Chapter Four
At two thirty P.M., Raissa closed the door to her shop after her last appointment and put the CLOSED sign in the window. There were a million things that had to be done before she could commence her part-time-living adventures in the Mudbug Hotel, but one absolutely couldn’t wait.
She entered her upstairs apartment and opened the closet, scrutinizing her choices. This excursion wasn’t exactly a jeans-and-T-shirt sort of call, not unless she wanted to stick out by a mile. She made her selections, then began a midafternoon transformation.
Twenty minutes later, she peeked through her shop blinds, scanning the street for Detective Blanchard’s unmarked police car. Clear. Thank God. She left her shop and drove to a corner bar on a seedy side of town. Unlike most bars, this one was always open and always had clientele. It tended to cater to people who didn’t keep regular business hours—drug dealers, hookers, petty thieves, and not-so-petty thieves—just the kind of people she was looking to see.
She was certain she made quite a picture walking down the sidewalk to the bar. The whistles and catcalls confirmed her choice of the short, tight, black leather skirt and blue sparkly top with a plunging neckline. Her six-inch stilettos put her right at six foot two, and the platinum wig put the finishing touches on the entire getup.
Satisfied that she looked like any other working girl, she opened the door and walked into the bar. The man she was looking for was sitting at the counter and he gave her a mental undressing as she walked in. She gave him the ole come-hither smile and walked to the back of the empty bar, shaking her hips as she strolled. She slid into a high-backed booth in the corner and waited for her prey to take the bait.
It didn’t take long.
Spider, as he was called by the Hebert family, was predictable, if anything. And creepy, hence the nickname. A minute later—just enough time for her to slide her 9-millimeter from her handbag—he rounded the corner and peeked into her booth. Raissa was ready.
She reached up with one hand and pulled him into the booth by his hair. Spider screeched a bit but then leered over at her. “You like to play rough, do you? I can get into that.”
Under the table, Raissa shoved her weapon into Spider’s crotch. “Rough is my favorite,” she whispered, “but I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing.”
Spider’s eyes widened with shock or fright, or both. He had always been a coward. “Wha—what do you want? I ain’t done nothing to you.”
“I want information, Spider,” Raissa said in her normal voice and had the pleasure of watching the blood drain from the man’s face.
“Taylor?” The man stared at her. “No fucking way. You’re supposed to be dead. They told me you was dead.”
“I’m sure they did, and likely things would be much more con ve nient if that were true, especially for you. But I’m sorry to tell you that I’m very much alive and still have a bullet scar on my chest from your nine.” She pressed the gun a bit harder into his crotch. “I owe you, you know.”
“C’mon now,” Spider begged, sweat forming on his brow. “We can work something out. What do you need? ID, passport? I can get you a new life.”
Raissa laughed. “You think I’ve been walking around for the last nine years as Taylor Lane? I had a new identity the moment I got released from the hospital.” She smiled at him. “We’re going to work something out, though. I want information.”
“What kind of information?”
“Where can I find Monk?”
Spider swallowed. “Ain’t nobody seen Monk in at least six months.”
“Bullshit.” Maurice Marsella, aka Monk, was Sonny’s right hand. “Is he in the joint?”
“No. I swear, ain’t nobody seen him. I pay Lenny now. He said I wasn’t gonna ask no questions about the change, and I ain’t gonna.”
“You must have heard something.” She pressed the gun harder against his jeans until he flinched. “What’s the word on the street?”
Spider leaned in and whispered. “You gotta promise you won’t say this came from me.”
“I’m hardly going to pay Sonny a visit. I think your secret is safe with me.”
Spider looked around the empty bar, then back at Raissa. “Word is that Sonny had him offed, that Monk’s at the bottom of the Mississippi.”
Raissa frowned. This didn’t fit into her suspicions at all. “You’re sure?”
“All I know is, Lenny’s taken over all of Monk’s territory. Ain’t nobody seen Monk in half a year, and ain’t no one mentions his name in front of Sonny.”
“So who’s got his stuff—you know, from his house?”
Spider shrugged. “Sonny, I guess. What didn’t burn. Whole place went up in flames…well, I guess it’s been about six months ago.”
