A. Arthur - Passion's Prey

“X was investigating Athena’s because Sabar’s savior drug was reportedly circulating there.”

“You think she may be taking the drug?” Rome sounded skeptical but the question still stung.

“No,” Nick replied adamantly. “She’s not on any drugs. I would know.” Or at least he thought he would.

For the last few weeks he’d seen Caprise every day. Some days she looked almost happy and others she was sullen and agitated. Yesterday he remembered she’d made some remark about their parents and everyone having secrets. He’d been running late for work and so hadn’t stopped to ask her what the hell that meant. Now he wished he had.

“It’s just a thought, man. I know she’s your sister but we’ve got to keep an open mind about this. I don’t believe in coincidences,” Rome said.

“So the fact that Caprise was stripping at the same club X was investigating for the savior drug and they run into Rogues there is all connected?”

“What do you think?” Rome asked.

Nick sighed. “You’re right. It’s connected. I just hope—”

His next words were cut off as his cell phone rang loudly. Reaching down to the case at his waist, Nick pulled the phone free and answered, “Delgado.”

“Nick, it’s me, Caprise.”

She was talking fast and she was whispering. Nick was instantly on alert.

“Where are you? What’s wrong?”

“I’m locked in the bathroom at X’s place. Some cop just came in talking about arresting him for murder.”

“What?”

“Just get over here as soon as you can!” she said. Then the line went dead.

Rome had already stood and was glaring at Nick when he clicked off his phone.

“What’s up?”

“X is being arrested for murder,” he replied quizzically. Then he turned and quickly left Rome’s office.

The pounding at his door was incessant and irritating as hell. X rolled out of the bed cursing fluently as he moved through the condo, heading toward the door. He wasn’t wearing anything but the scowl he knew was on his face, and whoever was at his door at this ungodly hour deserved to get a damn eyeful.

After disengaging the locks he pulled the door open and was shocked to see Agent Dorian Wilson standing on the other side.

Agent Wilson was likewise shocked to see X in the state he was in, as witnessed by the widening of his eyes then the setting of his features.

“Mornin’, Agent Markland. I need a word with you,” he said. “But I can wait until you’re a little more decent.”

X stepped to the side, letting the agent into his home. No apologies, no words. He just let him in and stalked back to his room to throw something on. Caprise was still asleep, thankfully. The last thing he needed was her questions on top of asking himself why Agent Wilson was here in the first place—which, by the way, was a good goddamn question.

He remembered this guy as the one Kalina had been working for to look into Rome’s financial dealings. His entire profile had come up in the database search he’d done on Kalina. He was a thirty-three-year-old native of the DC metropolitan area; single, two siblings and parents still living. Eight years with the DEA, army four years, three years MPD, and elevated to DEA after one major drug bust. Those were the immediate details coming to X’s mind. The question of the hour still remained: Why was he here in X’s apartment, right now?

Upon his return to the living room he saw the agent studying one of the black-and-white pictures on his wall.

“It’s South America,” he offered, crossing the room to take a seat on his couch.

Agent Wilson nodded. “Been there recently?”

“I’ve got family there” was X’s reply. “What can I do for you, Agent?” he asked because this small talk wasn’t going to work well for him.

Wilson turned around, keeping his eye on X as he crossed the room to sit on one of the remaining chairs.

“I have some questions for you, Markland.”

Not Agent Markland, X noted. Suspicion wasn’t a scent X smelled often. But he knew it when it was circling around him like vultures over a carcass. With practiced ease X kept his face and emotions blank. He stared back at the agent and said, “Ask your questions.”

“Do you know a woman named Diamond Turner?”

X remained perfectly still while inside his cat paced, watched, and waited. “I met her about a month and a half ago. She was standing outside of Athena’s.”

“Did you see her again after that?”

“No.”

“Did you have any contact with her after that night?”

“No.”

Wilson didn’t believe him. X could see it in his eyes, never mind the ever-growing stench in the room—like rotting vegetables.

“Why?” X asked in return.

Wilson waited a beat, sat back, and rubbed a finger over his clean-shaven chin. “She’s dead,” he said matter-of-factly.

Again, X was sure not to show any emotion at all. Of course he knew Diamond was dead, had seen her body himself at the morgue. None of that came as a shock to him. The fact that Wilson was here in his living room asking him about it was.

“And you’re here telling me because?” X asked.

Wilson wasn’t any superior of his; they were both special agents working within their own government agencies. For years X had worked in the human trafficking department in an attempt to stop the ever-growing trade. It also gave him time to work off the anger that still boiled in his system at the thought of helpless females being repeatedly abused by men who were supposed to be their saviors.

Wilson, on the other hand, worked with the DEA, in the international drug trade. Diamond’s neck had been bitten almost in half. She had nothing to do with international drugs. At least X didn’t believe Wilson knew what her link to international drugs was. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be sitting in X’s living room looking as if he were really about to arrest him. Then again, if Wilson had some idea of what drug Diamond had taken and if he knew about Sabar and his twisted gang of shifters, then it might lead him back to X. But X doubted the latter very seriously.

“This was found with her things,” Wilson said, flicking a business card between his fingers.

He didn’t extend it for X to see and X didn’t need him to. He knew it was his and almost cursed. Instead he did what he always did when faced with bullshit. He shrugged.

“So she had a business card.”

“She had your business card. A special agent with the fuckin’ FBI. You want to explain that to me?”

So Wilson’s calm, cool, and collected exterior could be ruffled. X had figured as much. They’d both been taught to bluff with the straightest face possible, to play everything close to the vest and remain professional. X would hold up his end of the bargain.

“No. I don’t want to explain it to you. I told you I met her one night and didn’t see her again after that. There’s nothing more that I have to say.”

X stood as he spoke. “Now if that’s all you wanted to ask.”

Wilson stood as well. “You’re really going to make me take this route?”

Again X shrugged. “What route would that be?”

“I can get a warrant, search your place. Then I can arrest you, have you indicted in a capital murder case. You’d lose your career, your life as you know it now, everything.”

“Or,” X said, taking a step closer to the agent, “you can put that card back in your pocket and walk your ass out of my house. I’m done talking to you.”

“If it was personal, I can try to help you. Maybe we can work something out with the director,” Wilson insisted.

Dorian Wilson was about six feet tall. He had a deep brown complexion and dark, generally honest eyes. His frame was strong; he worked out regularly. He was a damn good agent. X was also willing to bet his next paycheck that Dorian was here with more than suspicions about Diamond Turner’s murder.