Quarter to Midnight (A New Orleans Novel Book 1)

WHAT’S HAPPENING TO us?” Carlos joked as he toed off his shoes. “We used to be able to stay up all night, but it’s not even midnight and I’m beat.”

Carlos’s words barely registered because, standing at his bedroom window, Xavier’s heart was galloping in his chest. The blue car was there again. Sitting under the streetlamp. And there was still someone inside.

“X?”

Xavier jumped when Carlos poked his shoulder. “You’re freakin’ me out, man,” Carlos said, his voice having dropped to a whisper. “Why are you staring out that window?”

Xavier stepped away from his window and leaned against his bedroom wall. “There’s a car out there, on the curb. It’s been there off and on since we got home—before noon.”

Carlos frowned. “So? Your car has been on the curb since before noon, too. Because we parked it there.” Then he sucked in a startled breath. “This is what’s had you jumpy all the damn day.”

Xavier nodded. “There’s a guy sitting behind the wheel. Big guy. He’s been watching. I don’t know why.”

Carlos pulled the blinds aside. “He’s not there now.”

Xavier felt as if he’d been punched. “He was just there. A minute ago.”

He looked out of the window and squinted into the darkness.

The car was empty.

“Fuck. Oh, fuck fuck fuck.”

Carlos grabbed his upper arm. “Let’s call 911.”

But Xavier knew better. “No, that’ll make it worse, even if they get here in time. My mama’s not here. I’m a Black man and you’re Latino, and we’re here in this house alone. Cops’ll shoot first and ask questions later.”

Carlos grimaced because he knew it to be true. “Then what—?”

A thump made them both jump.

Carlos swallowed. “That came from downstairs,” he whispered.

Xavier tried to remember to breathe. He’d practiced this scenario, years ago. When Rocky had first found him. Rocky had told him what to do.

Get out of the house. Run. Call me.

But he couldn’t call Rocky, could he? Because the man was dead.

Hands shaking, Xavier reached into the drawer of his nightstand, pulling out the gun he’d hidden behind all the other junk years ago. He checked to make sure it was loaded and flicked off the safety.

Carlos’s eyes went wide. “What the fuck, man?” he hissed. “Where did that come from?”

“It was my dad’s,” Xavier said, so quietly that Carlos had to bend closer to hear. “I know how to use it. Mostly.”

Carlos paled. “Mostly? You’re gonna get us killed.”

That might be true. Xavier had a moment of sharp regret that Carlos had been pulled into his mess. He’d known something was wrong. He’d known it.

But he hadn’t wanted to seem hysterical.

“We need to get out. That noise came from the garage door. So we can’t go out the front.”

Carlos closed his eyes, visibly fighting panic. “The spare room window?”

Because that was how Xavier had slipped out to meet the guys back in high school. The window in the back of the house opened next to a huge oak tree with a sturdy branch. They could climb down. They’d done it many times before.

“Yeah.” Xavier pointed to Carlos’s shoes. “Get your shoes and your phone and your wallet. And be quiet.”

Carlos shoved his feet into his shoes and squared his shoulders. He gave Xavier a nod, then lifted a finger for him to wait. Quickly, he searched Xavier’s closet. When he turned around, he held a baseball bat in one hand and a golf club in the other.

As quietly as possible, they crept to the spare room. But the window creaked when they opened it. The two of them froze, waiting for . . . Xavier wasn’t sure what.

Until he heard it.

Footsteps on the stairs. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.

Adrenaline spiking, Xavier punched the screen hard, popping it from the window frame. Tilting his head to the window, he mouthed, “Go.”

Carlos didn’t hesitate. He dropped the bat and golf club out of the window and grabbed for the branch, swinging himself to the tree trunk.

When the branch was clear, Xavier threw his leg over the windowsill.

“No,” a deep voice growled. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Xavier grabbed the branch one-handed, as his other hand still held the gun. He was nearly clear of the window when a big white hand grabbed his shirt and yanked.

He didn’t let himself think. He swung the gun toward the man and saw that he, too, was armed. Not hesitating, Xavier fired.

Then he jumped to the branch, shimmied a few feet down the trunk, then jumped to the ground where Carlos waited, the bat and the golf club in his hands.

