Faces Of Evil: Traceless Part 6

Granville held his gaze several drama-filled seconds before rising from his chair. "All right then."

Ray joined him. If he got off this easy, he'd be tickled to death. But nothing with Granville was ever quite so easy.

"I know you possess the necessary talent to ensure this situation doesn't get out of hand." The older man's gaze locked with Ray's. "But you let that b.a.s.t.a.r.d cause any trouble and we'll have a serious problem. I don't want my son to suffer any more than he already has."

Ray should have been mad as h.e.l.l at the man's audacity, but he and Ray had an understanding. If push came to shove, he knew the most direct route to Granville's Achilles' heel. That was something else Ray had learned early on. Always know your opponent's secrets. The right one could make all the difference.

The intercom on Ray's desk buzzed. He sat down and picked up the receiver, his head tilted to the left and his gaze still fixed on the man who'd walked out of Ray's office only to pause at his secretary's desk to chat or ask questions he more than likely had no business asking. "Yeah."

"Line one for you, Chief." Mary Alice didn't give the name of the caller, since Granville lingered at her desk.

"Thanks."

Ray stared down at the b.u.t.ton blinking on his phone. He hoped like h.e.l.l it wasn't anybody else swearing that Clint Austin had peeked in their kitchen window or stolen some tool they couldn't find in the garage. Ray blew out a burst of weary air. It was probably his wife making sure he planned to make lunch today. He'd missed more dates with her than he'd kept lately. He pressed the b.u.t.ton and got it over with. "Ray Hale."

"I love the way you say that. Hmmm. So s.e.xy."

His anger flared, but he refused to be baited. "What do you want?" He angled his head again to make sure Granville was gone.

A deep, sultry sigh intended to be s.e.xy whispered across the line. Ray's jaw clamped; he refused to let her get to him the way she'd once done so effortlessly.

"I think we have a problem, baby. I think there's a meltdown coming our way and people are gonna get burned."

A muscle started to twitch in his jaw from the hard set of his teeth. b.i.t.c.h. "If you know what's good for you, you'll stay out of this."

"Is that a threat, Chief? You know how it turns me on when you talk rough to me."

He almost hung up, but her next words stopped him cold.

"She's close to the edge, Ray, real close. I'm afraid she's going to blow that whole shoddy investigation your department conducted wide open before she's finished."

He would not listen to any of her bulls.h.i.t. "Stay away from Emily Wallace and don't call me again." He slammed the phone down.

"Chief?"

Ray's glare plowed across the room.

His secretary stood at the door looking ready to run for cover.

He reached for calm. "Yeah, Mary Alice." d.a.m.n it all to h.e.l.l, he shouldn't let that woman get to him like this.

"I'm going to lunch now. You want me to forward your calls to the switchboard?"

He nodded. "Sure. I'm headed out myself."

Mary Alice flashed him a smile that didn't go anywhere near her eyes and then hurried away.

He felt like a horse's a.s.s for allowing his secretary to see how the call had affected him. The dead last thing the folks in this town needed was something else to talk about.

CHAPTER TEN.

3:00 p.m.

Clint left work a little early. Cook hadn't argued. Maybe he was impressed with the cleanup job Clint had done the evening before or maybe just didn't want to cross him. Clint would bet his left nut the guy didn't have an alibi for the night Heather Baker was murdered. Just one of many things Clint intended to learn about the good citizens of Pine Bluff.

That Emily Wallace wasn't waiting outside to follow him home surprised Clint. Since he had an appointment, one only he knew about, he was glad. If she'd followed him he would have had to lose her.

He took a moment to check his vehicle, the hood, the trunk, and then the pavement beneath it. Clear. Then he settled behind the wheel and started her up. Considering the way people felt about him around here, he'd taken certain precautions. Like stretching a strip of cheap transparent tape across the gap between his hood and the fender on each side. He'd done the same at the trunk. If either were raised, the seal of the tape would be broken. Checking the pavement beneath his car for drained fluids would let him know if a brake line had been damaged and left to leak its essential contents.

He drove, enjoying the feel of the engine's power and the wind whipping through the open windows. One neighborhood flowed into another until he slowed and made the right turn that would take him to the dead end of Red Bird Lane. The two acres of rolling green landscape with its fortresslike residence backed up to the forested land trust that surrounded the lake. Prime real estate owned by the biggest snake in the gra.s.s in the whole state, if not in the Southeast.

Six hundred and twelve Red Bird Lane, the property of Sylvester Fairgate.

Old man Fairgate was dead now. He'd died two years ago. Whatever the ailment that launched him to h.e.l.l, it was no doubt prompted by the evil b.a.s.t.a.r.d's rotten deeds. Despite his name, fair had never been a part of Sly's way of doing business.

Sly had been a banker. Not your typical First National or City Trust. Sly Fairgate had lent money to those desperate enough to pay 200 percent interest, compounded weekly. He never carried a balance for more than thirty days. Anyone who couldn't pay in cash in that time frame paid in other ways.

