Deadly Justice (20 page)

“Carlisle find anything new on Webster?” 

“He narrowed down the building in the photo, a place called Little Havana Harbor.”

Jean-Luc nodded.  “I've heard of it.  Haven't been inside, since I've got no interest in smoking, but I'll have the location scoped out.”

“Good.”

Carpenter's cell rang.  He pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the number.  Blocked.  With a swipe of his finger, he answered on speaker.

“Good morning, Sammy.”

His entire body went on red alert.  “Webster.”

Jean-Luc shot to his feet at the name.  Within seconds, he'd scooted around the table and sat behind Carlisle's laptop, his fingers flying across the keys.  He might not be the expert Stefan was, but he had his own skill set. 

 “I heard you're looking for me.  Why waste your time?”

“Just tell me where you are and I'll stop hunting for you.  I'll happily meet you face-to-face.”  Carpenter's hand opened and closed in a fist by his side.  Damn, the man had balls of steel. 

“Didn't you learn your lesson the last time we worked together?  Stay out of my business, or next time I'll make sure you don't wake up.” 

“You know, Richard, you've always underestimated me.”

“Such a waste, Sammy.  You had the potential for great things.  Instead, you have to play at being the white knight.  It's business, plain and simple.  Monetary transactions.  Goods and services.”

Jean-Luc cursed softly under his breath.  He glanced up at Carpenter and shook his head, which meant he couldn't track the origin of the call. 

“Get Carlisle.”  He mouthed silently to Jean-Luc, who sprinted from the room, heading up the stairs in search of their technical specialist.  He needed to stall, keep Webster on the line.

“I didn't need money.”

“Isn't that the truth?  My sources back then failed me.  If I'd known your family connections, a lot of unpleasantness could have been avoided.”

The slap of feet running down the stairs echoed loud and Carlisle sprinted past him, and flopped into the chair, fingers already flying.  Jean-Luc and the rest of the team weren't far behind, crowded around the doorway. 

“I'm sure Stefan Carlisle is trying to trace this call.  Tell him not to bother.  I've got somebody better than him bouncing the signal all over the planet.  You won't nail down my location.”

Carpenter rubbed the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes against the burst of anger burning inside his chest.  It felt like the top of his head wanted to fly off, but he had to maintain his cool.  Gritting his teeth, he continued.

“Webster, let's end this game of cat and mouse.  You want money.  Fine.  How much?”

There was silence on the other end of the line for a long torturous moment.  “As much as I'd love to clean out your bank accounts, that's too easy.  Besides, after this next job, which incidentally will be my last, you won't have to worry about me anymore.  I'll be long gone, in a nonextradition country, living like bloody royalty.” 

Last job?  So the rumors are true
. 

“Why bother with a final job?  I can give you more money than you'd make on a drug run.” 

“Still wearing blinders, aren't you?  You never could see the big picture.  Funneling drugs into the United States is small potatoes, my friend.  Hell, even running guns has fallen by the wayside.  No, I've got something much bigger in store.”  Webster's laugh echoed in his ears, taunting him. 

“Webster, you've never had the balls to go after the major scores.  Why should I believe anything you say?” 

“Sammy, Sammy.  You don't have to believe me.  Why don't you ask that pretty little piece of ass you're sharing your bed with?  Andrea's in this up to her eyeballs.  Did you fall for her sob story about her poor murdered fiancé and her quest for revenge?  Hell, playing with you is almost too easy.”

Coldness seeped into his bones at Webster's words.  No, Andrea couldn't be involved in this mess—not in the way he implied.  The block of ice solidified around his heart, encasing all his emotions.  He felt hollow, numb, as if everything he'd believed had been ripped away and there was nothing left—nothing but lies. 

“You're lying.” 

He laughed again.  “Believe what you like, you always do.  But maybe you should have your team check into Ms. Kirkland, dig a little deeper.  Oh, hell, I'll make things easy for you.  Angela Wakefield.  That name should turn up everything you need to know.  Don't say I never gave you anything, Sammy.”

At the dead silence on the other end of the line, he ended the call, staring blankly at the walls of the conference room.  He didn't want to believe him, but Webster had always been good at covering his ass.  If he'd thrown Andrea into his path, she was deeper than he'd imagined, up to her pretty little eyeballs with Webster.  Damn it, he'd been so dazed with her from the very beginning they hadn't dug very deep into her background. 