“Are you—”

“I’m fine,” Xavier gasped. He was not fine. “Run.”

They took off through the garden to the back fence. Luckily it was a normal chain-link fence, only four feet high. Xavier scrambled over it, then turned to hold Carlos’s weapons.

Carlos was a little slower, but soon they were both running again.

Xavier’s pulse pounded in his ears and his breath sawed in and out of his lungs.

He wasn’t a runner. He wasn’t any kind of an athlete. He was studying to be a doctor, goddammit. And he might have just killed a man.

Don’t think. Just run.

“Where are we running to?” Carlos asked, his breath coming more easily, because Carlos was a runner. Every damn day he ran, and Xavier was kicking himself for not running with him.

“I don’t know. Oh God. What if I killed him?”

They’d run across the five acres of land on which Xavier had been raised and were now in their nearest neighbor’s yard. They stopped behind her shed, Xavier struggling for breath.

“If you did,” Carlos said, panting only a little, the bastard, “then he deserved it. He broke into your house, X. He had a gun, for fuck’s sake. We can only assume he was going to try to hurt you. Did he follow us?”

Xavier peeked around the shed, afraid to look. But he forced himself to keep his eyes open and saw no one running toward them. “I might have killed him.”

“Then he deserved it,” Carlos repeated flatly. “Where are we going?”

“I don’t know.” Xavier felt a sob rising in his throat and fought it back. “I can’t call my mom. She’ll call the cops and . . .” He tried to control his breathing. “She can’t do that.”

Carlos’s eyes narrowed. “Why, X? Why is this guy chasing you? Are you in some kind of trouble? Tell me. I’ll help you, I promise.”

That his best friend immediately offered his help made Xavier want to cry. He owed him the truth. Or as much as he dared to tell.

“I saw something. A long time ago. I didn’t think they’d find me.” But Rocky had. It made sense that the men Rocky feared could as well. “Maybe it was just a matter of time.”

Carlos pressed his lips together, anger snapping in his eyes. “It’s that guy, isn’t it? That old guy that used to visit you? I knew he was no good.”

“No, he was good. Look, let’s figure out where to go. I’ll tell you, but . . .

not here. Not now.”

Carlos put both the bat and the golf club under one arm and pulled his phone from his jeans pocket. He hit a contact and held the phone to his ear.

“Manny? Yeah, it’s me. I need your help. But you can’t tell anyone. I’m serious, bro.”

Xavier let his head fall forward, his pulse beginning to slow as he listened to Carlos’s end of the conversation. Manny was Carlos’s oldest brother. He and Xavier had never been close, but he was a nice guy. Too nice to be dragged into this mess, too.

Part of Xavier wanted to tell Carlos no. That they’d find another place to hide. Then again, he didn’t have a better idea, so he stayed quiet.

Carlos ended the call. “Manny’s on his way. He won’t ask questions. He won’t tell our mama or yours.”

“Thank you.” Xavier gave in and leaned his head on Carlos’s shoulder. “I shouldn’t let you do this, but I’m too scared to think right now.”

Carlos rubbed the top of Xavier’s head fondly. “It’ll be okay, X. We’ll figure it out.”

“No, I’ll figure it out, and then I’ll get out of your hair. I’m not dragging you into this.”

The set of Carlos’s jaw said that they’d debate the issue later. “Manny’s meeting us on the highway.”

Xavier stared at his friend. “That’s a mile away.”

“I know. But if this guy didn’t die, we don’t want him to see us driving away with Manny. We’ll stick to the shadows and hope we don’t step on any snakes.”

Xavier shuddered. “Fuck you, Carlos.”

Unbelievably, Carlos chuckled. “But now you’re not scared of tall, dark, and deadly back there. Come on. You got a little more running in you. I know it.”

He set off at a slow jog and Xavier had no choice but to flip the safety back on the gun, shove it into his waistband, and follow. He certainly didn’t want to be seen running with a gun in his hand. The cops wouldn’t even hesitate before shooting him.

I don’t want to die.

