Fool's Gold: A Kisses and Crimes Novel (14 page)

BISHOP

Buzzed up by her secretary, I knock on Penelope’s Parisian office door for the second time in as many days with a distinctive tap.

“Ughhhh,” I hear from the side. “Back already…? Fine.” I hear the muffled slam of another drawer. “Come in already, Bishop.”

I turn the doorknob to P’s large oak door.

I grin.

“Don’t give me that, P. You knew I was coming. Your secretary called it in so you could buzz me up.”

Penelope swings her long head of hair over her shoulder. In a new suit fitted with a beige jacket and pencil skirt, she scans me over.

She sits behind her desk, smiling with an evil glint in her eye.

She taps her nearby keyboard.

“Yeah, I know,” she comments flippantly. “Just felt like giving you a hard time.”

I start to chuckle, and she joins in.

The second she sees who’s walking in behind me, the laughter stops.

Dani, tailored in her denim jacket and form-fitting black dress, struts inside Penelope’s office as if she owns it. Her “old-found” Gafanelli confidence is
back
, and she walks with the natural charisma of her Mafia princess upbringing.

It’s so engrained in her that she doesn’t even know it.

I smile to myself, glaring at the profile of her beautiful physique.

I extend a hand towards the beautiful woman at my side.

“Penelope, this is Dani. Dani—Penelope.”

In shock, Penelope reaches across her desk to shake Dani’s delicate hand. Her mouth opens slightly, but then she shuts it just as quickly, returning to that same hard-ass lawyer reserve I’ve come to know so well.

She waves her hand in front of her.

“It’s so nice to see you, Dani,” Penelope grins. “Please, sit, sit.” She motions towards a chair, and Dani begins to take it.

Penelope looks over at me with barely concealed bewilderment in her eyes.

“You, too, Bishop.”

At that, I take the seat beside Dani, resisting the urge to put my hand on her bare knee.

We huddle closer together.

“I don’t want to overwhelm you, P… We just wanted to see if you had a chance to get any answers.”

But P’s eyes are still stuck on Dani.

“I’m sorry for staring,” she blurts stolidly. “It’s just… you’re so beautiful, Dani… And I mean that as the highest compliment. Ya see, we met long ago.” P almost blushes. “You probably don’t remember it, but I…”

“Of course I do.”

Dani surprises me with her response.

“It was Penny, right? Bishop once introduced us at one of my father’s dinner parties long ago. I had forgotten a lot until recently… though, I can’t imagine how I could forget
your
face.”

This time, Penelope
does
blush.

She folds the papers on her desk with quick, efficient hands. When she gathers them into a separate pile, she crosses her fingers in front of her. As she folds them, I can see that they are slightly shaking.

I pray that Dani doesn’t also notice the change.

I cut into the conversation.

“Sorry to break up this little lesbo love fest you ladies have going on here—
God knows how I’d like to see that play out—
but can we talk about something a little less ‘loving’? Like who was that
fucker
that broke into our loft and attacked us in Annecy?”

The two ladies’ gazes divert back to my scowling face.

Penelope sighs. “Yeah, sure…” She puts both hands on the keyboard at her desk.

“This is what I received from that cocky-assed bastard friend of yours, Jackson.”

She strikes a final button on the keypad and turns the screen towards us.

“His name is Acel Martelle, as you already saw with his I.D. He’s actually on the Paris police force. Been there for four years… and he has a reputation for being a gun-for-hire in certain circles…”

“Certain circles?” Dani pipes up. “What certain circles?”

“Corrupt ones.”

Penelope fixes Dani with a serious stare.

“He’s been transferred from at least
one
other city for allegedly taking bribes from criminals whom he has arrested. He seems to be on the take—always trying to fit into one wealthy, political group or another.

Penelope points to her computer screen.

“The man
has
no moral compass.”

“So what did he want with us? What was he doing at our place?” Dani asks.

“Long story short?” She pauses. “
Trying to murder you
…”

The air grows thick.

“But I wouldn’t peg him for the shooter in New York,” Penelope adds.

“He’s a low-level creep, at the bottom of the food chain. He would’ve been hired as the
first
level of offense.
If
he failed—
once
he failed—the second line would be brought in.”

Penelope frowns.

“They’d keep sending higher levels until ultimately one of them finished the job.”

I look over at Dani.

