The Business of Strangers Page 7

  Jake Tarrance. Their gazes clashed as she struggled to hide the emotion crashing through her. Surely that wasn’t a flicker of excitement at the unexpected sight of him? Giving in to her hormones last night had been novel enough for her. Having second thoughts about seeing him again smacked of a dithering indecisiveness that was as foreign as it was unwelcome.

  With effort, she schooled her expression to an impassive mask. She wished it were as easy to calm her jittery pulse. What was he doing here? Somehow she doubted those varied business interests he’d hinted at last night included law or bondsman. Remembering the cash with which Jake had paid the bail, she felt a wave of trepidation.

  She looked back at Boster. “Good to have friends, isn’t it? Just make sure you show up for trial. I’d hate to have to hunt you down again.”

  The big man flushed, but Jake’s presence had apparently defused a great deal of his bluster. Ignoring her, he addressed the emotionless man standing before him. “You didn’t have to come here. I can explain everything. It’s not what you think.”

  “We’ll discuss what I think in the car.”

  Jake’s tone sent a shiver skating over Ria’s skin. It would be impossible to miss the menace in the evenly spoken words, and all appearances aside, Boster wasn’t stupid. He swallowed hard and preceded Jake out the door.

  Ria stood silently, willing the men to be gone. But on his way past her, Jake’s gaze met hers again and she caught her breath at the bitter condemnation she read in his eyes. In the next moment the door closed behind him.

  Why in God’s name would he be angry with her? For leaving in the middle of the night? She doubted it was the first time the man had experienced a one-night stand, so her quiet departure shouldn’t have elicited that kind of reaction.

  Belatedly, she shook off the thought to focus once again on her surroundings. No one seemed to have noticed the silent exchange between her and Tarrance. Relieved, she caught Ken Simpson’s eye and motioned him over just as he was about to go back into holding for another prisoner.

  When Ken was beside her, she asked, “Did you know that guy who posted bail for Boster?”

  “Not by sight, but I recognize the name. Most law officers ’round these parts would.”

  The unease in her gut knotted into a greasy tangle. “Why is that?”

  The second lawyer had pushed up to the counter now, and was demanding, loudly, for his client’s release. Simpson’s eyes flickered in that direction as he spoke. “Tarrance runs ’bout the biggest crime organization in these parts. Based out of Columbus, near as I remember. Never known him to do business in Alabama, but wouldn’t make book on it.”

  Ria’s throat closed. Images flashed through her mind. Of Jake in back of her, driving into her with savage force. Of her astride him, rocking them both to madness. It took a moment before she trusted herself to speak. “Is he connected?”

  Simpson shook his head. “He’s not a wiseguy. There’s mob activity in Atlanta for sure, but I’ve never heard that he’s got links to them. Columbus PD would know more about him than I do, though.” He headed back toward holding for the next release, and Ria left the intake area, her mind in a whirl.

  One thought burst through the jumble, however, with blazing clarity. She wasn’t in the habit of making errors, but when she did, they were costly. The last time she’d made a mistake of this magnitude, it had led an assassin to her apartment in L.A. Her indiscretion with Jake Tarrance wasn’t that serious, she hoped, but it could prove just as damaging.

  She didn’t even want to consider what would happen to her job here if it were ever discovered she’d been personally involved, however briefly, with one of the most notorious criminals in the area.

  Her mood dark, she turned the corner toward her offices and nearly collided with Deputy Ralston. For once the man’s face didn’t twist into its familiar sneer at the sight of her. His expression and tone were excited. “I thought I just saw Jake Tarrance walking out of here. I didn’t read his name on the arrest report this morning.”

  It seemed everyone knew who the man was. Everyone, that is, with the exception of her. “He wasn’t arrested, he was posting bond for Boster, the guy you brought in yesterday.”

  “So Tarrance is involved in this meth operation, too?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel and started away.

  “Wait a minute.” Instinct had her stopping him. “Where are you going?”

  “To call the Columbus PD. I’m sure Vice will be very interested in this news.”