An eight-foot decorative iron fence bordered the property. A couple of Dobermans paced in front of the gate and barked at Clint's Firebird. It would only take one glance for Sylvester's only son, Sidney, Psycho Sid to those who knew him, to identify who was at his gate. The red Firebird was Clint's calling card.

Sid was a different kind of bird, not cut from the same cloth as his father. Where Sly had been a b.a.l.l.s-to-the-wall businessman, Sid preferred his games. The s.a.d.i.s.tic little p.r.i.c.k liked nothing better than watching people squirm. Well, it was about time someone gave Sid something to squirm about.

Clint idled up to the ornate lamppost where the keypad and speaker box hung within easy reach. If he was privy to the right code as he used to be, he would simply enter it and the gate would open, but since he wasn't he pressed the call b.u.t.ton and waited for a response. He made sure he smiled for the camera strategically located on the ma.s.sive pillar on the left side of the gate.

A full minute pa.s.sed before the speaker crackled to life. "What the h.e.l.l do you want?"

Psycho Sid. Clint's lips tilted in satisfaction. He would know that voice anywhere. That the man sounded on edge made Clint all the happier.

"I have a bone to pick with your daddy." Clint tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited for a reaction.

Another fifteen seconds expired before, "My father is dead," vibrated from the box. The words weren't uttered like the guy cared that much that his daddy was dead. Sid sounded more p.i.s.sed off at the intrusion than anything.

"I guess that means my beef is with you then." No use beating around the bush.

Another half minute or so pa.s.sed before the metal sc.r.a.pe of the lock disengaging sounded and the gate slowly slid aside.

Clint applied just enough pressure to the accelerator to have the car roll up the paved drive. He parked in front of the house and got out, a little surprised that there was no welcoming party. Sly Fairgate had always kept at least four bodyguards on duty at any given time.

Maybe business was slow for Sid. Or maybe he was just too stupid to be afraid. Too bad for him. The kind of desperation that fueled his primary business, a.s.suming it was the same as his daddy's, made for unstable customers.

Not that Clint gave one s.h.i.t if the lowlife got himself blown away; he just preferred that it not be for a few days, since he had unfinished business with Sid and his dead daddy.

The one thing that could be counted on with men like the Fairgates was that they understood the value of information.

All sorts of information. And none, no matter how d.a.m.ning to themselves, would ever be taken for granted. Whatever secrets old Sly had known he'd most a.s.suredly pa.s.sed along to his evil offspring before he died. Knowledge was power. It was a rule of survival for their kind.

Clint was counting on that solid practice.

The front door opened and bodyguard number one appeared. The big guy gestured to one of the towering columns that flanked the front of the grandiose house. "Spread 'em," he ordered. He sported the traditional uniform, black suit, black tie, communication earpiece making him look a little like a Secret Service agent. Clint figured the costuming gave Fairgate a sense of importance.

Clint propped both hands against the column and spread his feet wide apart. He knew the drill. He'd watched others do it enough. The jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers he wore didn't provide for any clever places of concealment, but that didn't spare him a thorough search from his neck to his ankles.

"Let's go."

Clint straightened and walked through the front door with number one right on his heels. Two more goons waited in the entry hall. Both huge. Pumped-up bulk achieved at a gym, not lean fighting muscle culminated from basic survival.

"Mr. Fairgate is waiting for you in his office." This goon grinned, his lips curling away from his teeth the way a dog did right before he attacked. "He says you'll remember the way."

Clint walked straight to the s.p.a.cious staircase in the center of the hall and started up. Sly hadn't chosen a first-floor room for his office. He preferred another layer of security between him and the outside world. He'd had the second floor renovated so that his office sat in the precise middle of the couple thousand square feet on that level. His office included his bedroom suite. The rooms where his bodyguards slept fanned out all the way around him, a barrier between him and any exterior wall.

If a threat entered the house, they would literally have to go through his bodyguards to get to him, no matter the time of day or night.

Sly had rarely left his compound. Clint doubted that his son did any differently.

More bodyguards waited on either side of the double doors that led into the office. Neither spoke as Clint walked past them. A wave of deja vu slammed him as he surveyed the room with its posh velvet chairs facing the wide mahogany desk positioned in the very center. Sid, wearing the predictable white business suit and looking just like his daddy, sat in the same Italian leather chair his father had once occupied. Sly had always said you couldn't put an adequate value on good-quality property, but every human being on the globe, no matter how G.o.d-fearing, had his price.

Sid stared at Clint a moment with those beady black eyes, the fingers of his right hand busily twisting the ring on his left. Big, platinum, hosting a shiny rock embellished with the Fairgate family crest. Sly had worn one just like it. Thin brown hair, thinner face. Blade of a nose. The Fairgates weren't much to look at, but no one who wanted to keep breathing would risk saying so.

Sid's fingers stilled, the glare from those beady black eyes intensified. "How dare you come here like this," he rebuked. "You rise up out of that hole you were sentenced to and you think you can come to my home and threaten me. I could kill you and n.o.body would care. The whole f.u.c.king community would celebrate."

