Last Call (13 page)

The guard appeared unimpressed. "Are you
reporters?"

"We're on the list for the Siegal
affair."

The guard frowned. "Sir, I need to see your
invitation."

"We don't have one," Nick said. "Call the
house and ask if we're on the list."

The guard reached for a phone without taking
his eyes off them. After a brief conversation, he gave a clipped
nod and waved them through.

Rhys let out a shaky breath.

"You okay?" Nick asked as they eased past the
first opulent estate. "You need to take anything for your
shoulder?"

"I'm fine." But she wasn't. At one time,
adrenaline had made her feel alive. She thrived on it. Now, the
surge was that of fear. Of having too much to lose.

Of losing Nick.

But one way or another, this was the end of
their road. She might walk away with his soot and bloodstained
sweatshirt, but he had her heart. And after what they shared, she
wasn't sure she wanted it back.

The centerpiece of Siegal's property was a
sprawling two-story New American mansion with stone walls and a
massive detached garage. Surrounding it was an endless expanse of
black wrought-iron fencing that seemed both delicate and imposing
all at once. Patches of lawn peeked through snow, the whole picture
gloriously enhanced by brilliant red and violet pansies decorating
thickly mulched flower beds.

Nick whistled low. "Maybe I should have been a
politician. Or a district attorney."

"Not a chance," Rhys said. "You'd be miserable
stuck in a suit every day."

He grinned, and they traded an intimate
glance. "You're probably right. I believe after last night I prefer
nudity."

Rhys gave a tight, forced laugh and
swatted him. Her shoulder began to hurt.
Nerves
.

Apparently parking was a do-it-yourself gig,
as a valet was nowhere to be seen. Or maybe they were just late.
Nick easily maneuvered past the row of expensive sedans lining the
extra wide drive and parked at the head of the driveway in the
shadow of the main house.

Rhys looked down. Dirty jeans and a smelly
sweatshirt. "Not exactly dressed for the party."

Nick grinned crookedly. "You're
beautiful."

Her heart did a funny little twist but she
didn't give it time to process. She didn't want to think about
tomorrow or how it probably meant goodbye.

First, they had to get through
this.

The nearest door appeared to be in use by the
waitstaff. Caterers dressed in stark white accounted for a steady
tide of traffic into which Nick and Rhys would never blend. But
lacking other options, they took that route anyway. Rhys jumped in
line to the great distaste of a young woman who glared at her as if
she were the filth of the earth — though as badly as she needed a
shower, she might well be.

The expansive kitchen lacked nothing.
Everything gleamed, from the shimmering stainless steel appliances
to the impractically white floors and stone countertops. Through a
massive triple archway, the open floor plan revealed a throng of
guests in evening wear, champagne glasses in hand. The décor was
overwhelmingly pale, from the walls to the furniture to vases
overflowing with white blooms.

Vincent threw one hell of a party for a
weekday afternoon.

Rhys leaned close to Nick. "Who
says crime doesn't pay? We're living in crap apartments and this
bastard is living like…
this
."

Before he could respond, a guy in
television-ready butler garb took Rhys by the arm. "Miss Clark.
This way, please."

They'd found her
. They knew her name.
Worse, the
butler was guiding her away from the crowd.

Away from Nick.

She turned, relieved to see he was
right behind her. But his cold expression offered little comfort.
Wordlessly, Nick placed a hand on the small of her back and
followed her — no,
pushed
her — after the butler into the empty darkness of
a wing clearly closed to the party.

At the end of a long hallway, double doors led
into a study, the walls lined with elaborate shelving and a
collection of books she suspected would rival the local library. An
ornate rug covered most of the hardwood flooring, and a collection
of leather furniture and a wood-burning fireplace lent an earthy
smell to the dimly lit space.

Rhys shivered when the doors closed heavily
behind her. So much for a public confrontation.

They were alone and outnumbered.

She wanted to reach for Nick. To drag him all
the way back to the cabin, to the place they'd found. But he stood
too far to touch, his arms crossed and face set. In the low light,
he looked dangerous. She hoped the three men in the room didn't
feel the threat.

The butler backed away, pulling shut the doors
as he left.

Rhys turned her attention toward her firing
squad. Three men stood in silence across from her. One had the heft
of a linebacker. The other two, she recognized.

One was Anthony Vicci.

The other had driven the van from the wharf to
the hotel.

Rhys sucked in a startled
breath.
Cutter had hooked them up with one
of Siegal's men
. The news shouldn't have
surprised her, but it nonetheless touched an area of vulnerability
within her.

She looked at Nick, but his face, like the
rest of him, had hardened into something unreadable. He stared
straight ahead, not taking her into account.

Still, no one spoke.

She fought the urge to fidget. Her shoulder
ached. Nick had morphed into a stranger and now they were staring
down three men, not one of whom appeared friendly.

The soft whoosh of a door sounded at her back.
Rhys turned to see Vincent Siegal. His face, a calm mask, looked
out of place with the sinister glint in his beady eyes. With a neat
salt-and-pepper blend of slicked back hair and a tall, fit build,
he looked every bit the local royalty he portrayed.

"Detective Massey," Vincent said. "I'm glad to
see you've kept with our arrangement."

To her horror, Nick offered no
denial.

Rhys grabbed his arm. "What
arrangement?"

The fat man grinned and lifted a highball
glass, spinning the liquid inside. "Why, Detective Clark. Your
boyfriend didn't fill you in?"

Cutter
.
She wouldn't know him from Adam in looking at him, but the
voice…
oh, dear God
.

Nick still hadn't acknowledged her. Had he
recognized Cutter upon entering the room?

