Undercover Encounter
The other guy moved out of the way, and the group went back to their drinks—until one of them made eye contact with a blond coed. When she smiled at him, he made a spontaneous decision that he was going to separate her from her boyfriend.
Clearing a path through the bar, he moved in on the kids, leaning over the girl with his big hand on her shoulder and his fingers coming down over her breast.
Rich and Alex exchanged glances. Rich edged a little closer to the group, but stayed out of their way.
With the noise level in the room, it was impossible for Alex to hear anything that was being said. Still, it was obvious that the college boy was mad as hell—but also afraid to tangle with the hulking Hispanic.
Alex clenched his fist around the spout of the soda and soft drink dispenser, wishing that he could help the kid out. But he’d already called enough attention to himself for one night.
The other members of the macho group sat back, enjoying the fun, laughing among themselves. But just as their amigo was about to chew the kid up and spit him out, the others mercifully stepped in to drag their cohort out of the bar. And Alex breathed out a little sigh. Disaster averted, and he hadn’t even stuck his nose into it.
He glanced up, seeing Rich give a small nod before following them into the street. Mason stayed where he was. Over the past few days Alex was getting the impression that his specialty was avoiding trouble.
Alex spent the next half hour tending bar and feeling almost like he was on break.
But his antenna went up when another prostitute walked through the door. She’d picked a slow time, which immediately made him think she was one of the police recruits getting some training when there wouldn’t be too much chance of fending off propositions.
She was wearing a lot of makeup, but as she stood inside the door scanning the room, Alex got a good look at her face.
His heart clunked inside his chest, then started up a rapid beat that made it hard to breathe.
The prostitute was Gillian Seymour. He’d know that fiery redhead anywhere, even dressed in a low-cut blouse, a miniskirt that barely covered her crotch, fishnet stockings and little black boots.
While he’d still been with the N.O.P.D., he and Gillian had dated. Well, that was a pretty mild word for the torrid affair that had rocketed to life between them.
Truthfully, she’d been the best thing in his life at the time. But even as the two of them had driven each other to ecstasy in bed, he’d known that he was no good for her. So he’d broken it off.
For a painful second he allowed himself to envy his boss. Conrad Burke was married to a wonderful woman named Marilyn whom he’d met on one of his previous assignments. They were raising a set of twins—a boy and a girl. That was the way life was supposed to be. A man and a woman fell in love, settled down and raised a family.
Unfortunately it hadn’t been that way with his own parents. Mom and Dad had each been married five times. Alex was their oldest kid. The one who’d been born while they weren’t hitched to anyone. And he couldn’t even keep up with all the stepsisters and brothers from the various unions—the shortest of which had lasted four months.
As a kid, he’d been shuffled from one parent to the next and back again—often feeling like he’d gotten lost in the cracks of his parents’ new relationships.
And he’d vowed never to do that to a child of his own. He knew he wasn’t a suitable candidate for marriage. It just wasn’t in his genes. So he’d always kept his dealings with the fair sex superficial.
Which was what had scared him about Gillian. He’d wanted her on a level that he wasn’t prepared to accept—which had finally sent him running in the other direction.
But in the two years since breaking off the affair he’d thought of her often. And when he’d heard she’d entered the police academy, he’d wondered if her idealism would last once she started patrolling the city’s mean streets.
How long had she been in uniform? She’d have started out as a beat cop. But if she was already doing undercover work, then someone had noticed her potential and put her on the department fast track.
Which was too damn bad. She’d burn out as fast as he had if they kept pushing her into the “choice” assignments. And one thing he knew from the way she clasped her hands together in front of her; she was nervous. Which proved she was too green to be playing the tricky undercover part of a prostitute.
He studied her for half a minute. Lord, that red hair looked like it could set the place on fire. Or burn a man’s fingers. And the skimpy outfit displayed the nicely curved figure he remembered very well.
Under the makeup that she’d applied with a trowel, he could see that her features were still striking.
