Buried Leads (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery) Page 8

  I couldn’t think of a suitable reply, so I scooped more chili into my mouth and hoped he’d keep talking. He watched me over the top of his bottle.

  “I was thinking it might be good for more than my career,” he said.

  Shit. He smiled, and I shoveled another bite into my mouth while I thought out a response.

  “There’s someone else?” he asked when I opened my mouth to speak.

  “N—yes,” I said. “There’s me. Kyle, I lost myself in you to the point that I almost gave up what I’d wanted most since I was a little girl. I’ve even wondered since if I made the right choice. But I did. I chose me. And I’ve found a girl who can interview a serial killer and kick some bad guy ass and rock a pair of stilettos, too. I like her. And I don’t want to lose her again.”

  “I’m not saying let’s get married tomorrow,” he said. “We’re not the same people we were. But that doesn’t mean we can’t like the people we are now.”

  My stomach flipped a little at the unblinking electric blue gaze. Could we? I dropped my eyes to my bowl. “I don’t know, Kyle.”

  “I’ll take that over ‘No.’”

  I smiled. “The glass is still half full, huh? Let’s think about getting to be friends. Slow.”

  “How slow?”

  “As slow as we need,” I said with a gentle smile. “That’s the best I can do tonight. Let’s talk about something else, shall we? Anything interesting going on at work?”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Are we off the record, Woodward?”

  “Do you see a pen? I’m not always a reporter, Kyle. I can be interested in your job as a friend, too.” And I was. But if he happened to say something that might help with my story, so be it.

  “Okay.” He swirled his spoon in the air to gather stringing cheddar and took a bite, his face thoughtful as he chewed and swallowed. “The press has not been notified of the case I’m working on, but there are some enterprising folks making a pretty penny off the high cigarette taxes in New York.”

  My brow puckered. Kyle took another bite.

  “I think your cooking has gotten even better, Nicey. This is great.”

  “Thanks. How do crooks make money off taxes?”

  “By stealing them. Virginia and North Carolina have the smallest per-pack excise taxes on cigarettes in the country. And we’re not that far from New York, where the taxes are high. So these guys buy truckloads of cigarettes wholesale down here, then put counterfeit New York tax stamps on them and sell them at full price up there. It’s a major interstate organization. They do a pretty good business, and ninety percent of their customers have no idea they’re doing anything illegal.”

  “Wait. You’re saying Joe Smoker doesn’t know it’s shady to buy cigarettes off a truck instead of in the store? No one is that dense.”

  Kyle shook his head. “A small percentage of the activity is on the Internet or in back alleys, but most of the sales are being made through convenience stores. I’m pretty sure most of the ones I’m talking about are run by folks who aren’t nominees for citizen of the year, so they’re getting a cut of the money for providing the outlet. The end consumer thinks they ran to the quickie mart to get a pack, but they’re really funding organized crime.”

  Organized crime? Was that why Joey wanted to talk to me? I brushed the thought aside.

  “Wow. That’s...crafty. How do people come up with this stuff? It would never occur to me to sell contraband cigarettes to people in New York and pocket the tax money.” I dropped my spoon into my bowl and rested my chin on one fist, my hair falling over my left eye.

  “I’m afraid you’ll never be a criminal mastermind.” Kyle’s hand fluttered toward my face, like he was going to brush my hair out of it. I smiled at him and shoved the wayward strand behind my ear. He focused his blue lasers on the nearly-empty bowl before he continued. “Anyway, that’s what’s been occupying my days since I got here.”

  “Just be careful,” I said. “Criminal masterminds have a tendency to hold pretty poor regard for life—especially cops’ lives.”

  He thumped one fist against his chest in a show of bravado and flashed a row of orthodontist-perfect pearly whites. “That’s what my friend Kevlar is for. We call him Kev.”

  Every story I’d ever done on a cop who’d been killed in the line of duty flashed through my mind like lightning. “Kev doesn’t protect your head, Kyle.”

  His eyes softened. “I know that. I’m careful. I’m well-trained. I’m not stupid. I don’t want you to worry about me.”

  “Too late. I have a lot of friends who are cops. I worry about all of you.”

  Something flared in his eyes, and I found myself unable to look away until the soft flapping of Darcy’s dog door broke the spell. She barked once and pawed my bare ankle, demanding a treat. Kyle cleared his throat as he pushed his chair back.

  “Let me help you with that,” he said, reaching for his bowl.

  I set them both in the sink and smiled. “Done. I only use enough dishes to run the dishwasher every few days.”

  I scratched Darcy’s head and gave her a biscuit, sorting through my thoughts. Kyle Miller in my kitchen. After all these years. Would it be so bad to try again? Maybe not. But could I stand losing him again if it didn’t work out? My heart hurt just contemplating it.

  When Darcy scurried away, I led Kyle into the living room and parked myself strategically on the tufted red chaise lounge, gesturing to the navy sofa opposite my perch.

  “Didn’t they just pass a law that’s going to raise the tax on cigarettes here?” I asked him, remembering a story I’d seen a few weeks before.

