Sinner (The Hades Squad #1) (23 page)

“Where's Lucifer?” Palms wedged onto his hips, Lincoln let his gaze sweep the room, taking in the ashes in the triangular stone fireplace. Faint, watery sunlight skirmished with the fog, dusting the windows opposite, which framed a spectacular landscape of sandy beach fronted by pebbles. Snowy foam did a slow bump and grind over the rocky divider.

“Probably upstairs for a sec. He spent the night. Gimme your cup.”

Linc complied with Satan’s command and followed his friend to an alcove to the right of the fireplace that housed an industrial-strength stainless Miele coffeemaker.

Satan shoved the mug under a spout and stabbed a button. The muted aroma of last night's pine blaze battled the scent of Jamaican Blue Mountains beans grinding as the one-cup-at-a-time appliance erupted. Dark liquid spewed and spurted into the mug, and the pine and ashes aroma surrendered to the fragrant brew.

“The late Sinner has finally arrived.” Lucifer's husky voice came from the doorway. “So how goes the courtship?”

Square jawed with platinum-streaked dirty blond hair grazing mid-chest, Lucifer, aka Sax Anders, folded his arms and propped one shoulder on the side of the ceiling-height bookshelf. He crossed his feet at the ankles and raised an eyebrow a shade darker than birch bark.

“He and Destiny are moving in together,” Satan replied before Linc could even open his mouth.

Lucifer straightened and shot Linc a one-sided grin. “First one of us to hit the dust. And from the broad beam on your face—you’re damned pleased. Congrats, my friend. She’s stunning, and from what I’ve found out so far, not only hard working but intelligent too. You grabbed the brass ring with your Destiny Driven.”

Linc’s cheeks heated. He busied himself adding sugar to his java. “I fucking did. Drummed up anything on her birth mother? Or her bastard father?”

“My PI discovered Destiny's mother had a sister, Patricia Driven. As for Destiny's scumbag father, the man's dirty, Sinner. Robert Parker’s a building inspector in Connecticut. His lifestyle doesn't jive with his purported income.” Lucifer strolled over to the coffee maker, inserted one of the mugs stacked on a tray under the brewing spigot, and hit the start button.

Linc's belly caved as if he'd been sucker punched. He walked over to the sofa opposite the windows, sat, and rested his mug on the table. He’d so hoped Lucifer would uncover that Destiny had a ton of family. “An aunt. No other relatives?”

“No. Charlene and Patricia’s parents died twenty-five years ago. Patricia's the only one left. We’re working on locating her. Found evidence of a Vegas quickie marriage, but so far no details.” Lucifer sniffed his java before taking a swallow.

“Keep digging. Maybe the aunt will turn out to be okay.” And if Patricia had married and had babies, Destiny could have cousins. It’d be fucking fantastic to tell Destiny she had living relatives. Linc well remembered the sad, poignant expression she’d worn when he described his large, whacky family.

“Let’s get down to business. Want to do the honors?” Satan directed his question at Lucifer. He took a seat adjacent to Linc and swallowed another swig of his coffee.

“I have everything programmed re the
Indonesian Express
—ship blueprints, crew backgrounds, projected paths. Hit the switch, Satan.” Lucifer, mug cradled in one hand, plopped onto the other end of the couch.

Satan flipped two switches. Motorized blackout drapes, a deep sapphire, gradually covered the picture window, and a seven-by-ten-foot LCD screen descended from the ceiling.

“This is a bird's-eye view of the Indian Ocean. India's on the right. Myanmar starts at the V and continues for a few hundred miles. Then the rest of the V is Thailand. Guido's experts ran the currents, excluded water too shallow for a three-hundred-ton shipping container and all the populated areas. We have five possible bays where the pirates can hide. As we speak, search aircraft are combing each one.” Lucifer moved the laser pointer to five different spots on the map.

“We haven't heard from the pirates?” Linc leaned forward, elbows on his knees, chin balanced on steepled fingers, and studied the map. “Crew? Captain?”

“Ransom demand delivered four hours after the
Indonesian Express
went missing via email, so far origins untraceable. Skeleton crew, captain is Norwegian, been with the line five years. One of the crew, one of the pilots I believe, is female.”

“A female is piloting that three-hundred-pound monster?” Satan scrubbed a hand over his face.