  “We don’t have any ‘news,’ Ralston, and we sure don’t have proof that he and Boster were working together.” Whatever their connection, it seemed odd that Tarrance would broadcast his association with Boster, rather than just send a lawyer or bondsman to see to his release. “But I’ll contact Columbus myself. I’d like a little background on Tarrance.” Too little, too late, an inner voice jeered. But before this went any further, she’d apprise herself exactly how serious a mistake she’d made last night.

  Ralston’s mouth twisted. “Sure, Sheriff. Whatever.”

  “I’m going to be out of the office this afternoon, so I’d like you to supervise the calls and assignments.” She read his surprise in his expression before the more familiar sardonic mask replaced it. “You are the senior deputy, aren’t you?”

  She already knew he was. No doubt that was what had had him certain that her position belonged, by rights, to him. It was clear he didn’t know what to make of her offer.

  “That’s right.”

  “Good. You can reach me on my cell if there’s an emergency. Otherwise, I’ll stop in later this evening to catch up on anything requiring my attention.” Without giving him a chance to respond, she turned and headed back to her office. Her appointment at the prison this afternoon was less than three hours off. But before making the journey to Bessemer, she was going to learn everything she could about one Jake Tarrance.

  Jamie Lee Boster shifted uncomfortably in the leather back seat of the Cadillac Escalade. The luxury of the SUV seemed lost on him. Despite the mild temperature in the vehicle, he was perspiring heavily.

  No one spoke. Cort manned the wheel, Finn beside him. Jake sat next to Boster and watched the man sweat bullets, while he tried to contain the fury that churned inside him.

  It wasn’t all directed at the idiot who used to work for him. No, the worst of it was reserved for himself.

  He couldn’t remember a time he’d let someone get under his guard as easily as Ria had last night. He thought he’d had all the angles covered. The apartment had been swept this morning, just as it was every other day. Whatever else the woman had been after, it hadn’t been to plant a listening device in his home or on his phone. Her intent hadn’t been lethal—she’d had ample opportunity to try to slip a blade between his ribs while they lay tangled in bed together. But then, she hadn’t actually had room to hide a weapon, either.

  He had a mental flash of her naked, her creamy skin against his black silk sheets. For a moment his palms tingled, as if he could still feel the softness of her flesh. Her smell had lingered in his senses long after he’d awakened, alone in the bed.

  And the brief stab of disappointment that had followed that discovery still haunted him. Taunted him.

  He’d been screwed by cops before, but never quite so literally. The dark humor failed to amuse him. What had she been after? His alarm system would have alerted him if she’d tried to search his apartment, and he didn’t sleep deeply enough for any such attempt to be successful, anyway.

  “Mr. Tarrance, I know what you’re thinking.”

  Boster’s voice interrupted his thoughts. Jake turned to look at the man. “Somehow I doubt that.”

  Boster licked his lips. “Okay, I knew you’d be mad, but see, that’s why I went over the state line.” He paused, as if waiting for Jake to express his appreciation of that fact. “I figured as long as I stayed out of your territory, what I did in my free time was my business, right?”

 
; “Wrong.” With the swiftness of a snake striking, he had the man’s shirt in his hand, twisting it tightly so it constricted around his throat. “You have no free time. I own you. Everything you do reflects on me, and I am not happy, Boster.” He twisted the shirt even more, and the man’s face grew red as he struggled to breathe. “What are the two things I told you wouldn’t be tolerated when I hired you?”

  Boster moistened his lips and croaked, “Whores and drugs.”

  “See, you do remember.”

  He released the man as suddenly as he’d grabbed him, disgusted by his loss of control. “You’ve got no loyalty, and it looks like you’re stupid to boot. A guy like that is a liability in my organization. I’m sure you understand that.”

  Boster sent a frantic glance toward the silent men in the front seat. “You gotta give me another chance. Maybe I messed up—I see that now. But a good lawyer could make this deal all go away. And then I’d never screw up again, you gotta believe me. I’ve learned my lesson.”

