Page 6 of Savage Temptation
He can’t see it, but I’m nodding my head. “Yeah. This has those fuckers MO written all over it. I think they are trying to spread out and grow their territory, but someone with some power is behind it. They aren’t strong enough to push past their little parish.”
“Copy that. But who is strong enough and willing to work with those assholes, is the question. You gonna tell Reaper you think it’s the Vultures or you want me to?” I hold the phone to my ear and watch as a seasoned NO detective gives the order to go ahead and roll out the deceased from the club.
Ash rattles out something about tightening security, but I’m not listening. My attention is glued to the coroner as the man zips one body bag closed before moving to the others. This didn't have to happen. People make their choices, I know, but these kids were barely old enough to drink and now so poor fucker will be breaking the news to their families that they are gone. I silently vow to make the fucker who sold them the drugs pay with their life.
“Nah. I need some intel before I do that. Right now I’m gonna fill him in on the facts.”
I hang up and pull up Reaper’s number, but it goes to voice mail.
Shit.
He’s probably with his new girl. She just gave birth a few weeks ago and I can’t blame him for wanting to have a moment to himself. He just saved her life, his child’s, and saved our small parish outside of New Orleans from burning down. All because of the Vultures. The rival crew has been a pain in our side for a while now. It won’t take much to force Reaper’s hand and cause a blood war.
Haven is a small parish about thirty minutes outside of the city. It’s home, and we nearly lost it a week ago. Reaper’s been on edge for a while and I hate to be the one to burst his happy bubble.
I pull up my contact list again and tap the VP’s name. Ash picks up on the second ring. “Hit me. What’s going down?”
I convey to him the same news I told Cipher about the overdoses, leaving out my theory about the Vultures crossing lines again. I need to verify before I start a war. “... and I can't find Reaper. You wanna find him and fill him in?”
“I got it. Keep me posted, yeah?”
“You got it.” I end the call, with a fresh wave of irritation gripping me by my balls.
The buzz of the news crew grates on my nerves, their voices carrying over the shuffle of gawkers entranced by the morbid display of bodies being loaded into black vans with City Morgue along the side. Fuckers have nothing better to do with their Friday evening, I guess.
My jaw clenches tighter with each yelled question from the reporters just beyond the front entrance. Bright flashes fire offwhen I move to the front of the club. Come tomorrow, it will be my face plastered across the headlines, no doubt.
“Sir, sir, can you tell us first hand what happened?”
I don’t get a face to go with the rapid-fire questions I get peppered with when I step onto the sidewalk outside the club. I raise a hand or risk losing my eyesight from the glaring lights.
Shoving past the crowd, I push into the night air and fix my glare on the reporters. “Back off,” I growl, letting the words hit like a warning. “Show some damn respect for the officials trying to do their jobs.”
A microphone is shoved in my face. “Get the fuck otta here.” I inhale deeply so I don't punch the first guy who thinks challenging me is a good idea when he tests the bounds of the yellow caution tape between us.
“Mr. Malone. I’ve been looking for you.”
My back stiffens. I know that deceptively sweet voice. Fuck. Me. She catches people off guard with the soft tones and then shoots their balls off the second she lines up her scope.
This night just went from shitty to someone please put me in a grave already. About halfway through junior high I learned how to pick out the bad guys. It’s why no one ever tried bullying me or those under my protection. I had no problem putting assholes in their place or knocking them the fuck out if they didn’t take to my warning.
I know how to spot the inherently good guys, too. They are fewer by the day, and should be cherished when found. My Emilia was a good one.Is, I correct myself. Is.
Then there were the ones who walked down the middle between the good and bad and that is exactly who the chick coming up behind me is. Not one of the good ones, but not dirty either. She’s as gray as they come.
And a royal pain in my ass.
My head falls back and I pinch the bridge of my nose, looking for some kind of salvation.
I pivot on the thick sole of my boot, and sure enough, New Orleans’ finest she-devil is staring up at me with pretty hazel eyes that miss nothing and a gun on her hip that rivals her perpetually pissed off attitude.
“Detective Lafleur,” I flatline. I’ve had my run-ins with her and each time she’s promised someday she would get her cuffs on me.
Her eyes take in my shitkickers, black jeans, cotton T-shirt and the leather cut draped over my shoulders. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say that is pure disgust in the way you look at me, Detective.”
I push past her and the nagging reporters. Inside, a couple of police officers are still working the line of staffers and the patrons. Everyone is trying to talk over the next person. Radios are going off.
I correct my course and head for the back office where I can gather my thoughts in silence. Or I will once I ditch my shadow.