Raissa looked Spider directly in the eyes. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”
“Hell, no. I ain’t heard exactly what happened to Monk, and I ain’t likely to. Nothing to lie about.” Spider licked his lips and glanced over at the entrance to the bar. “Does Sonny know you’re back?”
Raissa nodded.
Spider let out his breath in a whoosh. “Thank God. I mean, I wouldn’t want to be the one carrying that news. As far as I’m concerned, I never seen you, okay?”
“Not exactly. I still have enough on you to put you away for a long time. I can pull that evidence out if I want to.”
“What do you want from me? I already told you I didn’t know nothin’.”
Raissa reached into her bra with her free hand and pulled out a card with her cell number on it. She handed it to Spider. “You don’t know anything yet. But if you hear anything at all about Monk or that little girl that’s missing, you’ll call me. Right?”
The blood rushed from Spider’s face. “You don’t think Sonny has anything to do with that little girl…Oh shit, you do. I ain’t got nothing to do with hurting kids, and I never would. I got some standards, even if you don’t believe it.”
“Just keep your eyes and ears open. If you come across anything out of the ordinary, then you give me a call. The phone’s unregistered, so no one will ever track it back to me.”
“Out of the ordinary?”
“Anything that’s not business as usual. And I mean anything. If Sonny wears a white suit or calls his mother on any day other than Sunday, I want to know.”
Spider nodded but still looked confused. Raissa could hardly blame him. The last time she’d seen Spider, he’d put a single bullet through her chest. Raissa had still threatened to kill him while she was standing there bleeding.
“Go on,” Raissa said and nodded toward the door. “I need to leave, and it’s probably better for you if we’re not seen together.” Spider jumped up as if he’d been shot, and Raissa realized she’d never removed the gun from his crotch. What a shame.
She slipped the gun back into her bag and had started to slide out of the booth when Zach Blanchard slid in beside her.
He gave her the once-over, and Raissa could feel a blush starting on her very-exposed chest. “Ms. Bordeaux,” he said with a smile. “That’s an interesting outfit for a psychic.”
“Well, psychics are rarely boring.”
“It was even more interesting when you threatened that man with castration by Glock.”
Shit!
“He owed me for a tarot reading.” She shrugged. “I have this thing about old debts.”
Zach raised his eyebrows. “I bet.”
“Well, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a ton of things to do.”
Zach studied her for a couple of seconds. “You know, I could haul you in for assault on that man.”
“Well, now, that would be your word against mine, and I’m not going to admit to being that close to Spider’s crotch any more than you’re going to admit looking at it.”
Zach blanched. “You really know how to hurt a man.” He glanced at her hands, then the empty table. “Barehanded, and there’s not a thing I can take with me to run a print. You’re sharp, but you’re not going to be able to avoid me forever.”
An idea flashed through Raissa’s mind, and before rational thought took over she ran her index finger along her lips, coating the tip with bright red lipstick. Zach’s eyes widened as he followed her finger along the sexy pout of her mouth and sweat began to form on his brow. She leaned close to him and rolled her finger on his cheek, leaving a perfect print.
She slipped up from the booth seat and perched on the edge of the table, looking down at him. Giving him a wink, she spun around on the table and slid her long legs onto the floor. She pulled her skirt down to a barely legal level and leaned over the booth, placing her lips next to his ear.
“When you come to question me later,” she whispered, “wear a uniform, and definitely bring handcuffs.”
Unable to speak, Zach watched Raissa walk out of the bar, her curves swaying with every step in the sexy, spiked heels. His body had responded to her in all inappropriate manners, especially considering he was on duty. Especially considering she was a suspect.
His face still tingled where she’d left her print, and he tried to block his mind from recalling the way she’d run that finger across her lips and the look in her eyes as she’d done it.
Too late.
He groaned and waved a hand at a waitress at the far end of the bar. What he wanted was a scotch. What he was going to settle for was a piece of Scotch tape to remove the fingerprint from his cheek. No way was he walking into the CSI unit sporting a lipstick print on his face. There were some things a man could never live down.
He wondered briefly where he’d stashed his old patrolman’s uniforms and if they still fit.
She’s a suspect.
He blew out a breath. The sooner he ran that print, the better. God forbid he came up with nothing, because he was certain his spare handcuffs were in his glove box.