  “A bit late, wouldn’t you say?” Jake faced forward again, considering his options. When he’d heard of Boster’s arrest he’d made damn sure he’d been the first to get to him. There would be no fresh-faced lawyer with ideas of plea bargains in exchange for information, especially when that information might have to do with Jake’s own operation. The cleanest way to deal with the man, the best way, would be to make sure he never had an opportunity to talk to anyone. But his disappearance could give rise to difficult questions, especially given their association.

  Stress knotted the muscles at the back of Jake’s neck. The wisest choice would be to line Boster up with counsel of his own choosing, who could be paid to make sure the man landed in the pen. Jake had contacts everywhere, even in the prison population. The man could still be controlled, even inside.

  His decision made, he turned his thoughts once again to Ria—and his punch-in-the-gut reaction when he’d seen her in the sheriff’s office after paying the bail. He frowned, remembering something, and turned sharply back to Boster. “What were you saying to that woman, the sheriff, before you saw me?”

  Boster lifted a shoulder. “I dunno. Something about that bruise on her face. I managed to land one even though I had three or four guys on me yesterday.” He smirked. “Damn bitch. No job for a woman, anyhow. I heard one of the cops say she was butch. Guess them type of women have to have a gun ’cuz they ain’t got a…”

  Something in Jake’s still expression must have warned him. The rest of his sentence went unuttered. The mark on Ria’s face had been an angry red welt yesterday, but today it had bloomed to a sullen shade of blue. And knowing this man was responsible for putting that mark on her had Jake entertaining a brief fantasy of sending his fist crashing into his jaw.

  Which meant Jake might be well on his way to crazy. What did he care if the woman had been knocked around during the arrest? Given what he’d discovered about her today, his intentions toward her were no less threatening.

  What the hell had she wanted from him? He had no business interests in Alabama. They were concentrated in Georgia and stretched east and south to the tip of Florida. Had she discovered Boster’s association with him and been following up on that? She would have had to work damn fast, since the arrest had only been yesterday afternoon. Or was she part of a local task force investigating his holdings? That thought had merit, and he examined it more closely. He hadn’t heard of any such investigation, and he paid his contacts well to pass that kind of information on to him.

  The surest way to get answers to his questions, he figured, was to present them to the woman herself.

  He smiled humorlessly, even as anticipation tightened in his gut. Yes, Ria-without-a-last-name had much to answer for. And he found himself looking forward to their next conversation.

  The room Ria was shown to at the Donaldson Correctional Facility was small and cheerless. The paint on the walls was of an undetermined age, and its dull beige color wouldn’t have brightened the room even when fresh. The floor was institutional tile, the furnishings plain and functional. There was a brown stain in the Sheetrock of the ceiling. She could almost smell the despair.

  “Stanton will be brought in shortly. When he is, I’ll give you some privacy, but I’ll be watching from the other side of the door in case you need me.” The blue-clad correctional officer flicked a glance over her, as if doubting her ability to handle herself with a maximum-security prisoner. “Fifteen minutes enough?”

  “Should be.” She’d need even less than that if Larry Stanton proved no more cooperative in person than he had over the phone. She’d tried more than once to arrange an interview over the telephone from Colorado. But according to the warden, the man had been in the prison medical center for days, and then held in isolation for weeks longer. Even when he’d been capable of taking calls, he’d refused to speak to her.

  Nerves knotted in her stomach. She knew better than to count too much on any one lead. She’d chased far too many promising threads that had eventually led nowhere. Stanton was just one in a long line of them. If this interview proved worthless, there’d be another lead. Another clue that would eventually unlock the door to her past.

  She told herself that, and tried to believe it.

  A small wooden table sat in the center of the room, with a chair on either side. She remained standing until she heard the faint jangle of chains in the hallway. The door opened. A second guard ushered in a man doing the inmate shuffle. Ria’s gaze dropped to his feet. He was in leg irons, as well as cuffs, reminding her again that this was a maximum-security prison for Alabama’s most violent offenders.

