Deadly Justice (25 page)

Webster hadn't bought that ruse for a second.  Something in her eyes fascinated him when he'd met her tear-filled gaze.  He'd held her soft hand in his, expressed the usual platitudes one does at funerals.  Yet there'd been an intelligence, a veiled wariness, that shone through the grief and despair.  It was that intelligence which captivated him, and drew him to her. 

Close observation during the services revealed she'd watched the room like a true professional.  Like a kindred spirit, she'd assessed each person as they passed, taking note of those who didn't approach the casket or the mourners. 

Then as quickly as Angela Wakefield vanished, Andrea Kirkland had appeared as an executive assistant for Lawrence Mitchell.  He spotted her on the hidden cameras he'd secretly installed in the idiot's inner offices.  Money had its privileges and being the paranoid bastard he was, he didn't trust anybody, especially sycophants like Lawrence Mitchell.

Andrea definitely caught his interest her very first day.  He'd watched Mitchell fawning over her, practically drooling on her cleavage.  Yet something about Andrea intrigued him.  It was the eyes that gave her away.  Oh, the hair was different.  Her eyes were even a different color, and she'd dropped several pounds, but he didn't have a single doubt.  That same intelligence shone through what had to be contact lenses, and Webster was convinced—Andrea Kirkland and Angela Wakefield were one and the same. 

Of course, Mitchell did whatever he was told to do, and Webster'd known right away hiring Andrea was a good idea.  While working with Mitchell, he'd be able to keep closer tabs on her.  Plus, he had the added benefit of knowing that when things drew closer to their inevitable conclusion, if he played his cards right, he'd take sweet, lush Andrea with him in his self-imposed exile to an island paradise where he'd rule with more money and power than he'd ever imagined.   

Call it an added bonus
.

But she'd proven more ingenious than he'd anticipated, and Mitchell had gotten careless.  The fool let her get her hands on one of the wire transfers.  The ones nobody was privy to except Mitchell himself. 

One stupid mistake and Sammy had connected the dots faster than a master safecracker.  Though he suspected Stefan Carlisle was the actual person responsible for uncovering that single breech.  Too bad he hadn't been able to lure the hacker away from Sammy.  That would have been a nice
coupe de gras
. 

Flipping up the lid on his laptop, he clicked on a key and a video began playing.  On the screen, he watched Sammy making love to the woman Webster considered his.  Every movement, every detail was examined in minute detail.  Lust curled through him as he stared at the plush handfuls of Andrea's breasts.  The lushness of her hips below the inward curve at her waist. 

Most people would have proclaimed her overweight, but to Webster, he'd delighted in her curviness, considered it an added bonus.  Or it had been until Sammy ruined everything by seducing her into his bed.   

“Damn him.  He's ruined everything.” 

The darkened sky behind the couple cast shadows across their skin as they writhed in each other's arms.  He adjusted the focus, zeroing in on Andrea's face.  The expression was one he'd never witnessed crossing her countenance before, and he'd been watching her forever it seemed.  A look of pure ecstasy shone as though illuminating her from within, and he slammed the lid closed, blocking her from his sight.

It really was too bad.  He'd planned to set her up for Mitchell's murder, and then swoop in like an avenging angel and whisk her out of the country, to be her savior from a prison cell.  Now?  Well, plans changed when circumstances demanded it.  Maybe he'd let the Dallas Police Department find a bit more evidence against the lovely Ms. Kirkland. 

He smiled as he reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a plastic bag and stared at its contents.  Yes, that might work and it would kill two birds with one stone.   Once she was in police custody, he'd arrange an unfortunate accident to befall Mr. Mitchell's alleged murderer. 

It would remove Andrea Kirkland from the picture permanently, and cause Sammy to lose focus, and keep him two steps behind. 

Yes.  As much as he'd regret not having Angela Wakefield, A.K.A. Andrea Kirkland in his bed or kneeling at his feet where she belonged, there was only one solution.

She had to die.

T
he distinctive green and white striped awning of Café de Monde provided excellent shade from the mid-afternoon sunshine as they sipped fine café au lait and shared a plate of beignets.  A quick walk from his newly renovated building, they'd strolled past The Brewery and headed down Decatur Street.  Samuel checked the crowd, constantly on alert because the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention. 

