Asking for Trouble

Asking for Trouble

Anna J. Stewart

InterMix Books, New York

INTERMIX
BOOKS

P
UBLISHED B
Y THE
P
ENGUIN
G
ROUP

P
ENGUIN
G
ROUP
(
USA
)
LLC

375
H
UDSON
S
TREET,
N
EW
Y
ORK,
N
EW
Y
ORK
10014,
USA

USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China

penguin.com

A Penguin Random House Company

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ASKING FOR TROUBLE

An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author

PUBLIS
HING HISTORY

InterMix eBook edition / February 2015

Copyright © 2015 by Anna J. Stewart.

Excerpt from
Here Comes Trouble
copyright © 2015 by Anna J. Stewart.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-18313-1

INTERMIX

InterMix Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group

and New American Library, divisions of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

INTERMIX® and the “IM” design are registered trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC

For my mother,

Marjorie McLetchie Stewart.

For always believing, always encouraging, and always saying yes when I wanted to buy a book.

This, and all the rest, are for you.

“I thought I might catch you here, Inspector.”

Gage Juliano's hand froze on the slender metal handle of the glass door to Lorenzo's café. The sound of the District Attorney's voice kicked the jackhammer headache pounding behind Gage's eyes into sync with his caffeine-neglected blood. His spine stiffened as his boss approached. “Sir?”

“I thought we agreed to ditch the ‘sir.'” Evan Marshall pushed off from where he'd been leaning against the real estate office next door and stopped beside Gage. He lifted his chin, took a deep breath, and smiled, no doubt catching the addictive roasted aroma that brought Gage to this door every afternoon at this time. “You didn't think you could keep this place to yourself forever, did you?”

The corners of Gage's mouth quirked. As a matter of fact, he had. “Can I swear you to silence?”

“Depends. How good is the coffee?”

“Good enough I'm regretting not bringing my gun. Sir.”

Evan laughed and slapped a hand on Gage's shoulder. “My lips are sealed and the coffee's on me.”

Gage may have only worked for the D.A. for a month, but he'd learned early on that Evan never went anywhere or met anyone without proper motivation.

“What's so important you had to stake out my afternoon escape instead of knocking on my office door?” Gage asked once they had coffee in hand and were headed back to the historic brick warehouse that housed the D.A.'s office. The instant Gage took a long, throat-scalding swallow, his system calmed and zinged at the same time. The day righted itself once more.

Evan pulled out his cell phone and accessed his pictures, then turned the screen toward Gage. “You know this guy?”

The picture was blurry, as Evan had obviously snapped it through a glass window, but Gage couldn't place the middle-aged, paunch-heavy, over-tanned man. The shit-brown suit he wore told Gage the man wasn't a conformist. He had his own way of doing things. “No. I've never met him before. Cop?”

“Close. He's a Fed.”

Despite the steaming coffee, Gage's blood turned to ice cubes that clattered one by one into his stomach.

“An Agent Kolfax,” Evan said. “He called me into the FBI's temporary office this morning for a meeting, and while I was waiting, I saw this on his desk.” Evan flipped to the previous photo, handed the phone over so Gage could see the document.

A solitary page of official FBI letterhead listing a string of contact numbers was topped with a fluorescent pink sticky note covered in almost illegible scribbles. Gage's gut clenched as he made out a smattering of phrases and names, but one word stood out enough to raise the hair on his neck. “Why would the FBI be interested in the Nemesis case? And what does that case have to do with the Tremayne family?”

“I'm thinking that's what he wants us to find out. Whoever this Kolfax is,” Evan said, “he knows you. I got the impression he didn't think you'd been up-front with me about your time working with them on that joint task force. Or about how it ended.”

“Shocking to think the FBI might be wrong about something.” Gage's left shoulder throbbed—a quick burn shooting through him like a match had been struck against his skin. As fast as the sensation appeared, it was gone, but the flash ignited embers of resentment he'd worked hard to bank.

“Look, Gage, I know your history with the Feds isn't the greatest, but if they're looking into the Nemesis case—”

“They can look all they want.” Gage tried not to sound as edgy as he felt as they rounded the corner and Gage squinted into the late afternoon sun. His so-called “history” with the FBI had nearly gotten him killed. Having them pop up now, just when his life was getting on track again, felt like another knife in the back. “It's my case. I agreed to head up your new investigative unit provided you get me the Nemesis case. That was our deal.”