Twelve agonizing minutes later, they could see the highway. Just a couple minutes after that, a rusted-out Dodge Charger pulled onto the shoulder and slowed to a stop. Xavier let out a quiet sigh of relief. That was Manny’s old junker. Looking both ways, Carlos made a run for it, out of the shadows and into the back seat of the old car.

Xavier followed once again, grateful that Carlos could think fast on his feet. When the door was closed, Manny carefully pulled back onto the main road again.

“I’m not supposed to ask any questions,” Manny said, his voice gruff as always. He sounded like he smoked three packs a day, but Xavier didn’t think he did. If he did, he’d been smoking like that for as long as Xavier had known Carlos, because he’d always sounded like that. “But what am I looking for? In case we’re followed?”

“I don’t know,” Xavier said. It could be cops, if Rocky’s suspicions were correct. “A blue Camry was watching my house. A guy broke in and tried to grab me when we were going out the upstairs window.”

Manny glanced up into the rearview. “You don’t know why?”

“I . . .” Xavier swallowed. “I’m not sure. I need to make a phone call. You don’t have to put yourself in danger, Manny. If you want to let me out somewhere, that’s okay.”

Manny made a rude noise. “Don’t be stupid, X. You’re Carlos’s best friend. Of course I’m gonna help you.”

“Thank you. My God, thank you.”

“Make your call,” Manny said kindly.

Xavier took out his phone and blew out a breath. Then reconsidered. “I shouldn’t call from my cell phone. Maybe I shouldn’t even have my cell phone.”

Manny glanced into the rearview mirror again. “Ooookay. Here.” He tossed a flip phone over the seat. “It’s a burner.”

Carlos frowned. “Why do you have a burner phone, Manny?”

“Because my hours at the store got cut, and I can’t afford a plan,” he said brusquely, like he was embarrassed by the admission. He, along with dozens of others, had been laid off the year before when the factory where he worked had lost a big contract. Now he was working at the gas station’s convenience store, and that didn’t sound like it was going well, either. Xavier hadn’t realized Manny’s finances were so tight. “Got that phone at Walmart and I pay as I go. Use it to make your call, Xavier, then take the SIM card out of your phone and power it down.”

Xavier stared at Manny’s phone for a long moment, his brain abruptly spiraling as his adrenaline began to crash. He’d shot a man. He’d shot a man.

Oh my God. What if I killed him? What if he’s bleeding out in my mama’s spare room right now? What if he was a cop? A white cop. Oh my God. What if I killed a white cop?

Goddammit. His hands were shaking so badly that he could barely hold his cell.

Carlos took the phone from his hands. “Name?”

Xavier cleared his throat, but his voice still came out raw. “Lott. Paul Lott.”

“There’s a ‘PL.’ No names.”

“That’s him.” Xavier looked at his cell screen, then punched the man’s number into Manny’s burner phone.

“Hello?” a man answered.

Xavier stuttered, shocked that the man would answer this late. “Mr. Lott?

This is Xavier Morrow. I’m—I mean, I was—friends with Rocky Hebert.”

A long silence. Then a sigh. “What happened?” he asked, not unkindly.

“Um, I need to reach Gabriel Hebert.” There was silence on the other end.

“You know,” he added nervously. “Rocky’s son?”

“What happened, Xavier?” he asked again.

Xavier frowned. It was like he hadn’t even asked for Rocky’s son. But this was Rocky’s lawyer. Rocky had trusted him. So Xavier came clean. “A man broke into my house tonight. Tried to . . . I don’t know what he wanted to do, but he’d been watching me all day.”

Lott sighed again. “Where are you?”

“Still in Houston. My friend was with me. We ran. We have a ride.”

“Someone you trust?”

Carlos was staring at him, wide-eyed. The same expression his best friend had worn for the better part of an hour now. Slowly Carlos nodded, clearly having heard what Lott had asked.

“Yes,” Xavier said.

“Hang tight. I’ll come and get you.”

Xavier’s mouth fell open. He hadn’t been expecting that. “Y-y-you don’t have to do that.”

“Oh, I think I do. Text me the address, but not to this number. I have another phone I use for private matters. Can you remember it?”

“Yes.” Memory was a skill he worked on, especially because he was going to have to memorize all the bones in the human body for anatomy class.