She remains calm despite being informed about the prospect of additional hitters. She clasps her hands together, maintaining her Gafanelli cool.

“So do you think it could be connected to what happened to me in New York?” she asks.

“I do,” Penelope looks up, “Being the lead attorney for New York governor, Shelly Price, has it “perks”… and its “
price
.” I get front row seats to all manners of organized crime.”

She exhales roughly.

“There’s always some threat centered on the political higher-ups—always some blame to be placed. And now with senatorial elections this year, she’s been backing Maryland transplant, Gordon Pike. Hell, just for that, she gets more death threats than I get those annoying penis implant e-mails.”

She taps a finger on the tabletop.

“It’s my job to be informed—to use all of our collective intel… Needless to say, I take her threats more serious than the next
Powercock Pump
ad in my inbox.”

Penelope gives Dani a pointed look.

“So… what do we do now?” I interject. “How do we nip this shit in the bud? Find the fucker who actually
did
shoot Dani?”

“Well, annoying bastard or not… Jackson was right. You’d want to start here.” Penelope enters something in the search engine on her computer and turns the screen so we can see it.

It’s Senator Robert Fletcher.

In the flesh. Smiling on the campaign trail as if life is simply seamless. As if his daughter’s fate isn’t held in a delicate balance.

I swallow thickly.

“This appears to be the rivalry that may have started it all,” P comments.

“Rumors of betrayal and a disagreement between the senator and the Gafanellis hit the streets just a few months ago. Not long after Dani was shot. Days later, Senator Fletcher’s daughter went missing.”

I watch Dani squeeze her hands together until they become white-knuckled. I cover her fingers with mine.

“My math is
shit
,” Penelope continues, “but even this adds up pretty easily. Your family,” she looks across her desk, “
and
Senator Fletcher seem to turned on each other, Dani.”

Resigned, Penelope turns the screen back in her own direction. I watch Dani swallow the realization like a nauseating lump in her pretty throat. She barely blinks, and when she looks at me, her gaze is full of terror—sudden horror at what this must mean.

Because who actually wants to go head-to-head with a U.S. senator?

I knew of Robert Fletcher.

And I knew that no one—absolutely
no one
—messed with him, unless they had a death wish.

He was the wrong enemy to have.

An unscrupulous man in a
high position
… with subordinates willing to do the
lowest
of things.

I clench a fist.

“So where do we go from here?” I ask Penelope.

I squeeze Dani’s slightly trembling hands.

“Follow up with Duvall,” P answers. “He’ll have the info on Robert Fletcher’s daughter.”

She stands behind her desk, giving us a grave look.

“
He’ll have the info that will lead to Dani’s shooter.”

BISHOP

The dollar-bill-bricked road is longer than I imagined.

It takes us from the small town charm of Annecy, France to the touristy streets of Barcelona—a city of
bebidas
, foreign babes and all forms of debauchery.

Operating under the advice of Penelope, the guidance of a mutual connection and a shot of Whiskey or two, I take to the streets of the teeming Spaniard city with Dani tucked safely in tow.

For the price of two train tickets, we purchase front row seats to all that Spain has to offer:

Most notably
, the ex-campaign manager of Fletcher’s last senatorial run, Isaac Duvall… and the clandestine trip he’s planned with his secret Slovenian mistress.

What the price
doesn’t
include is where Mr. Duvall spends his nights. But I’m optimistic…

I figure it’s nothing that six hours in town, a couple of Benjamins and a few threats won’t cure.

We pound the pavement
hard.

Music and margaritas set the tone for the day.

We hit La Rambla, the most popular party street in town, with a purpose, and we strategically comb the streets.

An avenue known for its hookers just as much as its history, it boasts an assortment of street-side cafes and more tourists
than a prostitute’s John could shake a dick at.

We start at la Ramba de Canaletes, heading towards the Christopher Columbus Monument where the crowd, rowdy and young, thickens like molasses.

A more than casual perusal of the city takes us from bar to bar, hotel to hotel, pillar to fucking post and by the time Dani and I eat lunch, the Benjamins are fewer, the hotel list is shorter, and we’ve drank enough vodka, rum and tequila to sink a ship.

Our victories are slim, our patience even slimmer.

Bartenders don’t get us very far. A couple of well-traveled prostitutes don’t do the trick either. No pun intended.

But an ordinary baggage boy—the eyes and ears of Grand Hotel Central Barcelona—gives us a gift from the Gods.