He kept his gaze on her, willing her to look in his direction. He knew the exact moment when she spotted him standing rigidly behind the bar. Her jaw didn’t exactly drop open. But she froze, standing near the doorway for a couple of electric seconds, then tilted her chin up and looked deliberately away.
It was all he could do to keep from charging around the bar and demanding to know if she’d lost her mind.
But he stayed where he was, his eyes narrowing as he watched her survey the room, then head for a table where two guys were sitting. Both were wearing short-sleeved, button-down shirts. Both looked like they’d had about three drinks too many. The French Quarter had that effect on civilians, Alex mused. There were too many bars, too many strip joints, too many places to score a cheap drink or your drug of choice. Hell, you could even buy liquor in a plastic cup from bars right on the street and walk around with the booze in your fist.
With a saucy smile Gillian started up a conversation with the woozy duo. It didn’t take long before she’d struck up a deal with one of them. As Alex watched in horror, she strolled out of the bar with the guy.
He cursed under his breath. He’d already taken one unauthorized break that evening. He should stay at his post until closing time. But he was damned if he was just going to stand here worrying about Gillian.
Daring Jack to stop him now, he walked to the back again, then hurried around to the street, thinking that he’d like to throttle Gillian Seymour.
Chapter Two
Outside, noise and heat and the smell of the nighttime crowd enveloped Gillian. But it wasn’t the crowd that worried her. The look in Alexander McMullin’s eye had curdled her stomach. And he wasn’t her most pressing problem.
That would be the inebriate with his hand on her arm, a hand that was inching toward her breast.
“Come on, sweetheart, let’s go back to my hotel room and have some fun.” The invitation was issued in a drunken slur.
“I’m sorry I gave you the wrong impression,” Gillian answered, politeness taking over from her former party-girl persona. “But I have to go home to my sick mother.”
The man’s hammy hand tightened on her arm and he leaned forward, his bourbon breath almost choking her. “You said you’d put out.”
In her peripheral vision, she could see several spectators taking in the little drama. But nobody sprang to the aid of a working girl.
When the bad actor dug his fingers painfully into her flesh, she came down on the toe of his shoe with one of her stiletto high heels and he yelped, letting go of her arm.
“You whore! What the hell do you think you’re doing? We had a deal.”
“I’m an independent contractor and I can choose what jobs to accept. If you can’t behave yourself on the street, what are you going to do in a hotel room?” she asked.
He blinked at her, apparently sobering up quickly. But before he could answer, she dashed away, hoping nobody in the crowd was planning to follow her.
Her first night as a prostitute, and she’d blown it. Well, not exactly, she corrected, cringing at her choice of words.
She sent an invisible dagger in the direction of Lieutenant LeBarron, who was probably home in bed at this very moment.
From the second she’d come under his command, he’d taken an interest in her career, which meant he’d urged her to grab this “choice” assignment.
It wasn’t easy being a female cop in a big-city police department. The guys forced you to prove yourself—over and over. You had to shoot better than they did. Hold your own in hand-to-hand combat and stand up to their locker room comments. This assignment was a chance to show what she could do. And to shut off the supply of a dangerous new drug threatening the health and welfare of her city. Category Five was what they were calling the highly addictive drug that they suspected was being riddled by prostitutes to increase their business.
Truthfully, she’d been nervous about playing her assigned role, which was why she was out here tonight—practicing.
She’d known that a supersecret government agency called the New Orleans Confidential was teaming up with the N.O.P.D. for this operation. She hadn’t known that Alexander McMullin was working for that agency. But there was no other explanation for his presence behind the bar in Bourbon Street Libations. She knew the man pretty well. He was a straight arrow and he certainly wasn’t working as a bartender because he liked mixing drinks.
Once, when she’d been in a squishy, sentimental mood, she’d looked up his name in a baby book. Alexander meant “Great Protector.” It fit. Except where she was concerned. He’d sworn to protect humanity. With a capital H. The big picture. He just wasn’t too good when it came to relationships with women.
As she headed for the darkened side street where she’d parked her car, she found there was no way to avoid thinking about him.