  “Very good. I guess you’re up on the latest news,” Kyle said. “My thieves have got to be salivating over that. There are more smokers here in Virginia as a percentage of the population than anywhere else, and the average income isn’t nearly what you see in Manhattan, so this tax hike is going to hit a lot of people hard. The crooks will keep buying in North Carolina, and as soon as they figure out how to fake the new Virginia stamps, which even I haven’t seen yet, they’ll be selling here, too. Not for long, though. We’ll catch them.”

  I nodded, my fingers twisting my hair into knots as I studied the fluffy geometric-print rug under my coffee table. Grayson. Billings. The farmer from the jewelry store. The dead lobbyist. Tobacco seemed to be popping up in my days an awful lot.

  “What’s up?” Kyle asked.

  “Hmm?” I kept my eyes on the red triangle in the carpet.

  “Nicey. You’re playing with your hair. What are you thinking about?”

  When I looked up, Kyle was waving his arms like he was guiding a plane home. I laughed.

  “A story. Just trying to figure out what pieces go where in this one.”

  “Oh, yeah? I’m a pretty smart guy, you know. And the hair tells me there’s something you’re trying to figure out.”

  I turned and caught a glimpse of the right side of my head in the dark, flat screen of the TV that hung above my fireplace. There were at least four loops where I’d been bothering my hair as I stared at the floor. I ran my fingers through it and they fell straight.

  “What do you know about Billings?” I asked. “You seemed pretty sure this morning that he was responsible for killing the lobbyist. Why do you think so?”

  Kyle leaned forward, studying my face for a moment.

  “Off the record, Miss Clarke,” he said. “Because I trust you. And I don’t think I have to say that if this shows up in the newspaper, I won’t make that mistake again, right?”

  “Noted.”

  “I think Billings is paying someone off,” he said. “And I have a couple of ideas, though I haven’t found enough for an arrest warrant yet. But something went bad. Either the lobbyist grew a conscience, or he threatened to tell, or he asked for a bigger cut. I have a lea
d on a weapon, and forensics is working on more.”

  “And who do you think Billings was buying off?”

  “That, I can’t even tell you as a friend.”

  I nodded, tugging at my hair again.

  He stared, thumb and hooked index finger sliding over the auburn bristles around his mouth a few times. “You think you know the answer to that already, don’t you?”

  I grinned. “If you’re not sharing, neither am I.”

  “But you’re working another angle on this,” he said. “Irrespective of what you saw at the courthouse this morning. You’re on another trail.”

  “I can neither confirm nor deny that, agent,” I said.

  “I don’t need you to confirm it. I know you.” He sat back and draped one arm over the back of the sofa. “As your friend, let me give you a piece of advice. Watch your step. ”

  “I’m really not investigating anything,” I said, turning what he’d said about Billings over in my head and wondering if I was lying to him even as I spoke the words. “But your concern is duly noted. And appreciated.”

  “Let me know if there’s anything I can help you with,” he said. “Without actually losing my job, anyway.”

  “Yeah?” I said, grinning. “Half of getting any story is about who you know. I guess you’re a good person to know.”

  I was kidding, but something I couldn’t quite read flitted across his face.

  “I like to think so,” he smiled, dropping his eyelids halfway and leaning forward.

  Oh, I knew that look. It hadn’t changed in ten years. Time to go home, Special Agent Bedroom Eyes. No need to test my willpower so soon.

  I made a show of eyeballing the clock and yawning, complaining about my long day. He shook his head the tiniest bit, but rose and turned toward the foyer.

  “Thanks for dinner.” He leaned against the front door and smiled. “I’ll give you a call if I come across anything that says I really am a good person for you to know.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think your worth as a friend is solely dependent on your ability to get me classified ATF information.”

  “I’m really glad I found you again, Nicey.”

  “I’m glad you found me, too. My ashes would be scattered all over Shockoe Bottom right now if you hadn’t.” I feigned horror and he chuckled.

  Smiling back, I pulled the door open. And found myself nose-to-nose with Joey.

  8.

  It’s raining men

  “Hi.” The word popped out automatically, and I took a step backward and pushed the door open farther, hiding Kyle behind it.

  “I thought we might take that walk.” Joey stepped into the entryway, his honey-colored skin particularly attractive against a lavender oxford shirt, sleeves rolled up and tie loose. It was the most informal I’d ever seen him, and I couldn’t help noticing how his shoulders pulled at the seams of the cotton. Not enough to classify the shirt as tight, just enough to make my pulse flutter. I felt the corners of my lips tip up in a smile, and his dark eyes lit, crinkling at the corners when he flashed a grin.

  It faded when Kyle stepped out from behind the door.

  “Thanks for dinner,” he said again, laying a hand on my shoulder before he put one arm around me and pulled me into a half-hug.

  Joey stared, and my eyes flicked between the two of them, watching them size each other up. Oh, boy.

  “I didn’t know you had company,” Joey said, not moving to leave. “We could go another time.”

  “Such things happen when you refuse to call before you come by,” I chided, ducking out from under Kyle’s arm and cutting a warning look in his direction. “Kyle was just leaving. And I could use a walk. It’s beautiful outside tonight.” Two visits in a week’s time was unusual for Joey. He wanted to talk to me, and I wanted to know why.

