Justine Davis - One Last Chance

Chance didn’t visibly stiffen, but Quisto had come to know his partner rather well over the past two years. He looked from Chance’s face back to the agent’s.

“You’ve got proof of that?”

“Proof? If he’d just wanted someone to sing in his club, he would have hired local talent, instead of bringing her in. What more do you need?”

“She’s not from Miami,” Quisto argued. “Our sources say she came in from Reno. And de Cortez has no known contacts there.”

“He obviously has one,” Eaton snapped. “Her. He must have stashed her there when we made it too hot for him in Miami.”

“Then why isn’t she in the file on his known associates? She’s not in any of the surveillance photos, either.” Quisto gestured at the pile of black-and-white pictures.

“Look,” Eaton snarled, “she’s shacked up with de Cortez, isn’t she?”

“She comes and goes from the house. Doesn’t mean she lives there,” Quisto said.

“She doesn’t have to live there to give Mendez what he wants,” Eaton suggested with a leer.

“That doesn’t mean she’s part of it.” The words broke from Chance as if against his will, and Eaton turned to stare at him.

“She’s screwing him, she’s got to know. Even if she isn’t involved in his operation, she has to know what’s going on. Dirt by association is still dirt.”

Chance sat up sharply, but when Eaton’s beady brown eyes narrowed with a gleam of interest, Chance made himself sit back. He stared at his hands, his eyes fastened on the adhesive bandage that was wrapped around his thumb.

“We can’t assume she’s involved,” Quisto put in quickly. “She may be with de Cortez, but that doesn’t mean she knows the details we need.”

“She could be the weak link,” Morgan said slowly. “Can you work her?” He looked at Quisto.

“Er…” Quisto jerked a thumb toward Chance. “He’s already started.”

“I’ll bet,” Eaton sneered. “You pretty boys are all alike.”

Quisto moved as if to stop Chance, then stopped himself when his partner never moved, never even reacted, only lifted a finger to run it lightly over the flesh-colored bandage. His dark brows furrowed.

“That’s enough,” Lieutenant Morgan said. He looked over at Eaton. “Your other men reported in this afternoon. I’ve assigned them to take over the surveillance so my men can get some rest.” Eaton stood up, ready to protest this appropriation of his authority, but Lieutenant Morgan gave him no chance to speak. “Since there’s nothing further to discuss, I suggest we all get some rest.” He got to his feet. “Detective Buckner, my office please.”

Chance’s eyes flicked to his boss, then to Quisto. Had he said something? Was he about to get warned about keeping this completely business? Quisto shrugged, eyebrows raised to indicate he knew no more than Chance did.

You’re a basket case, Buckner, he told himself grimly. Suspecting your own partner of ratting on you about…about what? What was there to tell? Nothing, he answered his silent question firmly. He’d overreacted to a beautiful voice, a pair of wide gray eyes. And those words. Words no doubt borrowed from whoever had truly felt them and set them to music, he told himself.

He walked into the lieutenant’s office, sat down and waited. Morgan dropped the files onto his already cluttered desk, then turned and sat on the edge.

“I know he’s a pain, but we’ve got to work with him.”

Chance smothered a sigh of relief. “I can work with anybody. But I can’t work for him.”

“You’re not. This is our town, and de Cortez is our problem now.” Jim Morgan smiled wryly. “The feds always have a problem about local jurisdiction, but his is—” his mouth quirked “—larger.”

Chance grinned. “Yeah, it is, isn’t it?”

“Try to live with it, will you? It won’t be forever.”

“It’ll only seem that way,” Chance said dryly. He slid forward to the edge of the chair. “I’ll be good, I promise. Is that it?”

After a split second of hesitation, Morgan answered. “No. Not quite.”

Uh-oh. Chance sat back.

“You know this is our number-one priority now.”

Chance nodded. “I heard the chief wants the feds out of here as soon as possible.”

Morgan nodded. “That’s why we’ve got the go-ahead to table everything else until this is wound up.”

“Which could be a while.” Chance grimaced. “It looks like de Cortez is determined to build one hell of a respectable facade here.”

“Yes. We may have to do a little prodding, eventually.”

“Make him an offer he can’t refuse?”

“Perhaps. But for now, our instructions are to just watch.”

Chance looked steadily at the man he’d worked for, for over five years. “None of this is news, Lieutenant. We’ve discussed it all before.”

“Yes.” Morgan got up and went to sit behind the desk. “But what we haven’t discussed is that devoting all our time to this investigation is going to back up everything else we have going.”

“I know.” Chance was truly puzzled now.

“It’s almost November now. We may have to push hard all the way through the holidays to catch up.”

Chance’s expression changed from quizzical to shuttered.

“I’m sorry, Chance,” Jim Morgan said softly, “but I can’t guarantee you the time off.”

“I understand.”

“I know how hard it is for you to—”

“No. I’m sorry, sir, but you don’t.”

Morgan sighed. “You’re right. I don’t.” He paused. “I wish I could promise you we’ll be able to spare you by then.”

“You can’t. I understand.” He got up. “Is that all?”

Morgan hesitated as if he were about to say more, then stopped. He only nodded before adding, “Get some rest. You’re looking a little ragged.”

Chance gave a short, sharp nod, then turned on his heel and strode out of the office. Jim Morgan shook his head slowly as he watched him go. His expression was sadly compassionate, his mouth compressed into a tight line as he lifted the top folder from the stack on his desk and began to read.

Chance lay sprawled on his bed, trying to blame his sleeplessness on the bright silver glow that filled the room. He was exhausted, he could feel it in the aching of his head and the grittiness of his eyes, but still sleep eluded him.

He rolled over and swung out of bed in one smooth, controlled motion, and walked over to the sliding glass door that led to the small deck. He’d intended to close the drapes to darken the room and then try again, but instead found himself tugging open the heavy door and letting the chilly night air wash over his naked body.

He stared out at the hillside before him, not really seeing it. He’d chosen this place for its seclusion and remoteness. It was a spacious set of rooms over the garage of a large, expensive house whose owner was more than happy to have a police officer in residence while he spent most of the year traveling around the world for his lucrative business.

The garage wasn’t even visible from the street. It backed up to a steep hill, and unless you knew they were there, you might never guess the rooms above it existed. Chance liked it that way, and had gotten to the point where he didn’t even think of why every time he came home or left. The gang that had blown his life apart had been put away. But the knowledge that a man in his job made new enemies every day never left him.

He slammed the sliding door shut with a mutter of disgust. He admitted at last, with tired certainty, that sleep was beyond him tonight. He’d lain there for hours, trying not to think about the one thing his mind refused to let go of. When he looked at the clock that glowed atop the old ammunition crate Quisto had jokingly given him to use for a nightstand, it was only to calculate what was happening at the club.