“Damn you!” she muttered, then pressed her hand against her mouth. Mom hated cursing, and she rarely indulged in bad words, even mild ones.
But apparently Alexander McMullin brought out the worst in her.
As he’d stood with the solid barrier of the bar between them, she’d felt those blue eyes of his pierce all the way to her soul. And she hadn’t liked the sensation. Because it made her feel as though she was back where she’d been two years ago.
For long stretches of time, she’d been able to forget about him. Then he’d come leaping back into her mind. Something as simple as a whiff of spaghetti sauce could do it. He hadn’t been much of a cook, but that had been his specialty.
He’d said one of his stepmothers had taught him to make it. When she’d asked how he’d had more than one—he’d clammed up. Which wasn’t unusual, because he never talked much about his family. Except another time when he’d said he’d arrested one of his half brothers. For car-jacking. From what she gathered, he hadn’t gotten his values from his parents or siblings. And, as far as she knew, he tended to avoid them. And long-term commitments, as well.
She grimaced. Two years ago he’d broken her heart. And she damn well should have known better.
They’d had a relationship that had been as fast and furious as it had been passionate. And then he’d told her it wasn’t working for him.
Before they’d dated, she’d heard a lot about Alexander McMullin. He was tall of body, lean of hip, a real heartbreaker with wavy jet-black hair, a firm jaw and sensual lips. Other women she’d known had gone out with him. And the relationships had always ended the same way. If he was interested in you, he gave you the big rush.
Then he left you with your head spinning, wondering what went wrong.
She’d boldly told herself that she was the woman who was going to change things. For a while she’d dared to hope that she was the exception to the rule. She’d lasted longer than his average. Over four months. But in the hidden depths of her soul, she’d been waiting for the crash. Still, it had been a bitter shock when he’d told her it wasn’t working for him anymore.
After Alexander McMullin she vowed to be a lot more careful about getting involved with anybody. Unfortunately, since Alex there hadn’t been many guys who’d made the cut.
As she headed back to her apartment on one of the less gentle side streets off St. Charles, she couldn’t hold back a bitter laugh. In the next few weeks she was going to meet a lot of guys, but she was pretty sure none of them were going to be suitable marriage material.
Lord, what if Mom and Dad found out about her undercover assignment? They’d been upset enough when she’d worked as a cocktail waitress to pay her college tuition. “Quit that job and do something respectable,” she’d heard almost every week. How were they going to like hearing she was playing prostitute?
Well, she’d just have to make sure they never found out.
ALEX WOKE FROM A BAD dream, where he was shouting, “Where the hell are you going?” as Gillian Seymour disappeared into the fog.
Sitting up in bed, he ran a hand through his dark hair, then turned off the alarm before it could ring. The automatic coffeepot filled the house with the aroma of French roast, so he got up and ambled toward the kitchen.
After grabbing himself a cup, he leaned against the counter and took a sip.
He’d bought his traditional courtyard house in a foreclosure sale almost two years ago, not long after breaking up with Gillian, and he’d poured a lot of energy into making the rundown place into an oasis where he could walk inside the garden gate and shut out the world. It was proof that he could create a life for himself that had nothing to do with his miserable past.
He’d installed a flat-screen TV and a king-size bed in the bedroom, then remodeled the bathroom to include a huge soaking tub. After that he’d outfitted the kitchen with new appliances and tile countertops. He’d stripped and stained all the woodwork. And he’d refinished the floors himself.
Mostly he was content here. But seeing Gillian again had brought back the loneliness that he could usually hold at bay.
So he dealt with his negative emotions the way he always did, with heavy labor. This morning he started adding a better mix of soil to the garden. After an hour’s early morning work, he cleaned up and went online to do some research before heading for the New Orleans Confidential headquarters on Tchoupitoulas Street, down near the river, where the rent was cheap and the buildings were rundown.
The cover for the operation was a trucking company called Crescent City Transports, and the location requirements had been very specific. Conrad Burke had needed two back-to-back warehouses—one where the main trucking operation was located. There was a fleet of trucks in the cavernous garage, a nicely appointed executive office complex and a secret entrance to the other building through the common wall.