Webster was close.  He could feel it, knew it deep in his bones.  His gut instinct roared, shouting that they were being watched.  Stalked like a lion sighting his prey.  He didn't like being the hunted.  No, he'd much prefer the roles were reversed, especially since he'd hunted Webster for far too long. 

“I love this place.”  Andrea smiled and sipped her coffee.  Her gaze met his across the small bistro-style table.  “So, how long are we planning to sit out here?  I know you're expecting Webster to make a move, or you wouldn't make yourself an open target like this.” 

Damn, she was smart.  After finding the cameras all over his building, and their confrontation earlier, he'd wanted to taunt Webster.  Rub his nose in the fact they'd discovered all his hidden hardware.  The sense of being violated lingered, leaving him feeling dirty.  One more strike against the bastard. 

“You're smart.  I know you've kept your eyes open.  What do you feel?” 

She smiled.  “Somebody's had eyes on us since we left your place.  Two people, both males, mid to late thirties I'd guess.  First one has dirty blond hair, about five foot eight, two hundred to two ten.  Dark blue shirt and black slacks.  I first spotted him when we walked past Crescent City Brewery.  He followed a few blocks then headed into an alley.” 

He nodded, impressed with her keen observation.  He'd spotted the same guy, which was when he'd grabbed her hand, and guided her through the afternoon crowd.  Their tail had matched them pretty much step for step until he knew he'd been made.  Though he'd been subtle, Carpenter had spotted the guy sending a text message and then turning off down the alley.  In less than a minute, they had a new tail.

“Like I said, you're smart.  What else did you see?” 

“Second guy, taller, maybe five eleven.  Brown and brown.  Green camo jacket and jeans.  He's across the street, leaning against the fence.  Been there since we sat down, pretending to be on his phone, though I think he's snapped a couple of pics of us since he's been there.” 

He resisted the urge to swivel in his chair and find the guy, though he'd noted him earlier, too.  Instead, he looked down at his phone sitting on the table, read the message from Nathan that he had the guy in his sights and would tail him.  While he'd love to pull him in and question him, stalking the stalker might get them a better lead on Webster, so he backed off, though it galled him. 

“I also spotted Nate about ten feet from Mr. Camo.  You gonna have him followed?”

Carpenter's lips quirked up in a grin.  “That's the plan.” 

She leaned back against the faded vinyl chairback and ran her hands across her jeans-clad thighs.  “I hate this cat-and-mouse crap.  Truthfully, this was the part of the game I hated.  Sitting and waiting for your opponent to make the next move.  Probably why I'm a lousy chess player.”  She blew out a breath and it ruffled her bangs.  “What's our next move?” 

He stood and lifted his phone, tucking it into his pocket and held out his hand.  “Now we head back to the loft and see if Carlisle or Jean-Luc have anything to report.  I want to get Webster as badly as you, but right now it's more important to find out what he's planning.  Something in my gut is screaming that whatever it is, it's big.  Probably the biggest score he's ever made.” 

She placed her hand in his and he inwardly heaved a sigh of relieve.  He was afraid after their morning skirmish she'd never trust him again.  They’d barely stepped out onto the street when a burning pain seared his left arm.  Working on instinct alone, he pulled Andrea into his arms, forcing her back against the wall.  At her gasp, he followed her wide-eyed gaze and saw the trickle of red seeping through the jagged gap in his sleeve. 

The intense burn wasn’t a new feeling.  He’d been shot before, and recognized the pain spreading through his arm and up his shoulder.  Teeth gritted, his first instinct roared to get Andrea to safety.  Screams echoed around them, and he knew Nate would be on the shooter.  He was a damned fine agent, and he wouldn’t let him get away.

“Are you okay?” 

“What are you talking about?  I should be asking you that question.  You’ve been shot!”  Her hand reached up and yanked at the tear in his shirt, making the hole bigger.

“I know.  It’s probably just a through-and-through.  Were you hit?”  He immediately scanned her body, looking for evidence of blood.  There wasn’t a pained expression on her face, so he was fairly certain he’d been the only one hit.  Damn it, he hadn’t heard the gunshot, which meant he’d either been so focused on Andrea he missed it, or the shooter had been using a silencer.

“That was stupid.  Webster’s getting careless, to make a move out in public like that.” 