If he still had a future after this.

God, please don’t let that guy have been a cop. Please.

Killing a normal . . . whatever that guy had been, that would be bad enough. Killing a cop? That would ruin his life. And Carlos’s.

Not gonna let that happen.

“Ready.” He committed the new number that Lott gave him to memory.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. If you need to run again, I’ll have both phones with me. Call me, whatever time of night or day. Got it?”

“Yes, sir. Okay. Thank you.” He ended the call and punched Lott’s private number into Manny’s phone, preparing for a text. “Manny, can you give me your address?”

Manny was frowning. “Who was that guy?”

Carlos cursed under his breath. “What about no questions? You promised, mano.”

“You two were running for your lives. Then X calls some mysterious dude and wants to give him my address? Come on, Carlos.”

“It’s fair,” Xavier murmured, then cleared his throat again. “He’s a lawyer from New Orleans.”

Carlos blinked. “The old man’s lawyer?”

Xavier nodded. “I only talked to him once. When he read me Rocky’s will.”

“On the phone?” Carlos asked.

“Yeah. I’ve never met him. He sent the inheritance money to a UPS

mailbox that Rocky set up for me in Baton Rouge.”

That made Carlos scowl, but his next question was interrupted by Manny.

“Who is Rocky?” Manny asked sharply.

Xavier closed his eyes. “He was a good man. Saved my life in Katrina.

But I’m not going to tell you any more, so don’t ask. If you know, it’ll put you in danger, too.”

Carlos closed his hand over Xavier’s forearm. “What happened, X?”

Xavier shook his head. “I’ve put you in enough danger. If you know, you’ll be targeted, too.”

“I already am,” Carlos hissed. “My backpack with all my books is back at your house. My books have my name in them. He’ll come after me, too. And my mama.”

“And your brother,” Manny added dryly, but his voice shook, and Xavier knew he was rattled, too. Of course he was. Because none of them was stupid.

“I saw a murder,” Xavier said. “And that’s all I know.”

“Holy shit,” Carlos breathed. “For real?”

“Yes,” Xavier snapped. “I wouldn’t lie about that.”

“Ooookay,” Manny said. “That changes things.”

Xavier nodded miserably. “You can let me out anytime.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Manny shook his head. “I’m not letting you out. But I think the lawyer needs to tell us—me and Carlos—how to stay safe, too. Will he do that?”

“I think so.” Xavier didn’t know for sure.

“I’m going with you,” Carlos stated. “No way am I letting you get into a car with some strange man from New Orleans. I might never see you again.”

Manny rounded a corner, and Xavier stiffened. “This isn’t the way to your apartment.”

Manny shrugged. “I’m doing a roundabout route. I want to be sure we’re not being followed.”

“Fuckin’ A, man,” Carlos said, sounding impressed.

“You’re not the only one who watches those cop shows,” his brother said, amused.

Xavier’s temper bubbled. “This isn’t a game. I could be getting you killed.”

“We know it’s not a game,” Carlos soothed, patting his arm. “It’s how we release pressure. We make jokes. You know that.”

Xavier did. He really did, but he didn’t feel like jokes at the moment. “I don’t want you hurt. Either of you. Not on my account.”

“Then let’s not get caught,” Manny said with another shrug. Xavier buried his face in his hands. And started to laugh.

Then he started to cry.

Carlos rubbed his back the rest of the circuitous way to Manny’s apartment.

Metairie, Louisiana

MONDAY, JULY 25, 11:30 P.M. 

“I think that’s it,” Gabe said quietly, gathering the last of his father’s papers into a neat pile on the floor. He’d managed to move out of his mother’s rocking chair, then was hit with a wave of fury so powerful that he’d nearly put another hole in the living room wall.

But he wouldn’t dishonor his parents’ memory like that.

It was Molly who’d knelt at his feet and put disposable booties over his shoes, then taken him by the hand and led him to his dad’s home office, far away from the kitchen where his father’s blood still stained the floor. She’d kindly shielded him from even looking into that room as they’d walked.

“We’re going to take all the papers with us,” she’d told him, giving him a pair of disposable gloves. “Help me gather them.”

