Phantom in the Night Read online

  Brady's gaze flattened, uncaring. "Maybe because their mother was so close to dying. Or maybe he just wanted something in his wasted life to look noble. Who knows?"

  Terri considered that. She also considered another possibility. Like maybe this body had nothing to do with her investigation at the docks. Just a coincidental matter of the body being in the same proximity at the wrong time.

  She ran Brady's words through her mind again. "Could you really get his brother out or were you just bluffing?" Just how straight had Brady played this game with Drake?

  "Jamie is due out in a month. Warden claims he's a model prisoner. Wouldn't have been hard to cut a deal to spring him early so long as the warden didn't buck us. But this guy Drake turned out to be a dead end—no pun intended—in our investigation." Brady grinned. For once, he didn't look attractive or sexy, just annoying and arrogant.

  "You're so hilarious." Terri refrained from shaking her head and calling Brady a jackass. The effort would be wasted on him, because he was after all a jackass. She turned to the deceased. "I need to get back to work—"

  "You're done. He's part of our investigation." Brady had put just a little too much emphasis on "our." "Nothing here for the New Orleans PD. This stiff belongs to us. If they have any questions tell them to contact me, but hands off as of now. I'll have Drake picked up tomorrow."

  Terri stood up to face Brady. What was so important that he'd make an issue out of one drug mule's body? She had a job to do. If she could determine this didn't fit with her investigation then she'd let Brady have his way.

  How much more would he share? "What drug family was connected to the shipping company Drake worked for?"

  Brady's chest moved slowly with several breaths, delaying again… and piquing her interest. "The Marseaux group."

  Terri nodded. "Okay, that clears up his identity and simplifies my list of things to check. I've got plenty on my plate without getting involved with the DEA." She snapped the clipboard to her chest and smiled, offering a sign of her appreciation. Brady's "insider" buddy in the New Orleans PD had no way of knowing BAD had sent her undercover to find out if the Marseaux family was supplying weapons to a terrorist organization.

  On the other hand, BAD didn't know she'd jumped at the chance to remain in the field because she had her own mission—to ferret out who had set her and Conroy up for an ambush.

  She was flying solo and planned to keep it that way.

  Any connection to the Marseaux family was priority one.

  Nathan Drake's cold body just became a hot topic.

  * * *

  Warden McLaughlin hung up his phone, not believing how bad some peoples luck ran. Given what he did for a living, he was certainly no bleeding heart, but he'd wanted to do more than babysit convicts when he'd decided on a career in the penal system. The more inmates he could rehabilitate for release, the better for everyone, since a chunk of the prison population was going to be released to live among the innocent at some point. Turning these prisoners around was the only hope society had.

  The inmate leaving today was a suitable candidate to integrate back into society with little problem.

  Until now. Damn.

  Mattered not. At this point McLaughlin couldn't change what he'd worked so hard to put into motion for the guy. Particularly since he honestly believed this con wouldn't return or be a threat to anyone else.

  At least that's what he'd thought all the way up until that phone call. Now…

  Yeah, Jamie Drake would probably be back, and for a much longer stay next time.

  His desk intercom buzzed. He pushed the button. "Yes?"

  "Drake is ready to be released, sir."

  McLaughlin let out a tired sigh of resignation. "Be right there." Stealing himself for what he had to tell this unlucky bastard, he got up and left his office to set the con free.

  When he reached Drake, the guards had the beefy guy in cuffs and leg chains. A final reminder of where Drake had been for two years, but one that would only add insult to the news he had to give him.

  Life was bad enough for Drake and would only get worse in a few minutes. Humiliating him further right now was just plain dangerous. McLaughlin jerked his chin toward the officer beside the con. "Remove the cuff and chains."

  The officer blinked in question at the unorthodox order, then did as instructed. McLaughlin studied his soon-to-be ex-con for any sign of appreciation and found none in Drake's granite expression.

  Then again, any other reaction would have surprised him.

  "I'll walk out to the road with you." McLaughlin turned to where another of his guards opened the door for him.