  “Sit over there.” The guard indicated for the man to take the seat facing the door. Glancing at Ria, he said, “The door will be secured, but the room will be supervised through the window.” There was a large double-glass pane with a wire inset in the center of the door. “Just give a knock when you’re done. The inmate is to remain seated at all times.” His attention shifted to Stanton. “Is that clear?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Apparently the guard caught the sardonic inflection in the prisoner’s voice, because his expression darkened. “Don’t give me any trouble, Stanton. You’ve already caused enough ’round here.”

  Ria waited until the guard had exited the room before turning to survey the inmate she’d come to see. Her first thought was that this man didn’t look capable of causing much of a stir. Gaunt to the point of emaciation, he was slightly stooped, shaving a couple inches off his above average height. His skin bore a sickly pallor that was only a shade darker than the white prison-issue uniform he wore.

  He had full sleeves: tattoos running up and down both arms. Unlike the tat on the convict caught in Colorado, this work had obviously been done on the outside. They were in full color. He even had the back of each knuckle tattooed.

  He swiped at a lock of sandy-blond hair clinging limply to his forehead, and pushed it back along his receding hairline. His eyes were a muddy shade of hazel, and right now they were raking her form in a slow insolent way that left no secret about his thoughts.

  “Larry Jay Stanton?” Her voice was crisp, commanding, exerting her authority.

  “That’s right, doll. This must be my lucky day. I was sure due for one.”

  Ria crossed to the table and braced her hands on it, leaning toward him. “You will address me as Sheriff Kingsley. Is that understood?”

  Eyes alight with laughter, he responded, “Sure, I got that, Sheriff. I’ll call you anything you want.”

  Pushing away, Ria pulled out the opposite chair and sat. “I represent Fenton County, Alabama. During the course of an investigation, your name came up.”

  Wariness crept into his expression. “Don’t see how. I been in here going on five years now. Even you cops can’t pin something on a guy locked up.”

  “I understand you’re a pretty accomplished tattoo artist. Ran across an escaped convict in Colorado a few weeks ago that named you as the designer of the tat he had
. Ronny Baker. That name ring a bell?”

  Stanton shrugged. “I do plenty of tats. So what?”

  “It was a winged horse. A little crude, but I suppose you don’t have the tools at your disposal that you had when you worked on the outside.” Tattoos in prison were often done with a sewing needle and ballpoint ink. “Where did you used to operate?”

  The man sat back in his chair, clearly impatient with the questioning. But a glance toward the door had him straightening again. One of the biggest complaints of inmates, Ria knew, was boredom. Despite his less than enthusiastic responses, her presence represented a reprieve from the unrelenting sameness of his days. She was counting on that to sustain his interest.

  “I been all over. East Coast mostly. Florida and Georgia, before Alabama.”

  “Does this look like some of your work?” She took a couple of photographs from her pocket and placed them on the table, nudging them over to him. They were from the film she’d taken of the second assassin before she’d fled L.A. Stanton picked up one, then the other, examining them closely.

  “He dead?”

  She nodded. “Unsolved. His identity was never discovered. Why, do you recognize him?”

  Ria hadn’t been aware she’d been holding her breath, until he shook his head. She expelled it slowly, tamping down the disappointment she’d promised herself she wasn’t going to experience.

  “Never did pay much attention to the guys. The ladies, though, that was always different.” One of his eyelids closed in a lascivious wink. “Them I’d remember.”

  Distaste rose. “I’ll bet.” She’d researched Stanton thoroughly. He was serving a fifteen-year sentence for multiple counts of rape. Apparently he’d offer his female clients something for the pain, and assault them while they were under the effects of the strong drug he slipped them. Then he’d finish their tattoo, expecting them to remember nothing when they came to again.

  But a couple of clients had remembered. Apparently they hadn’t ingested as much of the drug as he’d expected, because once they’d left his place, they’d gone straight to the police. Some studies indicated that over ninety percent of all convicted rapists had committed previous assaults. Ria was willing to bet Stanton had had a long career of attacks before committing the two that had led to his eventual incarceration.