Hush (20 page)

The mezzanine overlooking the dance floor was lined with people leaning against the rail watching the action below.

“Can I get you a drink, sir?” a waitress asked, her voice raised to be heard over the din. She looked to be barely of legal drinking age, a pretty, dark-haired girl with a lithe, tanned body all but bared by a tiny pair of black shorts and a long-sleeved white shirt that failed to provide her with any degree of modesty because it was unbuttoned, rolled up as high on her torso as possible, and tied in a knot between her breasts.

Finn shook his head. He could have used a beer—he could have used several beers—but he was working.

“I'm looking for Mrs. Cowan.” He had to raise his voice to be heard, too.

“Riley?” She swept a speculative glance over him. Her name tag read Katie, and she was carrying a round tray with a couple of bottles of Lone Star beer on it, which was probably what had made him think of the beverage in the first place. “She's probably over there in the Sports Bar.” She pointed across the dance floor. “That's where the big spenders hang out.”

Finn nodded, tucked a couple of singles into the squat, heavy
highball glass that was already brimming with them on the tray, and, skirting the dance floor, headed in the direction Katie had indicated.

She—meaning the object of his search—hadn't really said anything incriminating, Finn reminded himself in an effort to retain the necessary degree of objectivity.

Ah, but it was what she didn't say
.

His gut had been telling him all along that she was involved in this thing up to her eyeballs. What he'd heard tonight had confirmed every twinge of instinct he'd had.

After a long, exhausting, and ultimately fruitless day of running down all the intelligence he could get his hands on concerning the recent activities of the men whom Riley's confessions had pushed to the top of his hit list, he had returned with Bax to their hotel rooms about two hours previously. Leaving an out-of-the-loop Bax securely tucked away in his own room for the night, Finn had headed downstairs again to collect an envelope waiting for him at the front desk. The envelope had contained the CD from the sound amplifier recorder that he had affixed to the roof of the police cruiser that had spent the night in Margaret Cowan's driveway. Voice activated, it had served as a supplement to the bug in Riley's phone, the effectiveness of which was hampered by the fact that it covered only its immediate vicinity. The sound amplifier recorder captured everything that had been said in Margaret's house from the time the cruiser had arrived until it had left that morning after the ladies were all out of the house. The cruiser was there again tonight, with the recorder busy doing its thing.

The CD had contained maybe forty minutes of actual conversation. He had kicked back in the armchair in his room and listened.

The lawyer left; Emma had a breakdown; Riley and Margaret talked, but revealed nothing he didn't already know; Margaret talked to Emma, presumably in the teen's bedroom, again revealing nothing new; then, at 2:07 a.m. according to the voiceover on the recording, Riley and Margaret talked once more, with Margaret saying, “Was Jeff killed because—?” and Riley answering with, “Shh.”

That had been followed almost immediately by the sound of a door closing. After that, the recorder had picked up a few barely intelligible words masked by a muted roar. There'd been more talk in the morning when they'd gotten up, typical getting-ready-to-go conversation, but it was Riley's middle-of-the-night exchange with Margaret, coupled with that masking roar and underscored by some information he'd received earlier, that had brought him out to the Palm Room in search of her.

He knew what that muted roar was: running water. He knew what its purpose was: to mask a conversation. It was a guess, but he thought it was a good one: Riley and Margaret had continued the conversation that had been interrupted by Riley's sharp “Shh” in the bathroom. With the water running—the purpose of which could only have been to foil any listening devices.

Given Riley's propensity for messing with electronics, he did not imagine that the running water had been Margaret's idea.

And there would only have been a need for running water if the conversation was something Riley absolutely did not want anyone to overhear.

In his experience, people weren't that wary without a reason.

“Was Jeff killed because—?”

The answer he did not hear tantalized him. It also pissed him off.

His anger was directed more at himself than her.

He'd known from the moment he'd watched her take that phone off Jeffy-boy's body that she had something to hide.

