Galilee Falls Trilogy (Book 3): Fall of Heroes Page 8

  Take Mr. Ross. He has a drone and God knows what else to sell. They’re useless to him in their current state. Checks are just pieces of paper until you take them to the bank. Per my new therapist, Dr. Ryder, only one woman deals in that level of tech, Diamanda Roth. Need a ray gun or giant walking eye, she’s your gal. And she must be damn good at her job because there is fuck all in the Justice or police databases about her. The only time her name appears in any state is on the lease for Diamond’s Bar. She must have other aliases but Ryder only knew the one. I’ve heard of Diamond’s Bar. It sits right on the outskirts of Diablo’s Ward, which means a person probably won’t get shot walking to their car but might come to find the car’s been stolen.

  My car, my old Accura from my old non-billionaire days, should be safe here. I actually kept the clunker for nights such as this. Since Jem handled the butt kicking and I mostly stayed behind the computer, save for a few nights where I joined him on surveillance duty, the neglected car barely started when I picked it up from the mansion’s garage. I haven’t been there in over a month. Jem went more often to use the lab and machines to analyze evidence he collected. I only go there now to get clothes or to update Doris Senior. Tonight I took not only the car but my Kevlar vest, untraceable gun, brass knuckles, blonde wig, fake glasses, and nose ring.

  Say hello to Missy Royal. She does not fuck around.

  It was so odd walking through Pendergast’s halls tonight knowing what I do now. It’s been legally mine for a year and a half but never felt mine. I was a false heir, a usurper, a trespasser. It’s worse now. It really isn’t mine in all but name. For all I know Justin’s married and has a child or most likely will in the future. Shouldn’t it go to his kid? Just because its father is a lying asshole doesn’t mean the kid shouldn’t get his or her rightful due. Jesus, thoughts like this make my head hurt, and the hangover is more than enough to complete that job. I pray the cure is tracking Gearhead down. A good start anyway.

  I park on the street with only one hooker working the corner—it’s below freezing tonight—and adjust my wig, glasses, and check I have all the essentials. My heart begins racing the moment I shut off the car but do my best to ignore the adrenaline rush. I’m so out of practice. I used to do this type of thing on a daily basis when I was a cop. Being behind the desk was torture. I went from alley to pampered house cat, tucked safely in my penthouse watching all the action instead of being in the thick of it. Well not anymore. Kitten’s getting her claws back and intends to shred anyone bloody who gets in her way. Part of me hopes to see blood tonight.

  Like the area, Diamond’s Bar falls just shy of full blown ghetto. The reek of cigarettes is overpowering but patrons fall short of smoking anything stronger. The crowd is a mix of gangbangers and lower middle class worker bees with some prostitutes chatting up both sets. A few people clock me as I enter, but return to their billiard games or sexual negotiations a moment later. Still. My damn heart’s about to pop through my fucking ribcage. This is just a fact finding mission, Jo. It’ll be fine. I do wish I had back-up. Never go in without back-up.

  The bartender comes over the moment my butt hits the stool. Unless Diamanda had a sex change to become a fifty something, potbellied, bald man I’m pretty sure this isn’t who I’m hunting for. “What can I get ya?”

  “Coffee if you have it,” I answer. I will earn that one day chip. “Black.”

  “Haven’t seen you in here before,” he says as he pours my drink.

  “I’m from New Urbana. Just here on business.”

  He returns with my coffee. “What business you in?”

  “The buying kind.” Oh, this coffee tastes like motor oil. “And I’m looking for someone in the selling trade. A friend of my employer said to come here.”

  “This friend got a name?”

  “Two, just like my employer. But for the purposes your employer would know him as Alpha Omega. I understand Ms. Roth often supplied him with tech before his unfortunate demise.”

  “I don’t know a Ms. Roth,” he says, smooth as silk.