He was probably right about that.

"Your daddy was a lot of things, Sid, but he wasn't a coward."

Sid stood so fast his chair flew backward and banked off the credenza behind him. He rounded his desk and walked straight up to Clint. "You still a tough guy, Austin?" Sid reached beneath his tailored jacket and pulled out a big black pistol to wave. "Funny, you don't look so tough anymore. Tell me, how did a young, pretty boy like you survive inside those prison walls with all those hard-a.s.s motherf.u.c.kers who hadn't seen a woman in a couple of decades?"

Clint didn't let the b.a.s.t.a.r.d see the fury spiraling inside him. He maintained a perfectly calm exterior, even smiled. "I'm sure you're not really interested in my recent social life." He made it a point to tilt his head down to maintain eye contact with the shorter man.

"Don't waste my time, Austin. What do you want?"

Funny how no one had cared when almost eleven years of Clint's time was being stolen from him and wasted.

"I want my life back, Sid," he said bluntly. "Your daddy stole it from me and I've come to collect."

Red's most violet shade rose up Sid's neck from the collar of his white designer shirt. His closed mouth twitched two, three times before he managed to spit out the words trapped behind his clenched teeth. "Do you have a death wish, Austin?" The red darkened to the purple of rage. "You show up here and degrade the memory of my father! You must have a desperate desire to meet your Maker!"

Clint chuckled. "Get real, Sid; you hated him just as much as everybody else. I'll bet you had a party the night you buried him to celebrate your good fortune."

The muzzle of the weapon bored into Clint's ribs. "Shut up! Or I will blow your a.s.s away where you stand."

"Go ahead." Clint nailed him with a look that let the rage and determination building inside him make an unholy appearance. "I spent ten years in that s.h.i.t hole they call a prison. I've been beaten unconscious so many times I don't feel pain anymore. I've been used in ways you don't even want to imagine. So if you think the idea of being shot by a p.r.i.c.k like you scares me, get a grip; nothing scares me."

The color slowly seeped from Sid's face, leaving a pallor that announced just how nervous he was. "Make your point, Austin. I have things to do."

And people to rob, Clint tacked on silently. "Your daddy gave me a job that turned out to be my last one for him. I'm sure you recall the one."

Sid simply stared at him, without the vaguest reaction.

"He lied when the police asked him about my alibi."

Sid's mouth twitched again. "The old man was a compulsive liar, Austin; you of all people should recall that. I don't know what you expect me to do about it." His lips compressed back into that line that screamed of his impatience.

"Here's the thing, Sid." Clint leaned closer. "Your daddy f.u.c.ked me big-time and I want you to make it right."

Those thin, flat lips pursed with the rage building all over again. "And if I don't..."

Now that was exactly what Clint had wanted the sawed-off little coward to say. "Then we have a problem."

Clint turned his back on the man and walked out of his office. Down the stairs and out the front entrance. Not one of Sid's goons attempted to stop him, and since no bullets ripped into his back, Clint had to a.s.sume he'd made his point.

He checked the Firebird before dropping behind the wheel. As he started the engine he stared up at the second floor of the Fairgate mansion. Sid would be ranting and raving about how he didn't have any protection and that no one appreciated the service he provided.

Clint roared down the drive, only slowing for the gate to open far enough for him to glide through. He barreled out onto Red Bird Lane the way he used to whenever he left the Fairgate place. Always with a new a.s.signment to rattle somebody's cage. Sly Fairgate had never waited for a client to be late to start laying on the pressure. He firmly believed in heading off trouble before it happened. So Clint would provide the needed reminders. Occasionally he would round up a little leverage for the boss to use until the debt was paid.

That had been Clint's job that night almost eleven years ago. Take the car of a customer who failed to meet his obligations to Fairgate. Easy as taking candy from a baby. Clint had hot-wired dozens of cars. He knew the easiest way to disengage the locking mechanism in the steering column. He knew all the tricks. The car would be held hostage until the debt was paid.

The job should have been a piece of cake. Slide the Slim Jim into the door, pop the lock, do his magic inside, and drive away. Simple.

But nothing about that night had been simple.

The anger and bitterness he worked to keep in check rumbled. Clint shoved the gearshift into high, floored the accelerator, and lunged well beyond the posted speed as he exited the Pine Bluff city limits. It would take some time on the open road to work through this simmering rage and to clear his head.

For two years before that night, he'd worked for Sylvester Fairgate. Clint had done his share of customer motivation, but his primary position had been as a collector.

He'd never failed to get the job done. Not once. He'd walked a fine line with the law, but that never kept him from doing the right thing when the situation called for it.

That was his one mistake that night.

He'd gone out of his way to do the right thing, to play the hero. But he'd been left high and dry for his trouble. His boss had refused to confirm Clint's alibi, in order to protect his own fourteen-carat a.s.s.

Now someone had to own that deceit.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

3:15 p.m.

It was a risk.