So he’d redirected all of his fury into picking up every last paper, even the ripped ones. His father had been very organized. Several dozen empty folders had lain strewn over the floor and he’d stacked those as well.

Wearing the gloves, of course. Antoine would dust all the papers for fingerprints tomorrow. No one expected to find anything, but Gabe could hope.

The assholes had tossed poisoned meat to Shoe while he and Molly had been in his house, for God’s sake. They couldn’t be too smart.

He hoped. He was hanging on to that, because if they really were stupid, they’d fuck up and Molly and Burke would catch them.

Then a question broke into the forced calm of his mind. “Why didn’t they take the papers?”

She looked up from her own stack. “Good question. I figure they either found what they were looking for and trashed the house because they were assholes or because they wanted you to think it was simple vandalism.” She shrugged. “Or because they were looking for something specific and didn’t find it. We might not, either, but we’re going to go over every damn one of these papers with a fine-tooth comb.”

He believed her. He had to. Molly was his tether to sanity at the moment and he was holding on with both hands. “What’s the next step?”

“Paying a visit to your father’s attorney. Do you know who he is?”

Gabe blinked. “Of course. He read the will the week after Dad died. Paul Lott. He and Dad were friends for years.”

“You trust him, then?”

“Yes.” He hesitated. “As much as I trust anyone right now.”

“Fair enough. We’ll start there and then we’re going to pay a visit to the one person who threatened your father over one of his old cases.”

“Just one? I thought there were three cases.”

“There were, but I had one of Burke’s other PIs do the background checks while we were waiting at the vet’s. I’d have done it myself, but I wasn’t about to be distracted in case whoever tried to poison Shoe followed us there.”

Because he’d forced her into being both his investigator and his bodyguard. He figured he should let her pick which one, but not right now.

Right now, he needed her. “Which is why you called Burke to meet us here?

To guard me while you were searching?”

“Exactly. Anyway, two of the three are no longer available to stalk your dad. One is dead, the other’s in prison. The third lives in Shreveport. She’s apparently tried to turn over a new leaf. She got sober and does a lot of volunteer work. We’ll see.”

“Thank you. You’re going to ask Dad’s lawyer about the trust that Patty mentioned?”

“Exactly,” she said again, then patted the papers she’d stacked. “Some of these are bank statements. If the lawyer won’t tell us about the trust, there may be something in these.”

“All right.” Gabe stood up, papers under one arm. “What do we do with these?”

“I’ll take them out to my truck, then I’ll come back for you. Antoine’s nearly done processing the scene and we don’t want to be here when Burke calls Captain Holmes’s contact in the Jefferson sheriff’s office.”

Because Metairie was in Jefferson Parish, just west of NOPD’s jurisdiction. “How will Burke explain being here?”

“He’ll say that you were here first, saw the mess, and called him. He sent you home because you were very upset, especially after your dog was threatened.”

“Okay.” He frowned. “Tell me again why we’re calling the cops?”

She smiled patiently. “Because we need a record that someone trashed your dad’s house. It’ll improve our chances of getting a new investigation into his death once we turn up our own evidence.”

He nodded. She’d told him that before, but words weren’t sinking in properly at this point. “And then? We go back to my place?”

“Yes. Burke will join us after the cops are done here. We’ll both sleep at your place tonight. If those assholes show up again, they’ll be sorry.”

“And he’ll be justified in defending us because he’s already shown that someone trashed Dad’s house looking for something.” He could do words.

Mostly.

She gave him an encouraging nod. “Right again. One more thing, and you don’t have to decide tonight. What do you want to do with your father’s truck?”

He flinched. He hadn’t wanted to do anything with his father’s truck, but he figured he needed to. “Probably donate it. I’ll make some calls tomorrow.

Dad and Mom supported a youth shelter nearby. I’m sure they’ll make good use of it.”

“Would you mind if I gave it a once-over tonight? He might have left something in it that you’ll want to keep.”

“I’ll help.”

Her smile was kind. “If you’re sure. I’ll get Burke to cover us.”