  “Of course you don’t, but I’m going to keep talking anyway. Big tip coming your way if you just listen,” I say with a wink. “My employer with two names understands that today a Mr. Ross came into possession of a certain machine my employer wishes to acquire. Even us Urbanites are aware all deals should be brokered through Ms. Roth. So he sent me here to do just that. He even made sure to provide her introductory fee.” I reach into my pocket for the little black baggie, handing it to the bartender. “Two karat diamonds, correct?” The man checks the bag. “My number’s in there too. Untraceable cell of course. Only you and my employer have the number.”

  “And just out of curiosity, your boss is…”

  “Not important. The woman you claim not to know will deal exclusively with me. Safer for all parties involved. If she needs more information or references, have her give me a call. I can drone on for hours.” With a smile, I drop a twenty on the bar. “I’m Missy by the way. Missy Cassidy Royal,” I say, giving him one of my old undercover names. “I can give you my Federal ID number too if it’ll make it easier to check up on me.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Good. And you are?”

  “Darryl Paul.”

  “Well, Darryl Paul, thank you for the motor oil. Hope to see you again soon. Ciao.”

  With a wink, I climb off the stool and stroll out of the dive, smirk plain as day. Really I feel like bursting into laughter. That…was…amazing. Thrilling. Fucking brilliant. The mental chess. The fact he could have pulled a gun at any time. God I’ve missed this. Almost as good as sex. Okay it was better than quite a few times I’ve had sex. Thank you, James Ryder for the info and the pep talk. Couldn’t have done it without you. Which is really fucking sad. But it worked.

  Oh yes, the bitch is back.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A Thin Line

  Waiting is the hardest part. It can be actual agony when you used up what little patience God gave you in the womb. I’d forgotten how much I hate being idle. A job, a boyfriend, a hobby, friends, and multiple charities counting on you doesn’t leave a lot of spare time. I’m used to juggling three things at once. The past few days I just had V’s investigation, which took all of three hours to crack, and staring at my burner phone willing it to ring. Sadly the only person to call is Pendergast in-house council to inform me the resignation papers are drawn up. During my lost week I must have received three calls a day from various company men to verify I still intended to step down. In one of my drunker moments I drafted an e-mail to the other board members, Lane, Shannon, possibly even the janitors that read, “I resign. My reasons are none of your business. As my final act as Head of the Board, majority shareholder, and figurehead, I hereby appoint Shannon Abrams as my proxy and replacement, which as I’ve heard whispered by you assholes, should have happened a year and a half ago. You officially have your wish. Later bitches.” I should never let Jack Daniels speak for me.

  At least today there’s a distraction. Instead of waiting by the phone in my borrowed apartment, I bring it with me to sign away my right to Pendergast Industries. Shannon, Lane, one of the lawyers and our CFO Leonard Pak wait around the conference table for me. They’ve taken care of everything. For five million a year, drawn from my shares, Shannon will represent me at all board meetings, make all my votes, and be privy to all major deals acting as advisor to the CEO and CFO. If she’s daunted by her new windfall it doesn’t show on her pretty face. The consummate professional. She’ll do ten times the job I did.

  Not a hell of a lot changes after I sign the papers. I’m still a billionaire. I still have my positions on the hospital board and other charities. At the end of the day all I’ve done is given up the right to stick my nose into business dealings I barely understood. Which must be why I don’t feel a damn thing as I scrawl my name a dozen times on the mountain of documents.

  “We’ll send out an official press release today,” Lane says. “There
have been rumors of course, but the official story is you’re resigning to focus more on your charitable work.”

  “An oldie but a goodie,” I say.

  “We may need you to do a press conference just to—”

  “Nope,” I say as I sign the final page. I slide the document across the table to the lawyer and rise from the table. “Just don’t bankrupt the company, huh? Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an office to clean out. Gentlemen. Shannon.”

  “I’ll walk with you,” says Shannon as she stands as well.

  “Afraid I’m going to steal the silverware?” I ask with a wink. With nods to the gents, we ladies leave the board room toward the elevators. “So, how does it feel to be a millionaire?”