But he'd let the fact that she was a woman—a young, beautiful, sexy woman who seemed to possess the effortless ability to turn him on to his back teeth—influence him.

Which was why, even before he stepped through the garage-­sized open door of the Sports Bar—the name hung in neon over the opening—he was feeling grim.

He glanced around. It was a smallish space, maybe twenty two-person tables, most of which were occupied, with half a dozen big plasma TVs fastened to the wall—all tuned silently to various sports games; headsets for anyone who wanted to listen hung on hooks beneath the TVs—and a long mahogany bar with a mirrored wall behind it, a green glass lighting fixture hanging above it, and a dozen bar stools in front of it. Another of the scantily clad waitresses flitted from table to table, serving drinks and what looked like tiny bags of popcorn. The bar stools seemed to be all occupied, mostly by men. Two bartenders, one male and one female, were busy pouring drinks.

His quarry leaned against the far end of the bar with her back to him. Standing as she was under one of the lights, there was no mistaking the bright blaze of her hair. It hung loose around her shoulders in a profusion of waves. Her dress was black, short, sweater-girl tight, and glittery with sequins. The way it clung to
her ass should have been against the law. She was wearing sheer black stockings, mile-high heels. The burly older guy in a business suit and a cowboy hat who was spilling over the bar stool beside her was running his hand up and down her bare upper arm as they talked.

Watching that, his grim got a whole lot grimmer.

He walked over, leaned against the bar beside her. Close, so she'd know somebody was there.

She turned a little, glancing his way, and met his eyes. The sooty black of her lashes framed big green-hazel eyes as they widened. Her lips parted in transparent surprise.

Then she smiled, a dazzlingly genuine I'm-so-glad-to-see-you smile that hit him with the approximate incendiary effect of a surface-to-air missile.

If he'd been standing upright, it would have rocked him back on his heels. As it was, his heart kinda jumped. His balls definitely tightened.

And his grimmer grim morphed into something way hotter and more dangerous.

She'd been about to say,
Thank you for the ice cream.

Then he smiled a not-nice smile and said, “I don't like it when people lie to me, Mrs. Cowan.”

His gray-blue eyes were hard as steel. His posture appeared deceptively casual as he rested one elbow on the bar, his big body seemingly at ease, his heavy shoulders wide enough to block most of her view of the goings-on on the dance floor in the main room beyond him. In his FBI-typical dark suit and white shirt—tonight he was minus the tie—he looked exactly like what he
was: a federal agent. He also looked tough and in a bad mood and not like anyone you wanted to mess with.

He was so close his arm brushed hers. Looking at his expression, she knew he'd gotten that close on purpose.

And that purpose wasn't to try to make her little heart go pitty-pat.

His words made her stiffen. On her other side, Don Osborne was, thankfully, talking to Chip the bartender as Chip set Don's third scotch on the rocks in front of him. That, plus the pulsing music, was almost certainly enough to keep him from over­hearing.

Unlike Finn's smile, her answering one was sweet as sugar. “I don't like it when people try to intimidate me, Agent Bradley.”

His eyes narrowed. Her smile sweetened.

“So you want to tell me how that phone really got in the bathwater?”

Her heart skipped a beat. She prayed her sudden spurt of alarm didn't show.

Just because she kept her voice necessarily low didn't mean it was any less hostile. “I don't want to tell you anything at all. In case you haven't noticed, I'm at work. Excuse me.”

As she turned away from him, he straightened to his full height and caught her arm.

“You took the SIM card out. Don't deny it.”

Her stomach clenched, but she wasn't about to show it if she could help it. Even as she flashed a let-go-or-die look at him, Don swiveled his stool in her direction and frowned.

“There a problem, Riley?” he asked, glancing from the hand
on her arm to Finn. What he saw in Finn's face made his weather-­beaten features harden.

Riley shook her head.

“I'm an FBI agent,” Finn said. His tone had a
you want trouble, I'm it
edge.

It was all she could do to resist the urge to kick him.

