarred bomber jacket. “I only wager on sure things.”

A red glow from the neon beer signs hanging in the front windows angled across his face, highlighting day-old stubble. In the crimson light he looked sexy, rugged and a little ruthless.

The flips in Carrie’s stomach transformed into somersaults. Why did the cop she’d been ordered to investigate have to be the type of man who lured her like a moth to a blowtorch?

When Linc pulled the door open, a wall of sound and a cloud of smoke hit them. “After you,” he said over the noise.

Inside, a bouncer with huge biceps looked them up and down. A red bandana topped his shoulder-length blond hair; he wore black pants and a sweatshirt with the sleeves razored off. Carrie pictured him lying on a weight bench, straining beneath a barbell loaded with iron plates the size of tractor tires.

“No cover charge for chicks,” the bouncer said over the racket of pool games, loud talk and a country tune crooning from the jukebox. He nodded toward Linc. “Men pay twenty bucks.”

“Sure thing.” Linc tugged the department-supplied flash roll from the front pocket of his snug Levi’s.

Stepping away, Carrie slid off the faux-mink jacket she’d picked up that morning in a trendy consignment shop. Through the smoke-laden air she noted the glint in the bouncer’s eyes when Linc peeled a twenty off the thick layer of bills.

“You charge all male customers to get in?” Linc asked.

“Not the regulars.”

“How many visits do I have to make before I’m a regular?”

The bouncer’s mouth curved, more sneer than smile. “I’ll let you know.”

“First rip-off of the night,” Linc murmured when he joined Carrie.

“Get the feeling the Incredible Hulk runs the complaint department?” she asked. “Grouse about something, and see how fast he pounds you into dust.”

“I’ll try to avoid that.” Wrapping his hand around hers, Linc threaded a path for them through a maze of occupied tables.

His touch reactivated the somersaults in her stomach. Get real, McCall, she told herself, and shifted her attention to her surroundings.

As Linc’s sketch had shown, the long, polished bar spanned one entire wall, booths another. Tables filled the rest of the main room, surrounding a spacious dance floor, presently packed with couples waltzing to the country tune oozing from the jukebox. Through an archway Carrie glimpsed several pool tables, each with a rectangular light fixture suspended above it. Beyond the pool tables was a wall dotted with closed doors. Linc’s snitch had said those were the small rooms where The Hideaway’s working girls entertained clients.

Just as they reached the far end of the crowded bar, two men slid off their stools and tossed bills beside their empty glasses. Carrie draped her jacket across the back of one stool while Linc did the same to the one beside it. The location afforded them a view of both rooms. She noted Linc doing a slow survey of the men gathered around each pool table.

“What’llitbe?” The bartender wearing a T-shirt with a beer company logo barely glanced at them while he filled a pitcher from a beer tap. A jagged scar ran through his lower lip halfway to the tip of his stubbled jaw.

Looking back, Linc settled his hand on Carrie’s thigh. “Want your usual?”

She could swear she felt the heat of each of his fingers seep through her jeans. “Not when the evening’s still young.” Even to her own ears her voice sounded low and throaty. “I’ll start with something tame.”

Linc tucked a finger under her chin and gave her a slow smile that had her throat clicking shut. “Babe, so far I haven’t found one tame thing about you.”

While Carrie struggled to breathe, he ordered a diet soda and a beer. It’s an act, she reminded herself.

When the bartender placed their orders in front of them, Linc peeled a twenty off the roll of bills and tossed it onto the bar. “Keep the change,” he said.

“Thanks.” Interested now, the man slicked them another look. “New in town?”

“I just moved here last week,” Linc said, and dipped his head toward Carrie. “Same goes for her. I’m staying at the Drop Inn. The night clerk said I’d find good food here.”

“Hamburgers are great. The five-alarm chili will set you on fire.”

“And some action.”

The bartender grabbed a whiskey bottle from in front of the dingy mirror that ran the length of the bar. “What sort?”

Smiling, Carrie leaned in. “What’s your name, handsome?” She already knew the answer. The jagged scar on his lower lip had still been raw in the mug shot she’d studied.

“Zack.” He filled one glass with whiskey, then another.