He'd believed her when she'd said her boss, Lawrence Mitchell, wasn't involved.  Believed her when she'd said she didn't know Webster worked for Simcoe—and that had turned out to be a lie.  Had she been lying all along, to worm her way into his investigation and keep him off balance and the team off of Webster's trail? 

“Anything?”  He carefully enunciated the word, refusing to let the rest of his team see how badly Andrea's possible betrayal hit him. 

Carlisle pushed his laptop away with a curse.  “Nothing.  Signal bounced all over the planet, like he said.”

He wasn't surprised.  Webster liked to surround himself with the best of everything, and that included his key players.  There weren't many people around who could fool Stefan Carlisle, which narrowed down the list considerably. 

“Nate, get me a list of hackers with the skills to bounce that call past Stefan.” 

“On it, boss.” 

He watched Carlisle wince and knew the man was pissed he hadn't tracked the call. 

“Carlisle, shake it off.  I need everything you can find on somebody called Angela Wakefield, and I need it in the next half hour.” 

Fingers flying, Carlisle's gaze never left the screen.  “Already on it, boss.”  The clenched jawline bespoke his anger, though he tried to hide it.  Carpenter had been around him long enough to know he was thoroughly pissed.  The guy truly was the best computer expert in the country, hell, probably top five in the world.  Which meant Webster's guy was undoubtedly foreign.  That narrowed things down considerably. 

“Gunner, set up a team close to Little Havana Harbor.  I want it watched twenty-four/seven.  Hire local people—no, wait.”  He realized exactly who he knew locally, who could get the job done without arousing suspicion.  Plus they owed him a favor. 

“Gunner, you and Nate stick around.  I've got a couple of people I want you to meet.”

Things were about to be turned on their head, because Webster didn't have a clue Carpenter had friends in the right places in New Orleans.  Oh, not the rich and powerful.  No, his friends were the kind who'd stand beside you when the bullets were flying and never flinch.  The kind who'd come the minute you called, simply because you asked.

Yep, he was bringing out the big guns. 

Max and Remy Lamoreaux. 

“Q
uite a place you've got here.”  Max Lamoreaux walked through the doors of the newly rehabbed conference room less than an hour after Carpenter called him.  Tall and dark-haired, the man exuded an understated power anyone with a brain in their head would take note of.  Carpenter knew Remy wouldn't be far behind his brother, and he was right.  The second Lamoreaux male strolled through the front door mere minutes later, his walk confident and sure, though Carpenter knew from experience Remy could change every nuance of his appearance and attitude in an instant.  Max often referred to him as a chameleon.  It was one of the things that made him damned good at police work, and helped gain him a detective shield at a young age.

These men were childhood friends and ones he knew he could count on.  They'd grown up together, and he'd gone to school with Max.  Remy, being the younger brother, had tagged along most of the time, and wormed his way into Carpenter's affection. 

Time and distance had separated the three and they'd drifted apart.  Max had moved to Shreveport and worked for the local police department until there were problems with a high profile case.  He'd been caught up in an arrest that turned sour and ended up under a cloud of suspicion.  He'd later been exonerated and cleared after Internal Affairs determined he'd been framed.  Disillusioned, he'd resigned and moved back to New Orleans, opening a private investigation firm and later marrying his brother's best friend, a gorgeous blonde named Theresa. 

Remy had still been in school when Carpenter had joined the DEA, soon after his sister's downward spiral into alcohol and drugs.  A lot of water under the bridge, but they'd reconnected a year ago, when their paths crossed during one of his off-the-books investigations involving Remy's soon-to-be brother-in-law, Carlo Marucci.

“I like the changes you've made to the old place.  Isn't this the building your grandpop owned?”  That's right, Max had been here a few times, back when they were in high school.  At Carpenter's nod, he whistled.  “I knew there were renovations being done, but last time I was inside these walls, they were practically falling down around my ears.” 

“Things change.”

Max gave one of his patented brow-raised looks, and Carpenter chuckled.  Even being apart for so many years, the man could read him like a book. 