“Actually, it’s pretty clever.  The shooter gets away, and the police will chalk it up to either random violence or a mugging gone bad.”  She looked around and accepted a handful of napkins from a woman who’d come out of the café. 

“Cops are on the way.”  Somebody from the crowd announced, holding up his phone.  “Nine one one said for everybody to stay put, so they can answer questions when the police get here.” 

“But we didn’t see anything.”  Another voice yelled out.  “I’ve got things to do.” 

“Shut up, bozo.  You’ll wait for the cops like everybody else.”  The angry caller yelled back, and Carpenter bit back a grin.  Damn, he liked a take charge guy.  

Carpenter glanced around, noted Nate standing toward the back of the crowd—alone.  He shook his head, one quick negative jerk, and Carpenter squeezed his eyes shut.  Damn it, the shooter had given him the slip. 

“Go.”  He mouthed the word, saw Nate’s eyes widen before he turned and headed away, disappearing into the lingering crowd like a puff of smoke.  Within minutes, the rest of the team would be informed about what happened.  Nate would have Carlisle digging into the CCTV cameras around the area, and they’d have a picture of the shooter before he and Andrea made it back to the office.  With the efficiency the guy had shown, he was definitely a professional.  Figured.  Webster only hired the best. 

He wished he'd brought along a jacket, to cover the blood stain on his sleeve, because he didn't have time to deal with being seen by the paramedics, which the cops would insist on.  Right now, his number one priority was getting Andrea to safety.  Glancing toward her, she remained calm, pressing the paper napkins against his wound, and watching the people milling around like a true professional. 

“I saw Nate.”  Her voice was barely above a whisper.  “He didn't catch the shooter?” 

He winced when she applied more pressure.  Damn, that hurt.  “No, the bastard got away.  He's heading back to the office to bring the others up to speed.” 

She nodded.  “Good.”  Her eyes darted to the right and her shoulders slumped as her body relaxed, and she sighed out a long breath.  “The cops are here.” 

He turned and bit back a chuckle.  Remy Lamoreaux stood three feet away, his hands on his hips.  His badge was clearly visible, clipped to his belt, and a scowl across his stern countenance. 

“Why am I not surprised when I hear there's been a shooting at Café du Monde to find you here, Carpenter?”  He gave Andrea a lingering perusal and Carpenter fought the urge to black his eye.  If it was swollen shut, maybe he'd learn to stop staring at his woman.

Whoa.  My woman?  When did I start thinking about Andrea in a possessive way?
 

With an effort, he battled back the green-eyed monster threatening to overwhelm him like the Hulk on a rampage.  Remy was a friend.  Besides, the feisty Cajun cop had his own fiancée and wasn't interested in Andrea.  And could he really blame the guy for looking?  She was damned gorgeous. 

“Not my fault.  We'd just finished our coffee and were leaving.  Didn't see anything, just felt a sharp burning in my arm.”  He pointed to his blood-stained sleeve.  While he knew Remy would read between the lines and know Webster was responsible, they had to play it like it was a random, unconnected occurrence. 

“What are you doing here, anyway?  You're working vice now, right?” 

Remy quirked a brow, the tiniest smirk crossing his lips.  “Call it a gut instinct.  I was talking with Perkins,” he jerked his thumb toward the tall African-American officer behind him, “when the nine one one came through dispatch.  Decided to tag along since I was headed this way anyway.” 

Leaning closer, he whispered low enough nobody else could hear, “I was on my way to your place.  We need to talk.” 

Carpenter exhaled a long slow breath and bit back a curse before nodding.  Remy was a damned good cop, and had more contacts on the streets of the Big Easy than most seasoned professionals.  People trusted him to keep his word.  

He ignored Remy, turned toward Officer Perkins and answered all his questions, giving vague, nondescript answers, because what was he going to say?  That he knew who was responsible for the shooting?  He didn't have a shred of evidence, Nate had lost the guy in the crowd, and so far hadn't been able to locate the S.O.B. 

Finally, after a quick exam by the paramedics, and a bandage slapped on, the crowd dispersed and they headed back toward Canal Street.  Remy walked with them, though they didn't talk until they were inside his building, where he knew the conversation would be secure.  After their search for hidden bugs earlier, he felt at least a modicum of privacy.  They'd destroyed all of Webster's hidden devices.