Dangerous Nights. Merline Lovelace
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stalked his prey long enough. Time to move in for the kill.
Over the rim of his coffee cup, Jonah Devereaux eyed the rotund, balding man across the Formica table from him.
Martin Farrout.
Everything Jonah had learned to date in his investigation told him Farrout was the muscle of the gambling operation, the gatekeeper. Getting past Farrout, rooting out the players up the chain of command was what the past six months had been about.
“Mark my words. Kansas will go all the way,” Ted Pulliam, one of Farrout’s lackeys, said, jabbing the diner’s table with his finger for emphasis.
Jonah grunted and lowered his coffee. “North Carolina. They’re a powerhouse with a winning legacy to uphold.”
Pulliam scoffed. “All right, Devereaux, put your money where your mouth is.” The wiry man with faded tattoos slapped a Jackson on the table. “Twenty bucks. And I’ll give you five points.”
Jonah schooled his face and divided a bland look between Pulliam and Farrout, sizing them up. Weighing his decision to push his investigation to the next level.
He drained the cold dregs of his coffee and shoved the mug to the end of the table. In seconds, their waitress had snagged the coffeepot and stepped over to refill his cup.
Lifting a hand, Jonah waved her off. “Naw, I’m done, Annie. Thanks anyway.”
“Gentlemen, we close in ten minutes. Can I get you anything else?” the attractive brunette asked as she cleared away the dirty mug.
Sure. I’ll take an order of inside information about the local gambling ring with a side of details on the money-laundering operation I suspect your boss is running. Hold the onions.
If only it were that easy.
Instead, he’d spent months investigating the illegal activities he’d traced to Pop’s Diner, and he still didn’t have the evidence he needed to resolve the case and turn his information over to the local police.
The evidence he needed to give Michael justice.
Pushing aside thoughts of his mentor, Jonah flashed Annie a quick smile. “Just my bill.”
While posing as a paper-mill worker who’d recently moved to the area, Jonah had eaten enough greasy meals at the small diner to send his cholesterol count into the stratosphere—a lesser-known hazard of undercover work that’d take countless hours in the gym to rectify. At least the coffee was good. God knew he’d guzzled enough of the brew at Pop’s to last a lifetime.
But over the weeks, his regular meals at Pop’s had gained him the level of familiarity with the locals he needed to loosen a few tongues and open a door or two. Things were finally beginning to fall into place.
He shifted his gaze to Farrout and pitched his voice low. “I want the real action. Five grand on UNC to win it all.”
Pulliam fell silent and sat back in the booth.
Farrout lifted a thick black eyebrow. One taut second ticked after another, the tension screwing Jonah’s gut into a tight knot. Unflinching, he held the portly man’s stare.
Finally, Farrout narrowed his eyes to slits. “Ten.”
Jonah sighed, pretending to consider the higher stakes. He couldn’t seem too eager or too free with his cash. The working-class stiff he was supposed to be wouldn’t have ten thousand dollars to lose on a careless bet. Not that he had that kind of money to lose, either.
He rubbed his thumb idly on the handle of his spoon and glanced out the plate-glass window to the night-darkened street. “That’s pretty steep.”
Farrout shrugged lazily. “I gotta know if you’re for real or if you’re just wasting my time. First bet is always ten grand, minimum.”
Pulliam twisted his lips into a taunting grin. “How sure are you of UNC now?”
Keeping a stoic face, Jonah drummed his fingers on the table in an intentional display of nerves. “I can go eight now, two more next payday.”
Farrout’s fleshy lips twitched. “Deal.”
Annie returned with separate checks for the three men. When she reached for Farrout’s plate, he grabbed her wrist with his meaty hand and squeezed. “Did I say I was through?”
Wincing, Annie gave Farrout a wide-eyed glance. “I’m sorry. I just thought—”
Fury burned inside Jonah, and he stiffened. “Let go of her.”
The barrel-chested man returned a cold stare. “Butt out, Devereaux.”
Jonah gritted his teeth. “Let. Go.”
Annie’s cheeks had drained of color, and her dark eyes rounded with apprehension.
A muscle jumped in Farrout’s jaw, but he released Annie with an angry thrust. “Watch yourself, Devereaux. I don’t like people sticking their nose where it don’t belong.”
Hell. He didn’t need to blow his investigation by pissing Farrout off. But he damn well wouldn’t sit by and let him rough up a woman, either. He’d done that too often as a kid when his dad was in one of his moods, and the guilt still ate at him.
Annie rubbed her offended wrist and cast a quick, curious glance at Jonah before hurrying back to the lunch counter.
Over the months he’d been working the case, he’d gotten to know all of the waitresses by name. Annie was the most reticent of the waitstaff, but she was also the most intriguing. Though attentive and polite to a fault, she was far less inclined to engage in good-natured banter and flirting the way the other servers did. An air of mystery surrounded her, partly because of her shyness, partly because she wore her silky dark tresses in a style reminiscent of the sultry movie stars of the 1940s—parted on the side with a curtain of hair covering one cheek.
Jonah had caught a glimpse of that hidden cheek once and seen the scars she was concealing. Those scars added to the enigma that was Annie but, in his opinion, didn’t detract from her pretty face. Clearly she thought otherwise, or she wouldn’t work so hard to hide the jagged pink lines.
As Jonah dug his wallet out of his back pocket, Farrout and Pulliam slid out of the booth and sauntered to the counter with their checks.
“Put it on my tab, doll face,” Farrout said, tossing his ticket on the counter and turning to leave.
Pulliam added his bill and clicked his tongue. “Ditto.”
Annie’s brow furrowed, and she shook her head. “But … we don’t—”
The men ignored her as they walked out, chortling to themselves.
From the booth, Jonah seethed over the men’s rudeness. He studied Annie’s crestfallen expression, her drooping shoulders and moue of disgust. She slapped the counter with the rag in her hand and huffed loudly.
When she raised her gaze to him, he quickly shifted his attention to his bill and pulled a twenty out of his wallet. He rose from the bench seat and approached the counter where she wiped up the day’s mess with more vigor than necessary.
Extending the ticket and cash to her, he smiled ruefully. “Keep the change.”
She glanced at the money and frowned. “But all you had was coffee.”
He lifted a shoulder as he returned his wallet to his pocket. “Maybe I want to help your day end on a positive note.”
Annie gaped at him as if she didn’t know what to make of his kindness. As if she’d never encountered generosity before. “But—”
“Annie!” Peter Hardin, the manager of the diner and Jonah’s key suspect in the money-laundering scheme, burst through the swinging kitchen door.
Jonah saw Annie tense as her linebacker-size boss stalked over to her.