“And I have no plans to change that deal, Inspector,” Evan said. “Which is why I agreed to your plan to use the press to our advantage. But if this Agent Kolfax has gone to the trouble of coming out here from Washington, D.C., to hover over
your
case, not to mention one of our most prominent families, I'm damned well going to take notice.”

“Good to know. In my experience, the FBI uses whomever and whatever they need to produce the results they want.” Bitterness cut like a razor through Gage's words. “Even if it means innocent people get caught in interdepartmental cross fire.” And it sounded to him as if the Tremaynes had been moved directly into their crosshairs.

“That I'm used to.” For the first time, Gage caught a hint of strain on Evan's face. “I kept my word, Gage, but I do not need to add the Feds to the mix, which is why I'm going to do a little digging. I'm counting on your experience to stay one step ahead and keep them in check. Beginning with that note Agent Kolfax just happened to leave out in the open for me to see.”

Gage eased the throttle back on the anger. “You think he wanted you to see it?”

“Considering that everything we talked about could have been said over the phone?” Evan shrugged. “I have no doubt he wanted this note in our hands. Any idea why?”

“Did you make out anything else on this note that might be important?” Gage asked, wondering what this Kolfax's agenda was.

“A couple of Nemesis' victims, I think. But then I saw he'd made a special note of the Tremayne family along with the Tremayne Foundation, and while I'm not convinced I was meant to see that, today's meeting can't be a coincidence. There's a fund-raiser for the foundation tonight, and Kolfax didn't strike me as the party crasher type.”

“He's trying to distract us.” Or maybe Kolfax was one of those agents who hoped to make a name for himself by closing a case with the potential for national media exposure. “I didn't walk away from fifteen years on the force to let the Feds come in and take over.”

“I know it hasn't been easy for you,” Evan said, “taking this job. Especially given how your former bosses at the police department feel about me.”

“I try not to let politics interfere with any job that needs doing.” But Evan was right. It hadn't been easy to walk away from the job, not to mention the cops at his hometown precinct who had welcomed him home after the time he'd spent away.

Gage cleared his throat and swallowed the bitterness. Dwelling on a past he couldn't change didn't do anything but raise his blood pressure. He was moving on, finding where he fit. For now, he was content with the refinished office and skeleton staff two floors below Evan. Just in case this Kolfax was on to something, “This fund-raiser tonight. Were you invited?”

“I was.”

“Too bad you won't be able to go.” Gage popped the lid off his cup and tossed it into a trash can as they passed.

“I won't?” Evan frowned.

“Nope. Something came up, but luckily I'll be able to fill in for you.” Gage gestured to Evan's coffee. “That's the price you pay for horning in on my coffee house.”

***

Three hours before the annual Cancer Treatment Center fund-raiser, Morgan Tremayne wasn't wearing the hand-beaded designer dress and kill-me-now Manolo Blahnik sandals. She wasn't walking into the Winstead Salon and Spa with the other socialites. She wasn't applying the makeup she hadn't worn in months. Instead, she was jammed under the kitchen sink of her late grandmother's Victorian, grey sludge squishing between her fingers as she tightened the lugs on the garbage disposal.

She swiped at the sweat dripping down the side of her face. Ugh. The glamorous life of a landlord made even more challenging by the overly curious, determined-to-help nine-year-old sprawled across Morgan's chest. Morgan wasn't sure what was more difficult—repairing the disposal or trying to do so without knocking Brandon Monroe in the head.

“Okay.” Morgan grunted as her arms and fingers went numb. Given the positions she found herself in these days, she could hire out as a contortionist with Cirque du Soleil. “Turn the faucet on. Slowly this time,” she added as a touch of panic kicked in her belly at the thought of having to start over for the third time. She was already behind schedule.

Brandon scooted out, the buckle of his plastic tool belt clacking against the cabinet. Morgan took a deep breath as cool air swooped in under the sink. She lifted her head as Brandon rose up on tiptoe. Seconds later, water rushed through the pipes. “Now flip the switch on the disposal.”
Fingers crossed.

The grinding of the blades above her head may as well have been a performance by a philharmonic given the surge of joy it produced. Morgan twisted her way out of the cabinet.

“It works.” Brandon dropped down to Morgan's level, a huge smile on his pale, round face.

“It works.” Morgan got to her feet and turned off the disposal before washing up. “Just be careful next time, okay? We can't afford to lose any more spoons.”