Fletcher’s former campaign manager, Isaac Duvall… on a silver platter.

Though I’d rather have his balls. I settle for his hotel room.

We decide to make our move that night.

We prepare. We change clothes.

And, eight hours later, the clock tolls midnight in the city of Barcelona.

A beautiful Slovenian brunette sits at a high-seated chair at the City Bar at Grand Hotel Central.  Beautiful, thin and long-legged, she crosses one taut calf across the other and orders her regular dirty martini.

She doesn’t know what’s in her martini.

She also doesn’t know the gorgeous blonde that cozies up in the seat beside her.

Motioning towards the bartender, the gorgeous blonde orders the same. She runs a bright red lipstick the color of her silk dress across her full bottom lip. She purses that lip with the top before calmly analyzing the brunette beside her.

She directs a side-eye toward her.

“That’s the dirtiest martini I’ve ever seen,” the blonde comments.

A pause stretches.

“I like them dirty… The dirtier, the better.”

“I always say ‘the more alcohol, the better’… but that’s just me.” The blonde plays coy. “Have we met?”

“No.” The brunette toys with her drink. “I don’t think so.”

“Have you been in the hotel a while?”

“For a time.”

“Impossible.” The pretty blonde finally turns her face to look fully at the woman. “I would have noticed a beauty like you.” She turns back, facing the bar once more, dangling an irresistible bait with her compliment.

The brunette bites.

“And I’m sure I would have noticed you.” She bats her long dark lashes. “You’re gorgeous.”

The blonde picks up her drink.

“I’m glad you think so… My ‘company’ didn’t seem to. He left this morning.”

The brunette does a tiny survey of the woman. She seems satisfied with what she sees. She leans in.

“You’re…
alone
in the hotel?”

“Afraid so… and I’d heard that the city’s motto was ‘Barcelona es mucha mas.’” She sips her drink. “So much for ‘Barna’ being
much more
.”

She scoffs harshly, and the brunette makes her long-anticipated move.

She places a hand on the blonde’s bared thigh.

“I can show more…” She practically breathes on the fair-haired woman’s exposed neck. “My partner and I can show you
so much more
.”

The chaste touch becomes sensual. It creeps up the blonde’s quad and thigh, rising higher until it eventually disappears between the pretty woman’s legs.

The hand stays there for several moments.

The golden-haired woman doesn’t even flinch. She leans into the touch.

“Lead the way…” Her response is but a whisper.

And then they’re off… with me tailing tightly behind them.

Caught in the chase of the thrill and capture, the Slovenian princess doesn’t even check her surroundings.

She hops in the elevator with the blonde, leaving behind her drink and her false façade of dignity. Once she gets the blonde to herself in the moving shaft—even with me inside—she begins to paw her.

Touching conspicuously at the woman’s waist. Letting her lips linger at the blondie’s earlobe while she whispers secrets.

The brown-haired woman seems to have
many
secrets.

Some of which… I’d
kill
to hear.

I check the gun holstered to my back for the fortieth time just to be sure it’s still there.

When the women exit, I nearly let the doors close. They come to within an inch of shutting before I pry them apart.

I let the pair turn the corner before heading down that same way. I watch the heel of the dark-haired, dark-attired woman slip in last through a hotel door before retreating down the other end of the hall to take post.

I wait.

And wait.

Fifteen minutes goes by… and then he finally shows up.

He’s not a tall man. More mousy than brawny, that’s for sure. He looks like he just stepped out of a dentists’ conference that went over too long.

He’s not the
best
-looking man.

But what he lacks in looks and stature, he more than makes up for in cunningness. Isaac Duvall is a shrewd man, and like all truly shrewd man, he’s intelligent enough to know that’s he’s not untouchable.

He watches his back with antsy regularity. By the time he makes it to the door, I can practically hear his sigh of relief.

Little does he know that his night will only get worse.

He pulls out his key card for the door… and then I strike.

I reach nearly top speed in two seconds flat. As the light turns green on the front door lock indicator, I push the unsuspecting Isaac inside. With one fluid movement, I follow him in.

I shut the door behind us with a kick and a dull thud. And I wrap Isaac (the mouse) in a customary chokehold. I practically drag him through the entirety of his Grande Suite.

I don’t stop until we get to the bedroom.

And there, together, we see a sight that simply cannot be unseen.