  “I’ll call you,” Kyle said, turning sideways to slide through the wide doorway. Joey didn’t move to make it easier, stepping closer to me only after Kyle was on the porch.

  “Thank you, Kyle. It was nice to catch up with an old friend.” I hit the last word too hard, and Joey chuckled under his breath. Kyle’s smile faltered. I felt a flicker of remorse, but we certainly hadn’t been anything more than friends in a long time, and I really wanted him to go before the two of them got into enough of a pissing contest for him to start asking questions about Joey. How would I explain a moonlight walk with a Mafia boss to the ATF?

  Not well, that’s how.

  Kyle nodded and muttered something that sounded like “We’ll see about that,” turning and jogging down the steps.

  I shut the door and flashed a smile at Joey. “Your timing is off. Do you have a fever or something?” I reached up to touch his forehead, and he leaned forward just enough to enter the danger zone in my tiny foyer. I ran my fingers through my own hair instead and laughed shakily, spinning toward the living room.

  “Let me get my shoes.”

  “Preferably some you’ll make it farther than a few blocks in,” he called after me.

  I dug through the basket in the corner of the living room where my less-important footwear lived, unearthing a pair of black ballet flats with purple roses embroidered on the toes. Hurrying back to the door, I found Joey examining my collection of beach glass.

  “This is beautiful,” he said.

  “I love the beach. My mom grew up in California. In Texas, we went to the Gulf coast every year when I was little, and then to Mexico and even the Bahamas when I got older.” I pointed to a sapphire piece with violet streaks. “This one came from a place near a coral reef off Grand Bahama Island. I can’t come home from a trip without the perfect piece of glass.”

  I took a deep breath and got more than a faint whiff of a woodsy, musky cologne. He was standing awfully close. And he smelled so good.

  “What?” I took a step back and returned his smile.

  “You get a look on your face every time you mention your mother,” he said, opening the front door. “You must be very close.”

  “That would have been accurate five years ago. Then she got cancer and I thought I might lose her. The only reason I didn’t move back home was that she threatened to disown me if I did. She didn’t want me to quit my job.”

  “She’s okay now?”

  “She’s been in remission for more than four years. I don’t close my eyes at night without being thankful for that. So far, so good.”

  “Good to hear.”

  We walked in silence, an occasional car passing or pebble scraping under a shoe the only sounds for almost a block.

  “So, about your friend back there,” Joey said finally. “Is he anyone important?”

  Subtle, Joey.

  “He’s my long-ago ex-boyfriend. Who also happens to be the Richmond ATF office’s newest special agent.”

  “No shit?” He became very interested in the moon, hanging low and blood orange. “How convenient.”

  I kept my eyes on the stars, which seemed brighter next to the dark harvest moon.

  Joey and I had chatted a handful of times over the summer, on warm nights when I’d come home to find him on my porch swing holding the dog. But we’d been careful to keep it light, avoiding reference to what we might think of each other outside a bizarre friendship. My stomach flipped at the notion that he might want to be more than friends, but my head warned against the idea. No matter what Freud might say about the dreams I had to the contrary.

  “What’s up?” Time to talk business.

  “Excuse me?” He turned his head to look at me.

  “You’ve been here twice in a week. You want something. I seem to remember you talking about ‘using people who purvey information to work around the edges of the law.’ So, what is it?”

  He slowed his gait.

  “You’re nosin
g around Ted Grayson,” he said flatly. “I need you to back off. And I’m already sure you won’t do it, but I have to ask you. Before somebody decides to tell you.”

  I spun on one heel to face him.

  He met my gaze head-on, looking down slightly because of my flat shoes.

  I studied his face for a full minute before I spoke. His mouth was drawn into a tight line, his eyes liquid and pleading. And he wasn’t the pleading type. What was Grayson into?

  “How the hell do you know that?” I asked finally.

  “Men like Grayson have all kinds of connections,” Joey said. “And information is currency. If the right person decides to keep you quiet, you might get hurt. I don’t want that.” He raised a hand and pushed my wayward lock of hair gently behind my ear, his fingers barely grazing my skin. The simple gesture sent sparks shooting clear to my fingertips. I wanted to lean my cheek into his palm, but instead I tilted my head away. His hand dropped.

  “Someone could hurt me?” I asked.

  “I don’t have say-so over everybody with a gun. Far from it. And this has the potential to get very ugly, Miss Clarke. Let. It. Go. Politics isn’t even your game.”

  “Crime is my game. I think the good senator is up to no good. You pretty much just confirmed it. I don’t do well with letting go.”

  “Learn,” Joey said. “Consider it self-preservation.”

  “I know you’re not threatening me.” God, I hoped he wasn’t, anyway. But maybe I thought he was sexy because he was more than a little bit dangerous. “To the casual observer it might sound that way, though. What is your boy Grayson into?”

  “He’s not my boy,” Joey said. “And I’m not telling you a damned thing. The less you can find out, the more likely you are to drop it.”