  "Why?" There was no mistaking the suspicion in Drake's voice, or the menace attached that warned anyone against trying to prevent him from leaving. He'd done his time and knew they had to let him go.

  McLaughlin didn't want to stop him any more than he wanted to be the bearer of such bad news, but some days it just plain sucked to be the head honcho. "Want to talk for a minute."

  "Soon as my brother shows, I'm done with this place"—he turned a cold, dead glare on McLaughlin—"and with you."

  In that moment, hearing those chilling words, McLaughlin was reminded of how it had taken five hefty guards to pull Drake off another inmate who had attacked him.

  And the guards hadn't come away unscathed.

  McLaughlin nodded in the direction of an armed guard, who understood the signal meant he should follow the warden to the street.

  When Drake accepted his bag of meager belongings, the paper sack included some cash and a change of clothes McLaughlin had slipped into storage for the man, A rare sign of weakness and respect that no other prisoner had earned from him in all the years he'd been a warden.

  Drake dipped his head down and stepped through the open doorway to the outside.

  McLaughlin fell into step behind the con who had been an exemplary inmate. Drake had never raised a hand to anyone who hadn't attacked him first. Unfortunately that one time last year when he'd defended himself had cost Drake an eleven-inch ragged scar across his chest and another three months tacked on to his time.

  But the inmate who had tried to kill Drake with a chair was still in the hospital.

  Drake never slowed his pace as he strode between towering chain-link fences toward the barbwire-topped gate.

  Two buddies of the man he'd put in the hospital called out obscenities. Drake seemed to ignore until one of them yelled, "Too bad your mother died before I got out. Would have liked to have given that bitch a hard ride."

  Storm clouds rumbled overhead, drowning out the rest of his taunt.

  Drake never slowed his step nor turned to face the jeering pair when he sent them a middle-finger salute.

  That was what worried McLaughlin. This guy hadn't said a word to a soul since hearing his mother had died. The bird he'd just shot was the most emotion McLaughlin had seen in two years.

  When Drake passed through the gate, his shoulders dropped a tiny notch, just enough to make McLaughlin think this cold son of a bitch at least felt relief at being free again.

  "I got some news," McLaughlin started.

  Chilling gray-blue eyes turned on him. A gusty wind blew strands of Drake's black hair loose from the severe ponytail he wore. "What?"

  That one word carried more threat than an entire band of armed vigilantes. McLaughlin had faced a lot of seriously whacked-out criminals in his life, but Drake's unrelenting control and lifeless gray eyes raised the fine hairs along his arms when their gazes locked.

  Might as well stop procrastinating.

  He took a step back—for safety's sake—before he spoke again. "Just got a call. Your brother won't be picking you up."

  Drake's eyelids lowered a fraction, enough to ratchet up his death-to-anyone-who-gives-me-bad-news look. "What'd he do now?"

  McLaughlin glanced away; "My friend Percy Philips called. By the way, Percy will be your parole officer. His information is in your bag. Make sure you contact him no later than the
end of the week. He's got a line on a mechanics job for you," McLaughlin hoped the idea of having a job would soften the news he was hesitating to deliver. He'd asked Percy to keep Drake's release quiet to give the guy a break before he faced society.

  "Didn't ask for your help."

  "True, but you could use it, and I owe you for fixing my Roadrunner after everyone told me to get a new engine. That car is worth a hell of a lot more now that the original parts work."

  "Back to my brother."

  McLaughlin sighed. He couldn't delay the inevitable any longer, "Percy talked to a buddy of his in the New Orleans Police Department…"

  Drake visibly relaxed and expelled a tense breath, "I'll spring Nathan from jail soon as I get home," He turned to look down the only road that led to civilization in this part of Louisiana, "How far to New Orleans?"

  "About fifty miles. But your brother isn't in jail, Jamie. He's… dead."

  * * *

  Nathan Drake inhaled, taking that blow hard as a steel bar to his solar plexus. No. His brother couldn't be dead. Not after he'd taken Jamie's place at the trial, spent two years in this hellhole, convinced everyone from attorneys to jurors to this warden he was Jamie for one reason.