Aitken. She mentally added his last name while reviewing the misdemeanor gambling arrests on his record. “Well, Zack, I’m Carrie. My friend, Linc, and I are looking for all sorts of action.” She gave him a wink. “What do you recommend?”

Zack glanced toward the opposite end of the bar where customers were feeding coins into several tabletop video games. “We’ve got video poker. Pool. And lots of friendly folks.”

Linc sipped his beer. “If I want to play video games, I’ll go to an arcade.”

Zack gave them another once-over. Carrie knew she and Linc wouldn’t get an invitation to participate in illegal activities until they’d been checked out. She’d wager the Drop Inn’s night clerk would soon receive a call about Linc.

“You folks keep dropping by,” the bartender said. “You might find more interesting stuff to do down the line.”

“Fair enough,” Linc said, then turned to Carrie. “Want to play pool?”

“You go ahead.” Their plan was to split up part of the time during each visit and try to spot as much illegal activity as possible. “I’ll try the video poker Zack suggested,” she added. By law, Oklahoma did not allow games of chance that paid off in cash winnings. Gaming machines were legal only if the players racked up points that netted additional free games. Raising a shoulder, she glanced at the dance floor. “If I get bored with poker, I bet I can find some cowboy to give me a whirl.”

Easing in, Linc curled a hand around the side of her throat while his eyes locked with hers. “When you find that cowboy, babe, make damn sure he understands you’re mine.”

Her mouth went dry while arousal twined through her belly. The spicy scent of his aftershave was like a drug pumping into her system, spiking her pulse. For a mindless instant she wondered what it would be like to have his hands slicking over her bare flesh, to feel those perfect, white teeth scraping down her throat.

Her throat in which her pulse currently thrummed against his palm. The knowledge he could feel her response to him snapped sanity back into place. What was she doing? What in heaven’s name was she doing? She was a cop, on the job. He was her job.

With an alarm blaring in her head, her instinct was to jerk away from his touch, his scent. Since doing so might blow their cover, she eased back until his hand slid from her throat.

Linc said nothing, only watched her with his fascinating gold-brown eyes that had desire thickening around her like a spider’s web.

Carrie forced both a smile and an evenness into her voice. “I just had a thought.”

“What?”

“I’ll want to freshen up after I dance.” She held out her hand. “Why don’t you give me the key to the SUV so I can get my purse?”

“I’ll get it for you.”

“Sugar, I don’t want to have to keep track of it now,” she countered, keeping her hand out. “I’ll just slip outside when I’m ready.”

He pulled his jacket off the back of the stool, dug in the pocket for the key. “If you’re sure,” he said, dropping it into her palm.

“I’m sure.” She wrapped her fingers around the key. The ring held only the key to the vehicle, but she had seen Linc toss the key ring he usually carried into the glove box. That ring surely held his house key. Once he was immersed in his pool game, she would slip outside and make a clay impression.

He rose off the stool. “See you, babe.”

“Count on it, sugar.”

“Wanna ’nother game?” the heavyset biker with a Fu Manchu mustache asked while handing Linc a crumpled twenty-dollar bill.

“Some other night,” Linc said over the sound of billiard balls smacking together. He had spent the past hour playing pool while covertly checking men’s hairy forearms. He’d seen an uncountable number of tattoos, but none that resembled the coiled tail of a snake. His two-year search for Kim’s killer had led him to The Hideaway, but he’d known it would have been too much to ask to spot the bastard his first night there.

After replacing his cue in the holder bracketed to the wall, he snagged the beer he’d been nursing and strode toward the archway. He was vaguely surprised at the impatience burning through him. He’d always possessed the patience of a hunter, capable of hunkering down and waiting as long as it took to get what he wanted. That was one reason undercover work had been such a natural fit. What had changed? he wondered. Why did he feel a gnawing urgency to get the hell away from this place and not look back?

He paused when he stepped into the main room. The air was gray with cigarette smoke and seemed to shimmer with the music. Narrowing his eyes, he did a slow reconnaissance of the packed dance floor. Seconds later he caught a flash of fiery hair in the pulsating mass of bodies.

