Undercover Encounter Page 3

  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 re search 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 im pressed. 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 l
arge 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 conserva tive 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.

  It was getting dark as she hurried down the cracked sidewalk, all her senses on alert. And she found herself thinking about when she’d been a little girl and Mom had told her never to walk home from school alone.

  If she’d been given the choice, she would have picked a better location and a better time. But that was simply par for the course. It went along with the serious second thoughts she was having about the assignment.

  If anybody asked why she’d taken the undercover assignment, she could come up with some kind of idealistic answer. And it would have been true, as far as it went. She certainly wanted to help get that Category Five off the streets. But now that she had a little taste of playing prostitute, she wasn’t so sure she could handle the role. And what made it worse was the knowledge that Alexander McMullin would be sitting there watching her. She could deal with the remarks she was getting from the guys at the station house, but McMullin was another matter. With him it was personal, because he’d make it that way.

  What if she asked to be reassigned? Would that be a black mark on her career? Something that would follow her through the department for years to come?

  The tight feeling in her chest that she’d been fighting since she’d left the station house suddenly threatened to choke off her breath.

  She’d been trying to keep her mind off the specifics of the assignment. She had to face some nasty questions. For instance, how was she going to work as a prostitute for a couple of weeks without having real sexual encounters with any of the johns?

  A vivid picture of herself and a man like the one from last night alone in a bedroom came into her head, momentarily distracting her from her surroundings.

  Bad mistake, because in the next second she had the feeling that someone was watching her.

  She quickened her pace, scanning the immediate area, seeing nobody on the street and hearing no sound. But she felt a sudden malevolent stirring in the air—just as a hand closed around her arm. Before she could blink, a man with considerable strength pulled her into the nearby alley.

  When she tried to use her police department martial arts training, the assailant was one step ahead of her, as though he knew what she was going to do before her body moved.

  Another hand clamped over her mouth at the same time her body was pulled backward against a hard male form.

  Desperate to escape, Gillian tried to bite the assailant. But he had anticipated that move, as well. The only thing she accomplished was to dig her front tooth into her own lip. When she winced, he pulled her deeper into the shadows.

  They were several yards from the street now and she cursed herself for getting into this situation. She tried another tactic, going limp in the attacker’s arms. He was ready for that maneuver, too. When she tried to wrench away from him, he pulled her into the shadows, even farther from help.

  Chapter Three

  Beyond the iron gate of a courtyard, Gillian could see potted plants and a small gurgling fountain. It looked quiet and peaceful in the courtyard, a strange place for violence.

  “Open the lock,” a man growled, his mouth close to her ear, the low, intimidating timbre of his voice grating at her nerve endings. She understood that he was trying to frighten her. And she strove to keep her cool. That was difficult when she couldn’t even see him.

  But she knew he was big and solid and dangerous. And she sensed a simmering anger or some other dark emotion coursing through him.

  Unfortunately she was pretty sure that in the first few seconds of their encounter, he’d evaluated her strengths and weaknesses.

  She didn’t want to go into that enclosed space with him, but she could feel something hard pressing into her b
ack and had to assume he was holding a gun—and that he was prepared to use it. He could already have taken her purse, if that’s what he’d wanted. A sick feeling rose in her throat as she thought about what he probably had planned for her.

  With unsteady fingers, she fumbled for the latch.

  “Hurry up,” he growled.

  She gritted her teeth and did as he asked. He shoved her through, kicking the barrier closed with a decisive clank behind him.

  She tensed, prepared to make her move. But again he was ahead of her. In one smooth motion, he reversed her position, whirling her around to face him.

  She was primed to fight for her life or to keep from being raped. But as she caught sight of the guy’s face, she felt as though a large animal had kicked her in the pit of the stomach.

  “Alex,” Gillian gasped, taking in the reality of the man in a split second, starting with the wavy jet-black hair and the piercing blue eyes that had bored into her in the bar. She’d been thinking about him only minutes earlier. Maybe, deep down, she’d known he might try something she wasn’t going to like.

  A few nights ago she’d been thrown off balance by the hard stare he’d aimed at her. He was having the same effect on her now. Well, it wasn’t just from the way he was looking at her. This afternoon, it seemed he’d deliberately set out to scare the spit out of her.

  She knew her own eyes hardened as she said, “Alex, you…creep. What in the Sam Hill do you think you’re doing lying in wait for me?”

  “Is that any way to greet your savior?” he asked, his voice low and even, yet the anger she had sensed earlier was still simmering below the surface.

  He was angry? Yeah right!

  He was also excellent at pushing her buttons. She’d be smart not to let him get to her. Yet too much had happened in the past few minutes for her to keep her cool.

  “Savior—my posterior,” she snapped.

  He laughed. It wasn’t entirely a pleasant sound. “I’m saving you from a life of prostitution.”