  To protect his brother.

  Jamie dead. Nathan couldn't fit those two words together. He swung around, hatred boiling over at everything in his path.

  A rifle cocked behind the warden.

  McLaughlin lifted his hand, a silent order for the guard to stand down.

  "How…" Nathan cleared his throat after that first ragged word. "How did he die?"

  "Not real sure—"

  That tiny sliver of emotion Nathan had shown dissolved behind a mask of fury that had backed dangerous inmates away. "Don't. Lie. To. Me."

  McLaughlin sighed. "Percy says the police told him your brother had been found shot at the docks. They believe the shooting was drug related. They think…" He hesitated, shielding something. "Your brother was running drugs."

  Lying bastards, all of them. Jamie never touched anything harder than aspirin. Drugs. One man controlled seventy percent of the drugs through New Orleans: Marseaux, the same prick who had forced Nathan into the only choice he could make two years ago—to give up everything to take Jamie's place in a cell.

  "Look, Drake, I know this is bad, especially since you two are… were twins. Got a pair of twin grandkids, so I understand how close you had to be, but don't blow this opportunity. You can't change the past. I know you got a raw deal with the extra months, but the attorney for the guy who jumped you was connected. I did everything I could to get you out in time to bury your mother or you wouldn't be leaving a month earlier than you should. Unfortunately, no one moves fast in the government or you'd have made her funeral. I know it doesn't feel like much right now, but you're a free man again, so don't screw up. Don't want to see you back here before the paperwork is filed."

  Lightning popped and fingered across the sky. McLaughlin tilted his head back to size up the swollen rain clouds. "Looks like a wet night for Fat Tuesday."

  Fuck the weather. Nathan swung away and started walking in the direction of the bus station. He paused, but didn't turn around. McLaughlin had given him a fair shake. Had tried to get him out early. Nathan hated everyone in law enforcement for not taking Marseaux down, but he owed the warden something for at least trying to spring him in time to see his mother before she died. "Thanks."

  "Want the name of the guy who has the job for you?"

  "No."

  "Then bury your brother and stay out of trouble," McLaughlin warned.

  "Might do one of those. Either way, you won't see me here again. Give you my word on that."

  Someone would pay for killing Jamie.

  He gave his word on that, too.

  * * *

  "No."

  Terri wrinkled her nose at the stuffy smell of over forty people working too close for her personal taste. She slugged down another cup of coffee, or the closest equivalent they served in this satellite precinct not far from the Broad Street police headquarters. New Orleans still struggled to recover from Katrina and the criminal element had quadrupled the need for law enforcement. This precinct had been formed primarily to handle the overflow of murders and drug trafficking.

  Lifting the strap of her handbag to her shoulder, she headed for her car. A shooting pain in her right thigh sucked the air from her lungs. Her leg was letting her know she'd been on her feet for too many hours in the past few days. Unfortunately, that wasn't going to change.

  "Hey, Mitchell!" Sammy lifted off his seat from across the room at his desk. The rookie officer designated as her assistant on the Marseaux investigation waved a piece of paper and yelled again. Noise from overlapping conversation washed away his words.

  She changed directions, careful to keep her stride smooth. Walking without a limp wouldn't be quite so difficult if she didn't have to navigate around crowded desks and people clustered in open space. And if she hadn't worn a skirt suit… but sometimes a woman in a skirt still caused men to drop their guard. She'd use any weapon to get what she wanted—the bastard who had set up her and Conroy.

  "… another missing blonde. Starting to make me wonder if they're just lost," one detective joked as she passed.

  Terri slowed enough to make eye contact and narrow her eyes to send a "you're a jerk" message. The detectives gaze sobered, but he shot her a look that said he pegged her as another one from the brainless blonde gene pool. Men.

  Sammy waited, reclined in his desk chair. Tawny-brown hair in the latest short style, a Colgate grin on his clean-shaven face, and a pleasant personality.

  "What you got, Sammy?"

  "Address on Nathan Drake and a little background."