Earlier, he’d felt the softness of that auburn mane when he pressed his palm against Carrie’s throat. He’d been tempted to grab a handful of thick, silky fire, tug her chin back…

Then do what? he asked himself. See what it took to get her pulse beating harder than it already had been? He scrubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw. The spike in her heartbeat didn’t necessarily mean she felt an attraction to him. This was her first undercover assignment, her nerves had to be working overtime. His weren’t, though. Attraction was exactly what he’d felt with his hand on her throat, his mouth inches from hers while he breathed in the scent of soap and woman.

Dammit! He didn’t welcome the attraction, had no intention of acting on it. He needed to concentrate on finding Kim’s killer. Period. Problem was, he couldn’t get his mind off the possibility his one-time best friend—or maybe someone else—had decided to make him the fall guy for seven murders!

Sipping his beer, Linc scrolled his thoughts back to that afternoon. After calling the Tulsa homicide cop, he had gone to see his boss. He’d laid out everything for Lieutenant Quintana—from the pattern that all seven dead men had SEU files to the fact that he had spent the weekend in close proximity to the Tulsa murder. Grim-faced, Quintana seemed convinced Linc had nothing to do with the killings, and indicated he would start the matter up the chain of command. His boss’s reaction somewhat eased Linc’s mind. Still, he had to keep up his guard in case he’d been targeted for a frame. With so much on his plate, he did not need the added complication of dealing with a new partner. Especially one who made his system churn.

A young cowboy swirled Carrie into view just as the song ended. The noise level dropped so fast it was almost like turning deaf. Linc saw the man whisper something in her ear; Carrie tipped her head back and laughed.

Linc set his beer aside and moved their way, not at all surprised she’d found a dance partner. Reaching her, he slid his arm around her waist, then turned his attention to the cowboy. He was in his early twenties, of medium height, broad shoulders, narrow hips, dressed in jeans and a denim work shirt, its sleeves shoved up on well-developed forearms.

“Time for me to claim my lady,” Linc said, and caught the flash of disappointment in the man’s eyes.

The cowboy shifted his gaze back to Carrie. “It was my pleasure, red.”

“And mine.” She offered her hand. “You take care, West.”

“Will do.” He gave her a smile with a dose of low-voltage charm. “Hope to see you around here again.”

“Count on it.”

Linc watched the cowboy melt into the crowd, then looked at Carrie. She had pulled her hair up with one hand and was fanning her bare neck with the other. The color was high in her cheeks, her hair damp at the temples.

She looked like she’d just engaged in a bout of hot sex and might be willing to jump back into bed for more.

The image had him grinding his teeth. “Looks like that cowboy is a real admirer of yours, red.”

“His name is West Williams,” she said, her voice a low whisper. “I don’t remember seeing information on him in our files. Do you?”

“No. Think he has a record?”

“My instincts tell me he’s a good guy, but I’ll run him.” She settled a hand on his arm. “We should dance. Over by the jukebox. There’s something going on with one of the booths. I can’t figure out what it is.”

“All right.”

The jukebox sparked back to life with a husky-voiced country singer torching a love song. Linc slipped his arms around Carrie, thinking he would have preferred a rowdy tune that required little touching. Trying to ignore the way her body meshed with his, he guided her over the wooden floor with smooth, intricate steps.

“You’re a good dancer,” she said against his ear.

“I figured you were waiting for me to step on your toes.”

She angled her head back to look up at him. Her mouth was red and wet and curved in genuine puzzlement. “What brought that on?”

Without thinking, he tangled his fingers with the tips of her hair. It was a shame, a damn shame, he thought, that she felt so incredibly good in his arms. “Could be the way your nails are digging into my shoulder.”

“Oh.” Her hand flexed open. “Sorry.”

“It’s just a flesh wound.” They reached the side of the dance floor closest to the long row of booths, most of them occupied. Linc bent his head so that his cheek brushed hers, his mouth close to her ear. Heat pulsed off her flesh and he wondered if her skin tasted as creamy as it smelled. “What am I looking for?” he asked.

“Check out the booth in the corner,” she said, swaying with him. “The one with the reserved sign on it.”

The slow song melted away into another with a quicker tempo. Linc splayed his fingers against her back and continued moving in the same steady rhythm while he watched the booth. Minutes later he said, “I’ve seen two men and one woman slide into the booth at separate times. Each sits there for a short time, then leaves.”