  “The same. It hasn’t really hit me yet.” She glances at me. “I can’t believe you were serious about this. What…I mean…are you sure? Truly? You’re not just—”

  “Drunk? Crazy? Not at this moment,” I say with a smile. We step into the elevator. “I just want to focus on my charity work.”

  The doors close. “Is that why you’re no longer wearing your engagement ring? You left Dr. Ambrose to focus on charity as well?” My mouth opens in surprise. “I noticed it on the flight to Independence. It was gone when you made your grand proclamation. You should know the press office has been contacted with questions about you two.”

  “What have they been saying?”

  “No comment. But I have a vested interest in all of this. You could change your mind and—”

  “I am not changing my mind,” I insist. “The keys to the kingdom are yours, Shannon. They should have been in the first place. I just finally decided to let them go.”

  The doors open and we step out into the foyer. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry for whatever happened that brought you to all this. And I’m honored you think I’m up to following in your footsteps.”

  “Oh Shannon, don’t follow my footsteps. You’ll end up in the Australian outback with no water. You kept me on track.”

  “Well, as my last act as your assistant—”

  “Lovely assistant,” I cut in.

  “Lovely assistant, I am going to tell you Bennett Stone has phoned twice in as many days and three times before that. He was worried, and it seems he is now in town. He arrived this morning.”

  “Wonderful,” I mutter.

  “And Captain O’Hara called your line about an hour before you arrived. Something about a woman named Missy Royal. He sounded concerned, especially when he couldn’t reach you on your cell.”

  Shit. “Thank you. I promise from now on I’ll keep my cell on. And if it’s dire feel free to give out the apartment phone number. I’ll probably be there a month or two.”

  “We should charge you rent,” Shannon quips.

  “Call it severance.” We stop at the double doors to my office. “If you need anything let me know and I’ll help any way I can.” I hold out my hand for her to shake. “And take care of yourself. Take care of the company.”

  Shannon slips her thin hand into mine, giving it a firm shake. “I’ll make you and Justin proud.”

  “Shannon…you don’t owe us a damn thing.” I pull away my hand and smile. “Give me twenty minutes and it’s all yours.”

  “There’s a box waiting inside.”

  “You think of everything.”

  With a reverent nod, I open the door and step inside. Like the mansion this space wasn’t ever really mine. I didn’t change a thing, not a painting, not the carpet or Persian rug, hell not even the photos on the desk. I did add two of my own: one of me and Pop as he blew out his birthday candles on his last birthday and the other a selfie of Jem and me on our boat The Athena making our best duck faces as the wind whipped around us. They sit right beside the photos of Justin’s parents, of him and me at age fourteen playing video games in the living room, and one of Rebecca and Daisy at the playground on the swings. I take them all, along with the candy bars, deodorant, spare shirt, hairbrush, and cache of weapons. Fairly sure Shannon won’t need to keep an arsenal in her desk “just in case.”

  I take one last look around this office and still feel fuck all. Life altering changes should elicit some emotion. Fear, regret, elation, relief. I got nothing. Maybe I’ve blown a gasket. “Good-bye, office.” I shut the door and don’t look back.

  I am officially an unemployed bum. Now what?

  I’ve kept my burner phone on since I left the bar, even taking it into the bathroom with me, but still no call. I check it again in the elevator. No joy. Something isn’t right. Maybe it has something to do with why Harry called. The poor man isn’t home a day from his honeymoon and he finds himself in a mess of my creation. Some things never change.

  I wait until I’m in my car before I turn on my real cell. I cleared most of the voice mails—all seventy-five—from my lost week, but find five since last night. One from V thanking me for the dirt on Mayor Miracle, two from reporters, one from Harry sounding none too pleased, and the last from Bennett Stone sounding far too pleased. He’s in town, wants to see me to pick my brain about a project, and is waiting with baited breath for my call. Jesus wept.

  Only Harry receives a call back. He picks up on the forth ring.

  “Captain O’Hara.”

  “It’s Jo. How was Turks and Caicos?” I ask all sweetness and light.