“I hope Dad didn’t leave any food in it. I haven’t opened any of the doors or windows yet.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I hope not, too. But I’ve seen worse. Smelled worse, too.”

He supposed she had. “Did you see your father’s body?” he blurted out before he realized that he was going to ask.

It was her turn to flinch. “Yes. He’d asked me to come to his house that night. Said it was important. I got there just before the cops did. Jake, my brother-in-law, had called them. I was staring down at my father’s body when I heard Jake tell them that he’d shot my dad in self-defense. That my dad was trying to . . . hurt Harper. That when he tried to stop Dad, Dad had shot at him. My father was dead, and Jake was telling all these lies . . .” She exhaled quietly. “It would have been hard enough, finding Dad’s body like that, but that Jake was telling that horrible lie . . . We proved him wrong, of course.

But the memory of finding my father like that? That’s the image that stays with me. It’s a hard memory.”

He nodded. He hadn’t seen his father’s body in person, and for that he was grateful. “Dad’s body had been removed before I got here. But his old boss, that Cresswell piece of shit, he showed me the photo.”

Her expression turned murderous. “Motherfucker,” she hissed.

Gabe shrugged. “He said it was an accident. Said, ‘Oops.’ ”

Her eyes narrowed. “I hope he was involved. I want to take him down myself.”

He believed she would, and that gave him comfort. He pulled a set of keys from his pocket. “These go to Dad’s truck.”

“Then let’s have a look.”

A few minutes later, after stowing the papers in a lockbox in her truck, the two of them were searching his father’s Ford with flashlights while Burke stood guard.

The bed of his father’s truck was completely clean—except for a single, empty jug of bleach. Gabe leaned over the tailgate to retrieve it. “It’s not his brand. Dad used Clorox, because that’s what Mom always swore by. This is a store brand.”

Burke took it from him. “We’ll check it out.”

Gabe frowned at the jug, new dread piling atop the old because he knew what criminals used bleach for—to get rid of blood. “Why would my dad have bleach in his truck? He has a washer and dryer in his house and there’s a full jug of bleach in his laundry room.”

“We’ll do our damnedest to find out,” Burke assured him.

Shoving back the dread, Gabe opened the front passenger door. “We can come back tomorrow when it’s daylight,” he offered, shining his light into the glove box.

Molly had already checked the back seat and was checking the middle console up front. “If the sheriff’s office doesn’t take the truck in for an in-depth search,” she replied. She made a face when she found the round can of Skoal. “Your dad chewed?”

“Yeah,” Gabe said resignedly as he searched through ten years of old car registrations. “My mother hated it, but she loved him and didn’t nag him too much. I didn’t nag him at all. It was his only remaining vice after he quit drinking. Now I’m wishing I had nagged him. His cancer was in his esophagus.”

Her gasp had him looking up in surprise. She’d known where the cancer was. It was in his father’s autopsy report.

But she wasn’t looking at him. She was staring under the floor mat she’d just pulled up. “Burke?”

“What did you find?” Burke asked, standing behind her, his gaze locked on their surroundings.

“Buried treasure.” She straightened enough to show Gabe what she’d found. A tiny little square chip, razor-thin, was pinched between her gloved index finger and thumb.

“Is that a SIM card?” Gabe asked, stunned.

“No way,” Burke said, vibrating with excitement.

She grinned, triumphant. “Yes way, boss.” Bagging it, she handed it to Burke. “Give it to Antoine?”

Burke grinned back. “You bet. You guys get out of here. Antoine and I can finish checking the truck and then I’ll call the sheriff. Call me when you get to Gabe’s place, so I know you’re safe.”

“Will do.”

The Garden District, New Orleans, Louisiana

TUESDAY, JULY 26, 12:05 A.M. 

Lamont frowned at his phone when Stockman’s number popped up. It was about time. He’d been sitting in his study, trying to read briefs, since he and Joelle had returned from dinner.

Joelle had come home drunk, as he’d hoped she would. She’d sleep until well after noon tomorrow and then wake with a hangover. Which meant that she’d be holed up in her room for most of the day.

Those were the only days he got any peace at all.

“Is it done?” he snarled into the phone. It had better be done, so help him God.