Carrie nodded, the light from the jukebox touching her cheek with gold. “While I’ve been dancing, I’ve counted a dozen people do the same thing,” she whispered. “A waitress never comes by to see if they want to order anything.” She shrugged. “Any guess about what’s going on?”

“Not yet.” When the song ended, he drew away, but kept her hand in his. “How about we try out the booth?”

“You’re reading my mind.”

She slid in first, he followed. “It’s too dark to see much,” she said seconds later. Against his side, Linc felt her body shift while she patted her hand against the wall. “All I feel is some sort of padded piece of wood,” she said.

“What size is it?”

“About the dimensions of a chair arm.”

“Does it move?”

“Can’t get it to budge.” Carrie met his gaze. “Those people wouldn’t have sat here and then left without a reason. They had to have picked up something. Or left something. Maybe both. There’s no other explanation.”

“Drugs and cash, maybe.” Linc swept his gaze upward, spotted a camera, its lens aimed at them. “We’re on film,” he said. “Let’s go outside and look at the other side of that wall. Maybe we can spot some sort of sliding panel.”

“Good idea.”

Linc smiled when a rail-thin waitress wearing tight jeans and a white T-shirt scurried toward the booth. “Two beers—”

She cut him off with a shake of her head. “I’ll be happy to serve you at another table.” She patted the small sign at the table’s edge. “This one’s reserved.”

“Sorry,” Linc said, rising. “Didn’t notice.”

“No harm done.” She ran a damp rag over the tabletop. “You folks find another spot and I’ll bring those beers.”

Carrie slid out of the booth. “Listen, sugar, all that dancing just caught up with me. How about passing on those beers and taking me home?”

“Sure, babe.” He slipped the waitress a few dollars, telling her they’d be back the next night.

Minutes later they were outside, following the beam of Linc’s small penlight while they crept toward the rear of The Hideaway.

He didn’t care that the air was as cold as a morgue fridge. In retrospect, it was far preferable to the heat that had surged through him while Carrie swayed in his arms. If he hadn’t felt a gnawing curiosity about what the deal was with the back booth, he would have made up some excuse to halt their dancing a lot sooner.

As it was, he planned to take a long, cold shower when he got to his room at the Drop Inn.

“See anything?” His words were almost soundless as he swept the penlight’s beam over the rear corner of the building.

“Nothing.” Carrie’s breath made tiny puffs of steam on the cold air. Narrowing her eyes, she stepped in for a closer look.

Holding the beam steady, Linc glanced sideways. Bare bulbs dangling from ancient fixtures affixed to the roof’s eaves illuminated the rear of the old house. The bulbs tossed shadows in every direction along the graveled access that ran the length of the structure. A few feet from where he and Carrie stood was a back door and wooden porch with several steps leading down from it. A Dumpster sat angled to one side of the porch. Beyond the Dumpster, another bare bulb illuminated a weathered, storm-cellar-type door that butted against the building’s foundation. Door to the basement, Linc surmised. The shiny hinge and padlock securing the door glinted beneath the light.

Linc shifted his gaze back to Carrie. As if searching for the trigger of a secret panel, she used her gloved fingers to prod the building’s rough-planked exterior. “None of the waitresses even looked at any of the people I spotted in that booth while I was dancing,” she whispered. “Then you and I plop down, and a waitress is on us like white on rice. Something’s definitely going on with that booth.”

“Yeah, I—”

Hearing a faint creak, Linc froze. In his peripheral vision he saw the back door swing open.

He shot Carrie a look to make sure she’d heard. Standing motionless, she watched the door with eyes as sharp as broken glass.

Adrenaline charging his system, Linc clicked off the penlight. A half second later, the bouncer stepped into view. His muscled arms looked rock hard as he stood in the pool of light illuminating the small porch. With one thick-fingered hand wrapped around the porch rail, he turned his head, his gaze conducting a slow sweep of the area.

Although pockets of shadows engulfed the corner of the building, Linc saw nothing that would provide cover. If he and Carrie tried to sneak away, their footsteps would sound like crunching echoes on the gravel lot.

He knew only seconds remained before the bouncer turned his gaze in their direction. Knew, too, only one explanation for his and Carrie being there would keep their cover intact.

Linc locked a hand on her wrist and jerked her against him.

“Play this out,” he ordered in a low, urgent murmur then crushed his mouth down on hers.