Although only in business for a few months, Crescent City already employed fifty drivers who carted everything from fresh produce to small appliances around the city. Backing them up was an office staff of six—including Burke.
The New Orleans Confidential’s secret headquarters were in the other warehouse around back, which also housed part of the trucking operation. But it was kept separate from the regular delivery service. Although the trucks driven by the special agents looked the same on the outside as the ones assigned to the regular drivers, the undercover vehicles were jammed with state-of-the-art electronic surveillance equipment.
There were many similar warehouses in the industrial area, so the new company fit right in. But, like the special trucks, the exterior hid a boatload of surprises. The interior was soundproofed and bug-proofed and hooked up to a spy network that included satellite feeds, access to the CIA intelligent computer system, and secret transmitters. The walls also hid a weapons room, a science lab, a communications room and an electronics room.
When he’d first come to work here, Alex had been impressed. Today, seeing the buildings brought back his anger of the night before.
“Get a grip,” he muttered as he resisted the urge to slam the car door.
From the collection of cars in the small lot, he could see that Rich, Mason, Philip Jones and Seth Lewis were already on site.
There was no way of knowing whether Conrad had arrived since the director parked in the front and entered the secret headquarters from a locked door to his office.
Alex raised his face and stared into the lens of the security camera mounted over the entrance. In addition to taking his picture, it scanned his retinas, making sure he was authorized to enter.
When the computer inside confirmed his identity, the door lock clicked open and he stepped quickly through the door.
He headed directly for the conference room, then stopped short when he heard somebody inside mention the name “McMullin.”
The speaker was Mason Bartley. While Conrad had still been working as a U.S. Marshal, he’d caught the bastard red-handed in a liquor store robbery attempt. Mason had a rap sheet as long as Conrad’s arm, but the new head of New Orleans Confidential had seen his potential and had him released into the agency’s custody. In exchange for putting this case to bed, he’d walk away with his freedom. At the moment, it sounded like he was trying to win points by ratting on one of the other agents—namely Alexander McMullin.
Eyes narrowed, Alex listened to the jerk’s version of the events of the night before. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have assumed they were staking out two different bars.
“So, I think you should know that he left his post twice last night. And he barged into a fight at the door. If he’s not careful, he’s going to get his ass fired. And why is he late now?” Mason pushed.
“Business,” Alex answered.
Keeping his expression neutral and his temper under control, he stepped into the room, taking in the men seated around the conference table at a glance.
Mason’s blue eyes glinted with defiance. He and Alex had disliked each other from the first. Now Alex knew the guy had been looking for an excuse to stab him in the back. And the events of the previous evening provided what seemed like a great opportunity.
Everybody else, including Conrad Burke, who sat at the head of the table, looked slightly embarrassed. The short, curly haired Philip Jones slouched down in his seat, almost disappearing from view. Seth Lewis rolled his broad shoulders and stretched out his athletic legs under the table, but he kept his eyes fixed on a point somewhere near the floor.
Alex liked these guys. Each had his strengths and weaknesses, but they were all top-notch agents and he’d trust any of them to guard his back in a firefight. Any of them except Mason Bartley, of course.
Now he was sorry the conflict between him and Mason was making them uncomfortable, but he was glad he’d walked in when he had.
It was Rich who spoke up. “Well, the way it looked to me, Alex was doing the bouncer’s job—while the guy was taking a break.”
Mason didn’t back down. Raising his head, he gave Alex a direct look. “What about when you disappeared down the hall a little later? You were gone for ten minutes.”
Alex fought the urge to cross his arms defensively over his chest. “We’ve been waiting to catch Jack Smith making another move. Last night I saw him slip some white powder into a customer’s drink. One of the businessmen who came in after that fight. Like Longbottom, he left with a prostitute. Why didn’t you follow them?”
Mason’s complexion turned a dull shade of red. “I didn’t see Jack do anything.”