"What arrangement?" Rhys demanded, looking
from one man to the next.

Nick's steely gaze — completely free of the
shock tearing through Rhys — was fixed on Cutter.

He knew.

"His job," Cutter said, "was to bring you to
us."

Chapter Ten

Slow and sickening dread settled in a dark
cloud over Nick.

The shock and hurt on Rhys's face
gouged him.
She believed Cutter.
She'd been right there with Nick while he ranted
over Cutter's betrayal, yet her expression bled doubt. It killed
Nick to think she'd suspect such a thing, but why shouldn't she?
He'd proven himself an ass. A lying ass wasn't much of a
stretch.

Rage flew, but Nick fought to keep it in
check. Playing along with Cutter would get him nowhere. "We had no
such deal."

Cutter lifted the glass to his lips. "Didn't
we?"

Nick looked to Tony Vicci. He seemed to take a
great deal of interest in the floor.

"What the hell is going on here?" Nick
asked.

Cutter threw back his drink. "Quite simple,
really. You and I have had a score to settle for some time
now—"

"What score?"

Cutter's eyes narrowed. Though he looked in
Nick's direction, he didn't seem to focus on anything. "The day you
shot your girlfriend. Anything else stand out about that
day?"

Your girlfriend
. That reference again.

Nick looked to Vincent, who hadn't said a
word. Rather, he wore a sorry poker face that screamed of a winning
hand."Yeah, in fact. We got some bad information and it led to a
bad bust."

"Small time bust, Detective," Cutter said.
"There was no point in being there."

"So you think. And you forget, Cutter. You
sent us in."

Cutter's face turned bright red and his hands
fisted at his sides.

Vincent chose that moment to step forward,
throwing his hand against the bigger man's chest. "That's enough."
To Nick, he said, "You disrupted my business."

"He killed my boy." Cutter's tone was deadly,
utterly defiant of the warning carved on Siegal's face.

Pieces drifted into place as sure
as the snow fell.
Cutter's
boy
.
Cutter
was Brian McKenney's father. No wonder there had
been no family — Cutter wouldn't want that connection out there.
Nick didn't know what was going on or what the hell Cutter had been
thinking, but the news was bad all around. Nick had counted a
hundred ways this meeting could go wrong, but he'd never guessed
his greatest miscalculation would be in trusting his own informant
— a man who'd saved Nick's life countless times in their years as a
team.

"You're the bad cop," Nick said. A no brainer
by now. Though he addressed Cutter, his eyes were on Tony. Was he
rogue or had he infiltrated Vincent's organization? Nick wanted to
believe the latter, but would he put Rhys's life on it?

No
.

Rhys, for her part, managed to keep it
together. No shred of the panic Nick had felt earlier. But her eyes
shot venom, and most of it was targeted at him.

She can't believe Cutter. She
can't believe I did this to her.

Only he had.

Cutter's bitter fury tainted the room. "I told
you, your buddy Anthony is the bad cop. Me? I'm just a father
mourning the loss of his son."

"What the hell does that mean?" Nick demanded,
wanting Cutter to say it. "What son?"

Next to him, Rhys's voice came as a soft
whisper, "Brian McKenney."

Nick twisted to face her.

"The kid you shot. The one without a family."
She turned to Cutter. "You were using us. He was one of Siegal's
dealers, and you made sure he stayed one step ahead of
us."

Fury — and a heavy dose of pain —
stained Cutter's crumbling façade. "Thanks to you filling me in, I
kept him one step ahead of the law. He'd be
alive
if you had listened to
me."

"He might be alive but he'd still be a filthy
criminal," Nick said. "Like father like son."

Rhys found her voice. "You put him
in the ground without so much as a marker for his grave. You
bastard. You didn't claim your own
son
?"

Cutter turned a deeper shade of
red. "This is my claim.
This
is my redemption."

"What are you talking about?" Rhys
demanded.

Cutter refilled his glass, taking his time.
"Mr. Siegel and I have something in common."

"You mean other than sharing a mother? Or
being filthy dealing pieces of shit?" Nick asked.

"You little punk," Cutter seethed.
"You
murdering
little punk. You leave my mother—"

"Shut up," Vincent commanded. "You know what
goes up my ass sideways, Cutter? You can't shut the fuck up. I
never should have let you in on this."

"
He killed
my boy
."

"And Miss Clark witnessed the unfortunate
death of my associate," Vincent said. "Just as unfortunate, my man
here—" He gestured toward the van driver. "—can't make a fucking
head shot. Things got a little messy, but we're going to clean it
up. Right here and now."

So the van driver had been the one to shoot
Rhys. Even if she couldn't place the asshole at the time he'd
driven them from the wharf to the hotel, it was wonder she'd
reacted to him. Nick's sought Tony. In spite of his relations with
the enemy, he had to be the reason Rhys was still alive.

Had Nick imagined it, or did Tony shake his
head? Quickly, Nick turned his attention elsewhere. "Was the
witness protection legit?" he asked.

"At first," Cutter said, his anger toning down
a notch. "Until my associate stepped in."

"The press conference?"

"A fake." He beamed.

The bastard sure forgot about his drug-dealing
son when he had something to brag about. The fact Nick had trusted
him set him ablaze. "What was the point of all of this,
Cutter?"

"I've been waiting for the right time for a
little eye for an eye. Then you started digging into my boy's
death. Dredged up a lot of bad feelings. But then I thought about
it and realized it was time for you to watch someone you love die.
That's where Detective Clark comes in. I knew you'd do anything for
that bitch, so I just arranged for you to have something to do.
Although she looks a little surprised, Massey. Have you been
keeping something from the lady? Maybe the details of your
work?"