“Max and Remy Lamoureaux, meet a few of the men from my Dallas team.  They're relocating here to work in the new office.  You'll meet the rest of the team later.”  He watched a disgruntled look pass between Max and Remy, before Remy pulled out a twenty and slapped it into his brother's hand.

“I hate it when you're right.” 

Max chuckled.  “Then you shouldn't bet against me.” 

Carpenter shook his head.  “Nate Blackwell and Gunner Everett, these chuckleheads are Max and Remy Lamoreaux.  Private investigator and police detective, in that order.” 

“You're bringing in cops?”  Gunner asked before taking a sip from the huge coffee mug his enormous hands were wrapped around.  The man never seemed to be without his cup. 

“Former cop.”  Max quipped. 

Remy raised his hand.  “Still a cop, but I've been known to bend a rule or two—for a good cause.” 

Everybody chuckled and Max gave a good natured growl.  Carpenter knew his men would come to like the two locals—eventually. 

“I assume you've called us about Richard Webster?”

“Why else would he need to look at your ugly mug, bro?”  Remy swiveled in his chair, and slapped Max's back before turning around to face Carpenter.  “Love what you've done to the place.  Offices downstairs, living spaces upstairs?”

“Yes.”

Remy leaned back in his chair in a comfortable slouch and rested his elbows on the armrests, the picture of relaxation and casualness.  Carpenter knew better.  The guy was continually alert and aware of every nuance around him.  It's what kept him alive when the former Russian mob boss for New Orleans, Vladimir Dubshenko, sent his goons chasing him and his fiancée all over Southern Louisiana. 

“Understand you got a line on Webster being spotted at Little Havana Harbor.” 

“How the hell did you know that, Remy?”  The cop had good instincts, but still…

“You're not the only one with sources.  One of my snitches, a trannie who works the district, passed along the tip.”  A detective in the vice division of the New Orleans Police Department, the man probably had more moles and pimps reporting back to him than Santa had elves. 

“Webster called me this morning.”

That comment had both Max and Remy sitting up straighter in their seats.   The look exchanged between the two brothers was indiscernible.

“He seriously had the balls to call you?”  Max was the first to respond.

“Yeah, he wanted to taunt me a bit, let me know this is his last big score.  Then he's heading for, as he called it, a nonextradition country where he'll, and I quote, live like a king.”  Carpenter didn't mention Webster's jibes about Andrea.  The Lamoreaux brothers hadn't met her, and didn't know the whole story—yet.  Maybe they wouldn't have to. 

“Did you trace the call?”  Max asked and Carpenter shook his head.

“No, my tech guy said it was bouncing all over the planet.  Webster's obviously got his own IT people helping cover his tracks.  Carlisle's good but…”

“Stefan Carlisle?”  Remy interrupted.  “Damn, I've heard of him.  If he couldn't trace it, then it couldn't be traced.” 

“You know Carlisle?” 

“By reputation only.”  Remy quirked his brow.  “He as good as I've heard?”

“Better.” 

Max stood up and leaned against the exposed brick wall.  Good, Carpenter thought.  He's on his feet, which means he's thinking.  Max did his best thinking on his feet.  Anybody who'd spent time around the man knew he was digging deep into a problem when he started pacing. 

“Okay, let's list the facts.  We know Webster's been in New Orleans recently.  You've got the date and time stamp from the CCTV camera, right?”

“Yep.  That's how we narrowed it down to Canal Street.”  Nate chimed in. 

“Does he know you're here, in New Orleans?” 

Carpenter had to stop and think about the question.  Webster had mentioned his sleeping with Andrea, which had only happened last night. 

“Son of a bitch!”  He sprinted out of the room, and headed for the stairs, taking them two at a time.  He heard the others running behind him, but he didn't stop until he reached the roof.  Looking around, he tried to think.  If he was going to plant surveillance cameras, where would he put them? 

Every step took him closer to the area where the chaise lounges were set up, off to the side and partly tucked away in the corner of the rooftop.   Where he'd made love to Andrea just the night before.  Had that slimy bastard watched them the whole time? 

“What are we looking for?”  Gunner asked, gun in hand. 

“Cameras.” 

Each of the men scoured the rooftop looking for any nook or cranny where surveillance equipment might be hidden.  He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach Webster'd been watching them the whole time. 
Perverted bastard
.