“Well, I was closer to him,” Alex said, giving the ex-con a way to save face, when what he wanted to do was ask Mason why he hadn’t taken a seat nearer to the bar. “Since I knew what he’d done, I wanted to see where the couple was going.”
“And?” Conrad asked.
“They went around the corner, then inside the McDonough Club.”
“Which is?” Mason asked.
Conrad answered. “For years it was a prestigious men’s club in the city. Recently, I heard it changed hands.”
“Yeah,” Alex agreed as he took one of the empty chairs around the large conference table. “I did some research on the place this morning. That’s why I’m a little late.” He paused for a beat to let the explanation sink in, then continued. “I checked out the ownership on the city tax records. The deed is in the name of a Cynthia Dupré.” He took out a photograph he’d downloaded of a woman with a rounded face and dyed blond hair who appeared to be in her mid-fifties.
Phil studied it carefully. “She looks familiar, but the name sounds wrong.” He tapped his finger against his lips, looking thoughtful, and Alex waited for some bit of buried information to come out. Phil gave the impression of being an easygoing, fun-loving guy with no other purpose in life other than being a party animal. But he was sharp, and he’d been working around New Orleans for years. One thing he brought to the Confidential network was a working knowledge of most of the lowlifes in the city.
“Unless I’m mixing her up with her twin sister—which I don’t think she has—she was arrested for running a house of prostitution. I recollect that she paid some bribes and got off with probation,” he said.
“Very interesting,” Alex murmured. “I also checked out the liquor license for the establishment. It’s supposed to be a private club, bar and dining facility—with a small hotel upstairs. I’m wondering if the rooms are rented by the night or by the hour.”
Rich laughed. “Good going, Alex. It looks like we need to do some digging into that place.”
“Bartley, you get a report on my desk by tomorrow morning,” Conrad said, giving the sour-faced agent some extra work to do.
Mason answered with a tight nod.
“Did you already discuss the Latin types who came in later in the evening?” Alex asked.
Rich nodded. “I followed them after they left the bar.”
“Where did they end up?”
“In a stretch limo that looked way out of their price range.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I’m going to talk to the rental company.”
They discussed more of the previous night’s activities. Then Conrad asked, “Is that it?”
Alex took that opportunity to say, “Not quite. I’d like to ask some questions about the liaison with the police department.”
Conrad nodded.
“Last night a rookie cop named Gillian Seymour came into Bourbon Street Libations dolled up as a prostitute. I assume she’s part of the undercover sting set up by the N.O.P.D. to help crack the suspected prostitution ring and finger the drug distributor. She left with one of the patrons.”
“And?”
“She just graduated from the academy a few months ago. She’s too green for the job.”
“The police commissioner approves department personnel,” Conrad said.
Alex was aware that the rest of the men around the table were listening to the exchange with interest.
“You mean, the redhead?” Rich asked.
“Yeah.”
“She looked nervous,” Rich observed.
“She should have,” Alex rasped.
Mason jumped in. “You know her?”
Alex swung his gaze toward the ex-con, knowing he’d made a strategic mistake. He should have waited to bring Gillian up when he and Conrad could speak in private. “Yeah.”
“I don’t envy her the job,” Mason said. “Getting pawed by horny guys can’t be fun.”
“If she can’t handle them, perhaps we can ask for a personnel change,” Conrad offered.
Oh yeah, Alex thought, suddenly struck with the perfect way to get her off the case.
TWO DAYS LATER, just as Gillian had been about to leave the station house to go over to her mom and dad’s for dinner, she got a message from the lieutenant’s office. It seemed she wasn’t off duty, after all. A training meeting for her undercover assignment was scheduled at an apartment off Esplanade Avenue, the dividing line between the French Quarter and the city’s downtown Creole neighborhood.
She changed out of her uniform and into a conservative beige pantsuit with a navy blouse—something that shouldn’t call attention to her on the street. Then she made a quick call to her parents, apologizing for canceling the evening. Already late, she tried to get to the meeting on time. But she had to fight traffic all the way from the station house. By the time she arrived in the area, the only parking space she could find was a block away.