  "Cool beans." She took the paper he offered, which had a few notes neatly written in block letters, and started to walk away.

  "By the way, the body's gone."

  Terri swung back to face him. "What?"

  "DEA staff was supposed to pick it up this afternoon for their coroner, but when they got to the morgue the drawer was empty. Everybody's freaking out. Tony runs the graveyard shift. Said he's been getting an acid enema over it from the DEA for the last hour."

  She'd seen the body late yesterday at the morgue, less than twenty-four hours ago. Nathan Drake had been stone cold dead so he sure as heck hadn't walked out, or…

  No, she castigated herself at entertaining for an instant the idea that he'd gotten up on his own. This wasn't an Anne Rice novel. It might be New Orleans, but dead people didn't walk around here.

  So who had wanted the body? And why was this body so important to the DEA?

  "What about security cameras outside, Sammy?"

  "Not a thing on any of them. There was one skip in time for about four seconds last night, but they have three cameras covering the entrance since that guy went postal on them a couple months ago. Nobody could make it past all three undetected with only four seconds to do it unless he was a ghost." Sammy grinned again and waggled his eyebrows. "Of course, this isss Nawhlinss, home to ghouls and vampires."

  "Yeah, right. Let's stick to reality. I doubt a ghost stole the corpse. Thanks for the address and the heads-up about the body." She strolled away, working hard not to grimace with each step. By the time she'd reached her Mini Cooper, Terri had changed her mind about going home for different clothes. If Brady and the rest of the DEA were tied up at the morgue searching for a body, this was her best chance to snoop through Drake's house.

  She started to punch the directions into her GPS, then blinked at the address. The Drake house was close to hers in the French Quarter.

  Except the Drake house was on Rampart Street—not the safest area.

  Terri rolled her windows down and pulled out of the parking lot filled with unmarked sedans and squad cars.

  Cool February air infused with the rich smells from neighboring restaurants fanned her skin and hair. Cajun cooking might have become a household term in most of the country, but those na
tive to Louisiana knew the cuisine of this state was more than gumbo and boiled crawfish. She was happy to see the businesses coming back and the city rebuilding, but the continuous rows of broken and boarded-up windows declared there was still much to do before the city returned to its former glory.

  When she passed her house, the one she shared with her grandmother, Terri mentally checkmarked a note for her to spend a few hours at home during the day soon. She worked nights by choice and her grandmother was self-sufficient, but that didn't stop Terri from worrying over her only real family.

  When she reached her destination, Terri continued on past the Drake house to park down the street along the curb. She cut the lights and studied the neighborhood. Just a quiet Wednesday night. Probably more than a few nursing hangovers from a rowdy Fat Tuesday. She unhooked her earrings and removed her watch, then opened the console. Dumping the jewelry inside, she withdrew her handy pack of easy-entry tools for breaking and entering, which fit in the pocket of her small shoulder bag.

  The same place she kept her SIG P229 9 mm. Sure as hell didn't have a spot beneath this black suit.

  She tugged on the neckline of her aqua knit top, which fell back into a low scoop. Screw it. Time was flying by. One glance at the side mirror confirmed her lipstick was gone and makeup faded. Good. Most people would dismiss her as an office worker or retail salesgirl at the end of a long day. She snagged a pair of plastic gloves from the box of them she kept on the backseat for unexpected crime scene stops.

  Jeans and a pullover would have been nice for this B&E, but a risky waste of time with Brady so hot to find Drake's body. He might show up any minute just to see if he could find a lead here on what had happened to the deceased.

  At least that's where she'd start if she were in his shoes.

  Terri exchanged the short pumps she'd worn all day for sneakers stored on the floorboard of the backseat. The ability to run always improved one's chance of not getting caught… or cut into pieces.

  She wasn't much for running and didn't want to strain her bad leg, but it never hurt to be prepared for any possibility. She flipped the strap of her purse over her head and shoulder, securing it across her body. Been a while since she'd used her B&E tools. Now that she worked for BAD, she could bend rules when necessary without any sense of guilt. Only fair.