For a moment, all he heard was heavy breathing. Then a quiet moan of pain.

“No,” came the whispered reply. “I’m shot. It’s . . . not good.”

He strained his ears, not believing what he’d just heard. “You got shot?

By whom, for fuck’s sake?”

“That damn kid. Morrow.”

For a moment, he could only stare, shocked. “The nerdy kid? Who’s always studying? The one who’s going to be a doctor? He shot you? And you let him?”

Stockman grunted, and even through the phone he could hear his right-hand man’s displeasure. And probably some pain as well. “I am shot.” A shuddered exhale. “In the chest. I am bleeding.”

Which was going to cause a whole host of other problems. “Did you get the kid?”

“No.”

Lamont closed his eyes, fury washing over him in slow waves. “Why the hell not?”

Stockman coughed and he thought he heard a faint gurgle. This was bad.

They covered up the murders of other people. Lamont had never needed to cover up the murder of one of his trusted men. “He ran. Shot me . . . and ran.”

Another cough. “Didn’t know . . . he had a gun.” A ragged inhale. “Not registered.”

“Where are you?” he asked icily. He’d need to fetch Stockman, either to get him help or to dispose of his body.

“ER.”

Lamont’s mouth fell open. “You’re where? You are not going to the ER.

They’ll call the cops on a gunshot wound.”

Another grunt, this one sharper. “Not gonna die for you.”

Then you’ll die by my hand. He drew a breath, let it out slowly. “I understand. Which hospital?”

“No. Don’t . . . trust you.”

At least Stockman’s brain was still working. “Don’t fuck around, Stockman. Tell me where you are.”

But the call had ended. Stockman had hung up on him.

He shoved a hand through his hair. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He needed to think fast.

Crossing his office, he opened his safe and withdrew a file folder. In the folder was a list of names, phone numbers, and locations. He ran his finger down the list, wishing he had the computer skills to make a spreadsheet. It would be easier to search.

But he didn’t have the skills and he couldn’t trust anyone to type it for him. Not even Ashley, his assistant. She was willing to sleep with her boss, but he didn’t think she’d be okay with the darker parts of his job. Plus, computers could be hacked, and this list was worth more than a ton of gold.

Especially in times like this.

Ah. There he is. The name he’d been searching for. Tyson Whitley, Dallas, Texas. He dialed the number and waited for the man to pick up.

“Yeah?” It was a wary greeting.

“Do you know who this is, Mr. Whitley?”

Tyson drew a sharp breath. “Yes.”

“Good. I’m calling my favor due.”

An audible gulp. “How did you find me?”

“You should know by now that I have many resources at my disposal.

You are one of them.”

A few seconds passed, then Tyson folded. “What d’ya want from me?”

“I want you to go to the hospitals closest to Mont Belvieu, Texas, and search for a gunshot wound victim. Goes by Stockman.” Which wasn’t Stockman’s real name. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever known Stockman’s real name, actually. And it didn’t matter now.

“All right. And when I find him?”

“Kill him.”

Tyson sucked in a shocked breath. “What? I ain’t no killer.”

“You will be if you want to remain a free man. And if you don’t want your wife to find out that you sold drugs and guns to middle school children.

I can ruin your life faster than you can hang up the phone.”

There was a long, long moment of silence during which he wasn’t certain if Tyson would comply. But then the man grunted, “Send me a photo in case he’s using an alias.”

“There’s the intelligent man I was looking for,” Lamont said mildly. “I’ll send you a photo. Once you’ve finished your task, text me with the words

‘It’s a beautiful day’ then delete all of our messages and the photo from your phone.”

“And then we’re square?”

“And then we’re square.” Unless he needed Tyson again, of course. “Text me when you’ve found him, then again when he’s dead.”

“Okay. Then you’ll leave me alone, right?”

“Of course,” he lied, smooth as silk, then ended the call.

One down, one to go. He searched the list for another name, one he’d called before. Cornell Eckert’s parents had met with a bloody end and most people thought that Eckert had done it. It was certainly probable, but because Eckert was too smart to leave evidence, he’d never been charged.

Except that one time when he’d left a witness alive. Which hadn’t caused Eckert any issues. Because I made it go away. Stockman had taken care of the witness, and Eckert had walked away a free man.