“Progress on the glass ceiling,” Lucifer commented, his expression belying the words.

“I guess. Beats me, anyone wanting to work in that profession. Months at sea interrupted by seedy ports. Crap food.” Satan shook his head.

“Rape is a possibility, then,” Linc mused and forced his mind away from the notion of the woman pilot being sexually abused. “We'd better come up with a strategy fast.”

“One other small problem—Homeland Security's muscling in. I received a pointed phone call not an hour ago,” Satan declared.

“Yeah, I know. They've been monitoring every maritime hijacking since 9/11, and they've a right to. I don't even want to begin to imagine a supertanker ramming a port like Rotterdam or Singapore or Shanghai. It's not just the disruption caused by destroying the three busiest ports in the world. Shanghai's population is what, over sixteen million?” Linc asked, his question more rhetorical than a real query.

“Hovering just under seventeen mil these days. But it's too far away.” Lucifer highlighted Singapore with a red laser dot. “If it's terrorists,
this
is the easy target.”

“Singapore's the second-densest independent country in the world.” Satan swirled the liquid in his cup.

The jiggling, circling mug grated Linc's nerves. “Either drink the fucking coffee or toss it.”

“Girlie nerves?” Satan grimaced but gulped the coffee.

“Ass-hat,” Linc snapped.

“What about Rotterdam? Can you imagine the psychological impact on world confidence? The world's economy can't take another hit like that.” Lucifer dashed a hand through his hair. “Good thing the ship didn't vanish off the Sudan. At least we can rule out Rotterdam and Shanghai. And India—no major ports nearby.”

A couple of hours later, after having detailed different strategic responses to either terrorists or kidnappers, Linc left Satan and Lucifer arguing over whether to go into the city to troll for hookups or stay local and choose from the available talent. By the time he turned in the Hummer and ducked into the local train coverlet, his watch showed the time as five thirty.

Rush hour. At least he'd be swimming upstream. Linc stopped at a newsstand. Might as well see if the print media had caught wind of the story. He bought the
Times
, the
Post
, and on impulse, the
New York Daily News
. Five minutes later, he collapsed into the first empty seat he spied and settled down to skim the headlines.

The
Post
and
Times
each carried a one-paragraph report in the business section on a suspected hijacking in the Indian Ocean. He paged through the
Times
'
entertainment section. Albert Gilbert's tenure with the New York Philharmonic had begun in September, and during Linc's last conversation with his mother, she'd raved about the new conductor's amazing talent.

Would Destiny learn to like classical music? She liked his voice.

He'd already agreed to his mother's plea to be part of the Philharmonic's Christmas performance of Handel's
Messiah
at the Riverside Church in the city. Maybe that would pique Destiny's interest.

Did she want kids right away? Would she settle on Long Island?

He flipped the crinkly
Post
pages and halted when a blurred shot of a familiar face caught his attention. The caption under the photo read, “Juanita Sender Blames Former Editor Sara Parker for Leaked Sex Tape.”

Fuck. Had any of the other rags printed this crap?

Dread clogged his lungs.

The
News
gossip headline read JUANITA SENDER THREATENS ST. PAUL'S EDITOR SARA PARKER WITH LAWSUIT.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I wasn't there for you, Destiny. I wasn't there to protect you.

Who'd started this rumor? That bitch Juanita had to be involved.

Lucifer.

Linc fumbled his cell from his pocket; rage made his movements clumsy. He thumbed Lucifer's number and smashed the phone against his ear.

Come on. Come on. Answer. Answer.

“You miss me already?”

Linc heard bar noise, clinking glasses, male and female raised voices. “Go take a leak.”

Lucifer must have heard the fury in his voice. “You want quiet as well as private?”

“Yeah.”

A door slammed, then another.

“Clear.”

“Get ahold of today's
Times
,
Post
, and
News
. Arts and entertainment section.”

“There's a pharmacy across the road.”

“Pick them up. Read the Juanita Sender stuff. I need to know who's behind this. Call me back the second you have a lead.”

“Done. I’ll get right on it.” Lucifer hung up.

Linc's mind churned like a zero-gravity accelerator. Why was this bitch picking on Destiny? What had Destiny said in the cabin?

“
First she steals my boyfriend; then she makes millions off the sex tape
.”