“He's investigating what happened last night. He just wants to ask me a few questions,” Riley said. “If you don't mind, I'll walk him out and answer them for him on the way.”

“That's fine. You do what you need to do.” He patted her arm again. “Like I said, I'm awful sorry about Jeff.” He looked at Finn. “This here's a real fine lady. Think the world of her. You be sure and treat her like it.”

Finn's hand tightened on her arm. Riley couldn't see his face, but getting him out of there while the getting was good seemed like the best option.

“Thanks, Don,” she said. “I'll see you before you leave.” Smiling at Don, Riley moved away from the bar with Finn a step behind her, still holding on to her arm like she was a prisoner and he was marching her away.

“You know, you didn't strike me as the type to go hunting a sugar daddy,” Finn said in her ear.

They'd just stepped outside the Sports Bar into the main room. It was louder, darker, and way more private.

Giving him the poisonous look she'd been holding back on, she jerked her arm from his hold.

“
Keep walking
. Don's my boss. Actually, my boss's boss. He
owns
the Palm Room,” she hissed at him. To her relief he fell in
step beside her as she headed for the exit. “He's married with five children and ten grandchildren. It's been really good of him to give me a job and keep me on despite all the horrible things that have happened, and I appreciate it. But even he has his limits, and having an FBI agent hanging around because of me just might be it. Since I really don't want to get fired, I'd appreciate it if you'd leave.”

“Want to get rid of me? Answer my questions.” He stopped walking. As she turned to glare at him, the smile he gave her verged on the diabolical. “Let's start with what's on Jeff's phone.”

“I don't know what's on Jeff's phone,” she blazed back. Her voice must have been louder than she'd intended, because several patrons at the surrounding tables glanced at her.

Aware that to a number of them she was undoubtedly a recognizable figure, she clamped her lips together, turned on her heel, and started walking again. Not that she expected to be able to just walk away from him. She was pretty sure that wherever she went, he meant to follow.

But the closer she could get him to the door, the closer he would be to leaving. She was good friends with all the bouncers. If he'd been anybody else, she would have happily had them escort him out. But throwing out a federal agent probably wasn't something she even wanted to attempt.

She had no hope whatsoever that he would go quietly into that good night.

“Oh, Riley, there you are!” Ana Torres, who oversaw the Hip-Hop Room, which like the Sports Bar was another of the Palm Room's clubs-within-a-club, touched her shoulder, making
her jump even as she glanced around. Ana looked taken aback. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you.” Ignoring Finn, who'd stopped so close behind her that her back practically brushed his front, Riley waved a hand to say
it's okay
. Casting a curious glance over Riley's shoulder at the man who was no doubt looming like a mountain behind her, Ana continued: “Our card scanner's broken. Do you want me to move to cash only, or . . . ?”

Don had a strict policy requiring that each club room maintain its own sales records. Since he was on the premises, Riley could've asked him, or sent Ana to ask him, but part of her job as assistant manager was to take care of such issues.

“Use the one in the Star Lounge.” It was the club room closest to the Hip-Hop Room. “Be sure and have everyone sign in with their sales number before ringing up a charge.”

Ana nodded. “Will do.”

While Riley was talking, Finn curled a hand around her arm again. Ana glanced from it to her face to him curiously. But she didn't say anything before hurrying off.

That didn't mean that the whole club wouldn't soon be gossiping about the big, bad FBI agent who was manhandling her.

“Are you
trying
to make people think I'm in trouble?” Riley turned on him to growl once Ana was out of earshot.

“I'm trying to get you to answer my questions.”

“I want a lawyer,” Riley snapped. Once again people at surrounding tables glanced her way. This time she was sure she saw recognition in some of their faces.

“You really want to go that route? 'Cause if that's the way you want to play it, I could have you placed under arrest and taken downtown and ask my questions there.”

“I wouldn't answer. Anyway, arrest me for what?”

“Think I couldn't come up with something?”

Riley saw Don emerge from the Sports Bar and glance around. She really didn't want to have his attention drawn to her and her FBI escort again.