Thus, the man owed him big-time and Lamont intended to collect. Eckert was a bounty hunter and a damn good one. He also was a hit man. Sometimes he was both at the same time, when the quarry could be brought in dead or alive.

Like the Houston kid.

Lamont dialed, then waited. Then frowned. The bastard wasn’t answering.

He’d almost ended the call when the line clicked and a sleepy voice answered, “What?”

“So, you’re alive.”

A heartbeat of silence. Then, “Fucking hell. I thought we were done.”

“Nope. One more.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

“Do you want to go to prison, Mr. Eckert?”

Another beat of silence. “No, you fucking asshole.”

It was fair. “I’m so glad. And this time, I’m willing to pay you. Double your normal fee.”

“I’m listening,” Eckert said, sounding suddenly more upbeat.

“I’m so glad,” he repeated dryly. “I need you to find a kid in Houston.”

“No way. Uh-uh. I don’t kill kids.”

“He’s twenty-two.”

“Oh. All right, then. Give me the details.”

“Name’s Xavier Morrow. I’ll send you his address, but he may not be there. You’re cleaning up another operative’s mess. Kid saw my other guy coming and took off.”

“Where’s your other guy?”

“In the hospital. Kid shot him.”

“Shit.”

“What was that?” Lamont asked coolly. “Don’t tell me that we’ve switched from you getting paid to doing this for free so that your ass doesn’t end up in prison.”

“Nah, I’m still good. But now I’m gonna need to wear my Kevlar vest.

Which sucks, because it’s hotter than hell in Houston right now.”

“Do what you must. I just want the kid dead. And I want proof that he’s dead.”

Eckert gave a low whistle. “What’d he do?”

“Not your business.”

“Okey-dokey.”

Lamont rolled his eyes. It was hard to believe a man who said okey-dokey was capable of cold-blooded murder, but such was life. “Text me when you’re done.”

“I know the code. How will you pay me?”

“Cash.”

“I like cash.”

“I figured you would. Get to work, Mr. Eckert.” Ending the call, he put the list back in his safe and twisted the combination dial, checking to be sure the lock had engaged.

Then he paced for a full minute, worrying that the two men wouldn’t come through—Tyson Whitley on killing Stockman or Cornell Eckert on killing Xavier Morrow.

But he hadn’t had a choice, really. He needed both Stockman and Xavier gone, and he couldn’t get to Houston in time to do it himself. Nor would he.

One photo of him so far from home would raise all kinds of speculations and that could spell disaster. Especially right now.

He needed a distraction, and he knew exactly who to call for that. He tapped Ashley’s name in his contact list and waited for her to answer.

She did on the second ring, her voice thick with sleep. “It’s late, baby.

What’s wrong?”

“I need you tonight.”

He heard the rustle of bedsheets. “What happened?” she asked sweetly.

“It’s the Levinson case. It’s . . . it’s hard.” As lies went, this one would be hard to dispute. The Levinson case was hard—a woman suing her employer for sexually assaulting her little boy. Levinson was safe, though, thanks to Stockman. Levinson had been a big campaign donor for years. Couldn’t let anything happen to him.

“Oh.” Ashley was immediately sympathetic. “I understand. Are you coming here?”

“No, I want you to come here.”

“Really?”

Her surprise was understandable. He never asked her to come over to his house, because he didn’t want Joelle to catch him. But Joelle was passed out drunk, and she’d never know. “Wear the perfume I gave you for our anniversary.”

“Oh.” Ashley’s reply was flat. Disappointed. “The same perfume you gave your wife.”

He wasn’t aware that she’d picked up on that. “I like the scent,” he said simply. “And if you wear it, she won’t know you were here. The room will smell like she was here, not you.”

“All right,” she said in a small voice. “I’ll be over as soon as I can.”

“Thank you, dear. Wear the teddy I bought for you,” he added. “It’s your color.”

It was also Joelle’s color, which was a good thing, because he always bought his wives the same gifts that he gave his mistresses. Kept him from mixing things up.

“I can do that.”

He smiled. “Good. I’ll see you soon.”