He hit Receive before the mobile phone could complete its first shuddering ring.

“Why's this fucking bitch got it in for your woman?” He'd figured Lucifer would bring the others up to date immediately and knew Satan would be the first to call. They had each other's backs always. Satan's ferocious snap warmed his insides.

“That's what I need to find out.”

“How soon you need this?”

Lincoln hesitated. “Yesterday. I want every single piece of dirt on the scumbag who screwed Juanita.”

“What's he got to do with this?”

“He's Destiny's ex.”

“Linc.” Rarely did they ever call each other by their real names. “Buddy, don't go off the deep end. You near her place?”

“Thirty minutes.”

“Address, in case I need a face-to-face tonight.”

Linc gave it to him. Remembered Nadine’s treatment of Destiny in Alaska, and his gut had him adding, “Tell Lucifer to widen the net. See if Nadine and this Juanita are friendly. They both publish with St. Paul’s, and Destiny’s been screwed by both women.”

“’Do you one better. I’ll check in with Nadine myself. See what I can get out of her.”

“I owe you one.”

Linc phoned St. Paul's only to discover that Destiny had left work early. He near ’bout caused five fender benders on the race from the subway to her apartment, ignoring lights and dodging cars when he crossed intersections without stopping.

Oncoming pedestrians took one look at his face and parted like the Red Sea under Moses' command.

Don't be crying, Destiny.

He might have five sisters, but had never become immune to a woman’s tears. It fucked him royally.

Jesus, this would shatter her blossoming trust, and she'd retreat into that emotional shell, watching, waiting for betrayal.

Two days ago, he'd waited for one of the residents to enter the building's security, unwilling to chance her welcome. Not today. She didn't answer his repeated intercom stabbing, and alarm ratcheted his heartbeat to a bongo drum roll, which roared in his ears, preventing coherent thought.

Call 911? Flag a cop?

“Pardon me, young man. Are you waiting for someone?” chirped a thin, reedy voice.

Linc pivoted. He had to fist his hand to restrain from grabbing Mrs. Charles and lifting her high in the air. “Mrs. Charles, it's me, Lincoln Chapman, Destiny's boyfriend.”

“Of course, dear. I'd recognize you anywhere.” Mrs. Charles patted her bouffant hairdo. Snapping a small beaded purse shut, she jiggled an ornate brass key ring dangling an outline of the Eiffel Tower.

“Allow me.” Linc gently relieved the older woman of the tower.

“Why, thank you, dear. I'm so glad we bumped into each other.”

Linc held the door open and waved Mrs. Charles through.

Mrs. Charles twirled around and blocked the short distance to the elevator. She batted her eyelashes, smiled, and sweetly stated, “I've been meaning to speak to you about Destiny. Now, young man, I hope your intentions are honorable. I'm all the family that poor child has. And she has so few visitors. Why, if I didn't prod her into having brunch with me, she'd do nothing but go to work and keep to herself.”

I don't have time for this, lady.

“Let's walk and talk, Mrs. Charles.” Linc cupped a hand under her elbow and turned her around. “I have every intention of marrying Destiny. Hopefully, within the next couple of weeks.”

She minced slower than a snail crawling up a vertical branch. Every tortuous, strolling step made his teeth grit together hard enough to crack.

Mrs. Charles kept up a running chatter in the elevator. It was all Linc could do not to keep stabbing the button for Destiny's floor.

Calling on the last of his discipline, he guided Mrs. Charles down the narrow hallway, opened her door with the keys he'd retained possession of, and nearly shoved the still prattling woman into her apartment.

“Mrs. C, I’ll wait outside your door until I hear the lock click.” He enunciated each word and spoke louder than normal.

“Thank you, dear.” She batted her lashes.

He pulled the door shut before Mrs. C could utter more dribble. “I’m waiting.”

Linc rocked on his heels until he heard the first lock click; then he sprinted the three-second distance to Destiny's apartment.

Growling a string of expletives when he tested the round brass knob and the door opened, he marched inside and kicked the door shut.

Destiny stood at the stove but whipped around, hand up in the air, the wooden spoon she held glistening with rich brown liquid. “Hi!”

A tad taken aback by her wide beam and cheer, he folded his arms and inspected her from head to bare toes.