  “Hang on.” I hear him walking then a door shutting. Privacy. This conversation’s going to suck. “You need to tell me what the hell is going on right now. Your cousin left me two messages saying you’ve gone off the deep end that you’re drinking again, and now someone in New Urbana PD researched your old undercover rap sheet. So I’ll ask again, what the hell is going on?”

  “Is the squad working the Gearhead case?”

  “What? Yes. Why?”

  “Have you compiled a list of what was missing or destroyed?”

  “What does that have to do with—I’m not telling you a damn thing until you talk to me. Are you drinking again?”

  “I fell off the wagon but got right back on. I swear on Pop’s grave. I’m attending two meetings a day. I’m fine.”

  There’s silence on his end. I can sense the disapproval wafting through the line. At least I don’t have to see it on his face. “What happened?”

  If anyone deserves the truth, it’s him. The man had a front row seat to the fallout and was damaged by it as well. “The short version? Justin’s alive. Jem knew.”

  “What? Are you—”

  “Harry, I am many things but crazy isn’t one of them. I saw the fucker. I spoke to him. I puked on him. He’s alive and well and living in Independence.”

  “Jesus Christ, Jo. And Ambrose knew?”

  “Yeah. So I had a mini-breakdown, but I’m over it. I’m good. I’m keeping busy. Which is good for both of us because I have a thread on Gearhead. It might be something, it might be nothing. I didn’t want to bring it to the squad until I had something concrete. And I’m not in any danger because I know that’s your next question. Just like all the other times Informant 794 helped before. Just me and my computer. Nothing’s changed,” I lie. “And short of arresting me, you can’t stop me either. So there’s no point in worrying about me. You have a new wife and baby on the way to concern yourself with. I shouldn’t even be an afterthought. It’s my mess, my stupidity. I’m handling it. Alone.”

  “I’m so sorry, Jo.”

  “It’s my own fault for trusting men who consciously choose to lead double lives. Or hell, maybe it’s karma. I betrayed you and damned if it hasn’t come back to me three fold.”

  “Don’t say that. You don’t deserve this.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, I’m here for you if you need me. If you feel like taking a drink, if—”

  “I will call my sponsor and go to a meeting. I swear it.”

  “And I swear if you’re holding anything back on the Gearhead case or put yourself in danger, I will arrest you.”

  “I know. Just, you might want to compil
e that list I mentioned. Mr. Ross might be far less complex than we gave him credit for.”

  He’s silent for a moment. “You think this is a robbery? He killed almost a dozen people yesterday. He destroyed half a building.”

  “As I said, early stages. I’ll call when I have more. And say hello to the guys and Bella for me. Bye.”

  I hang up before he can rip into me further. I truly don’t want him worrying about me. He’s done it far more than I deserve. Another reason we never would have worked as a couple. He’d have a heart attack a year from the stress alone. He’ll forget all the worry when I hand him the goods on Gearhead.

  If Diamanda Roth’s checking up on Missy Royal then I’ve made the first cut. Missy worked well for me when we were trying to track down a weapons supplier in the Giuliani syndicate. Missy Royal acted as a front for the 1-8-7 gang in New Urbana, at least per the rap sheet implanted in the databases. I resurrected her in the system before I left for the bar. Damn good thing too, it seems. But I’m tired of waiting. Through my investigation I tracked down Darryl Paul’s home address. Quick pop home for a costume change. And—

  My phone rings. A 138 area code. Independence. Hell no. Voice mail do your thing. I pull out of the parking garage onto the always hectic city streets. I need to hire my own car service now that privilege was signed away. I’ll add it to the endless list. Which leads to the question, how exactly will I fill my days? There isn’t always going to be an investigation in need of my skills. I could actually focus on charity. Form a few of my own. The Joanna Fallon Foundation for Children in Need or whatever. Give kids in the foster system counseling or something. And endowments, lots of endowments and grants, but in my own name. All the charities I help are in the Pendergast name. Nothing has my personal stamp on it. I want a legacy, not just to be a footnote in the Pendergasts’. I’ll form one in Pop’s name too. That way he’ll never be forgotten either.