Blondie practically spread-eagle on the grand navy sheets of the bed as the eastern European prepares to give her a tongue-lashing.

Literally.

The Slovenian woman jumps up in surprise. When she does, she is hastily pushed to the side, rendering her off-kilter and wrapped firmly in a chokehold that mirrors my own.

I almost smile with pride as the blonde almost drags the lovely brunette to her feet.

The fair-haired beauty looks at me.

“
Jesus Christ, Bishop
. Could you cut it
any
closer?”

Hell, I wish I had.

If this were a different game, I’d let things play themselves out to see what happens. But it isn’t. This is a game of “Tell me everything you know or I’ll shoot your
fucking
knee-caps” off with Miss Slovenia here and Mr. Mouse as our prize-winning contestants.

Through door number one is freedom.

Through door number two is pain.

I choose to let
them
decide.

I place the barrel of my gun to Isaac’s head just to be clear. I sit him on the edge of the bed before letting Dani do the same to her little “play-pal.”

Dani pulls my .38 revolver from the small of her back and then she points it, joining me in a triangle formation that puts the uneasy couple at the very top.

I decide to be the first to talk.

I exhale.

“I could run a bunch of clichés by you both. I could tell you that ‘we can do things the hard way or the easy.’ I could threaten you with death and some version of certain pain…”

I hesitate.

“But I won’t. You two probably already know this story. So let’s cut to the chase.” I lean in.

“I don’t want your money or jewels. I wasn’t hired by
your
wife,” I point to Isaac, “to make you suffer… This is about information. It’s
only
about information.”

Mousy Isaac speaks, straightening out his disheveled suit. He shakes his balding head.

“
Only
information? You act like ‘only information’ is any better than the rest.
Information
… is the priciest type of gold there is.”

He glances up at me with a smug smirk… and I have half a mind to wipe it off of his self-righteous face.

I begin again.

“
Alright,
” I say. “If it makes you feel any better, then I’ll just begin with the death threats. It seems to be the only thing
your
type of people seem to understand…

You and your mistress have a habit of picking up of lone women. Taking them back to your room and tying them up in ways that
no one
would find pleasurable.”

It’s true. I know because the bellboys and maids are the ones who have to clean up
your
mess after you’ve made it. Not as much as the mess you make of these girl’s bodies and faces once you’re done with them.

You’re a sick bastard. And I have no problem being
sick
to a sick bastard.” I tap the butt of my gun, palming it. “You understand me?”

Isaac nods, afraid for the first time, and I motion to Dani who also has her gun fixed on him and his mistress. In this moment, she looks so much like a typical Gafanelli cutthroat.

It comforts me to know she’s not.

Behind that ballsy exterior is the most considerate woman I’ve ever met. She risked her life to clear my name. In some ways, she’s saved my ass.

I can only hope to return the favor by watching hers.

I’m going to find the motherfucker who dared to hurt my woman.

I point the gun higher.

“Tell me about Fletcher…”

Isaac shifts in his seat. “You’re barking up the wrong tree. I don’t work for Fletcher anymore.”

“But you did… and you still do. Even though you seem to be trying
very
hard to keep it off the radar.”

The look of surprise on Isaac’s face doesn’t shock me. I keep going, knowing I’m pushing his buttons.

“And why is that? Your ‘international affairs’ with your little girlfriend got you a bit of a reputation?

You beat up the wrong woman, didn’t you?

Let me take a guess… the Prime Minister of Portugal’s niece. Tsk tsk tsk.”

I shake my head in exaggerated disbelief.

“That wasn’t so nice… especially considering that the P.M.’s father had once been a long-time donor of Fletcher. So
you
had to go… at least, on paper. But I know you still know Fletcher’s affairs. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here… pointing a gun at you…”

I glance at Dani quickly.

“Totally prepared to kill you,” I finish. “So, do us both a favor and
talk
… before things get messy.”

The Slovenian mistress begins to shake, and I almost watch Isaac do the same. Feeling the effects of the drugged cocktail we’ve had her served, she finally gives into the drug and passes out.

When I look back at Duvall’s face, I see that he’s trying his hardest to keep his face an impassive mask, but it starts to crack.

I have to admit I take a little pleasure in it.

Because powerful people love their lifestyles.

In most cases, they’d rather lose their riches than the power so being threatened with a “dethroning” is somehow worse than death.