Brandon plucked the mangled teaspoon, this week's weapon of mass destruction, off the floor and examined it with a narrowed gaze. Morgan wanted to ask what the poor spoon had done to deserve such a horrible end. Not that the utensil was the first sacrifice made in the name of mechanical investigations. As much as Morgan appreciated Brandon's quest for knowledge, it was only a matter of time before professionals would have to be called in for repairs.

No wonder Morgan's bedside reading consisted of
Dare to Repair
and
Home Maintenance for Dummies
.

“We don't have to tell Nico and Angela, do we?” Brandon's voice lowered to a whisper as he asked about his foster parents.

“
We
don't have to. But you know the rules. Secrets are as bad as lying, and we don't lie in this house.” Morgan glanced out the window, searching for the lightning strike headed her way. No lies? Guilt and anxiety made her heart spin like an out-of-control slot machine that never paid off. She hadn't lied exactly. She just hadn't confided in anyone how dire her financial woes were or how far she'd gone to solve them.

“O-kay.” Brandon rolled his eyes as Morgan's cell phone buzzed. As she read the text from Angela and Nico that they were on their way home, Morgan's schedule shifted back on track and the tension in her chest eased.

All she had to do once she reached her apartment over the garage in the backyard was shower off the remnants of the day's repairs, wash and dry her hair, unearth some makeup—if she could find it—and cram herself into the stunning and outrageously expensive dress her mother had bought her.

Grief surged in her chest. Her mom wouldn't see her in the dress she'd painstakingly chosen. Her mom wouldn't be there as Morgan attended her first charity event as chairwoman of the Tremayne Foundation. Her mom wouldn't be there for anything. It had been almost a year, but Morgan wondered when the feeling of loss would lessen. Or if she'd ever stop missing her mother so much she ached.

“Got your repair journal, Brandon?” She couldn't dwell. No time. Morgan picked up her grandfather's old toolbox before someone tripped on it, and set it on the table. “Make note of how we fixed the disposal before you forget.” A renewed gleam brightened Brandon's face as he skipped out of the room, tool belt slipping down his narrow hips, the deformed spoon still clutched in his hand.

So far Nico Fiorelli's suggestion that Brandon keep a repair journal had prevented any repeat experiments. How one little boy could cause such innocent destruction in such a short amount of time was a question that as yet remained unanswered. Not so long ago, Brandon hadn't been able to get out of bed. The chemotherapy to treat his stage two kidney cancer had been so intense he'd ended up in the emergency room three different times and been bedridden for weeks. All the more reason to consider Brandon's current hands-on curiosity a blessing.

Morgan scrubbed tired hands down her face. What she wouldn't give for a six-pack of Red Bull about now. Instead, she settled for making a cup of coffee.

Time to gear up and raise more money in one night than the Tremayne Foundation ever had before. Her mother would expect nothing less, and Morgan needed nothing less. It was the only way out of the mess she'd made. Besides, every second she spent worrying about money was energy stolen from the kids and the work she still needed to do.

Morgan had just grabbed her travel cup of coffee when footsteps sounded behind her and eight-year-old Kelley Black ran to her, her poofy ice blue princess dress billowing around her thin frame.

“Can't I come to the party with you?” Kelley plucked at the hem of Morgan's shirt. “I have a pretty dress, too. I'll be good. I promise. I won't get sick or anything.”

“I'm sorry, Kelley.” Morgan bent down to meet Kelley eye to eye and took her hand in hers. She never liked talking down to kids. “This is a grown-ups-only party. It has nothing to do with you being sick. I love you no matter what.”

“But I'm not sick,” Kelley insisted, swinging their linked hands as she shuffled her feet.

“No, you're not.” But the leukemia, or rather the chemo-radiation treatment, had hit Kelley hard. Losing her waist-length blond curls had been the least of their concerns. But three months later, save for her slight stature and the peach fuzz dusting of hair, all outward signs of Kelley's fight had faded. “And we'll see about the next party, okay? Maybe you can come then.”

Kelley brightened, her baby blue eyes sparking. “Really? And I can have a party dress like yours? Lydia, too?”

Morgan laughed, grateful for the reminder that there was life beyond financial issues and the desperate measures she'd taken to solve them. She pulled Kelley into her arms, amazed that such a small child could endure so much. “I said we'll see.”

“Yeah, but that means maybe, and maybe isn't no,” Kelley squealed, jumping away. “Wait 'til I tell Lydia she's getting a princess dress, too. Make sure you watch out for him tonight, Morgan.”