Warrior Without A Cause. Nancy Gideon
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seen her police file, too.
A robbery, they’d called it.
Unsolved.
An unfortunate coincidence in light of her recent tragedies.
“Miss D’Angelo?”
Her head jerked up and he was sure her eyes behind the opaque lenses had that deer-in-the-headlights glaze of alarm. He fought against the want to soften his tone with an apology for startling her. But she was expecting a kick-butt assassin not a Boy Scout, and he didn’t want to disappoint her illusions. At least, not yet.
“I’m Jack Chaney.”
She was motionless for a long moment. Not with fright, as he at first assumed, but to look him over as thoroughly as he’d done her. He fought against the impulse to stand just a little bit straighter and finger-comb the wind damage to his usually immaculate hair. He didn’t care if his chin was a bit burly, if his clothing was rumpled or if the truck outside sported more rust than attitude. If he surrendered to the gods of arrogance, it was in that one small spot of vanity. He had great hair and preferred none of it out of place. But then he wasn’t here to be interviewed. Tessa D’Angelo was the one on the hot seat. She nodded toward the opposite bench. “You’re late.” It wasn’t an accusation but rather a relieved observation, as if she’d feared he wouldn’t show.
“Traffic,” was his casual excuse. He couldn’t very well tell her that it had taken some time and some big promises to get a look into the official records, not until he’d at least had a cup of coffee for his trouble. “You need a refill there?” He gestured toward the half-full cup. She took a sip from it and grimaced.
“I guess I do. This is cold.”
He held up a hand and a curvy brunette with a scarred name tag proclaiming “JoBeth” bumped an ample hip against his shoulder. That she was the “Jo” in “Cuppa Jo’s,” a grandmother who spent all of her free time clucking over the much younger kitchen and wait staff and would do the same to him if he’d allowed it, didn’t keep her from the expected flirtation. Though she glanced at his stylish companion, she was careful to keep any hint of questions out of her gaze.
“Hiya, Chaney. Long time. The usual? High octane chased with a Sweet’n Low?”
“Sounds good. And a warm-up for the lady.”
“Got peach pie hot out of the oven. Marcy’ll take it as an insult if you don’t let her trot a piece out to you.”
Jack grinned. “I’ll pass for now but have her save a slice for the road.”
“Gotcha, doll.”
After she sashayed back to the counter, Jack faced his would-be client and got right to business.
“I’m sorry about your father.”
Tessa D’Angelo inhaled a sudden breath as if his condolences struck like another unfair punch. She let it out slow and shaky, then, in her throaty rumble, said, “Thank you.”
“I didn’t know him but he had a reputation for being a straight-up kinda guy.”
“And look where that reputation got him.”
Her flat summation puzzled him until she reached up with an elegant sweep of her hand to remove the dark glasses. The baby blues they revealed were anything but sweet. They were bright with angry, unshed tears.
“My father was a good man, Mr. Chaney. He was honest and decent and stood for justice all the way. Where was the justice in what happened to him?”
Casually he brought out the bulky tabloid he’d purchased on his way to the meeting. He laid it on the Formica-topped table where it covered the cup rings with words much more staining. She glanced at the glaring headlines and what little color her chiseled cheekbones retained all but drained away. She swayed slightly then gripped the edge of the table to regain her balance. Her delicate jaw worked a moment before she asked quietly, “If you believe that, why are you here?”
“I needed a cup of coffee. And I owe Stan. He asked me to take you seriously. This is pretty damned serious.” His finger tapped the tabloid’s banner: D.A.’s Suicide Tied To Drug Scandal.
“It’s a lie.”
“Most of the stuff you find in here is. But this sterling publication isn’t the only one saying it.”
“I don’t care who is saying what. My father isn’t guilty of anything. He wasn’t making money off drug trafficking or by looking the other way. I’d think his death would be proof of that.”
That was what Tessa had been trying to convince the police, according to her numerous calls, complaints and eventual condemnations.
Playing a calm devil’s advocate, Jack murmured, “Or unfortunate proof that he got in over his head and couldn’t face the consequences.”
She was off her seat so fast he barely had time to catch her wrist before she bolted. Such fine, easily broken bones. He restrained her carefully but refused to go easy on her. After all, even though she was the one who’d placed the call, they were on his dime now.
“Sit down, Miss D’Angelo. Those opinions can’t be news to you. They’ve been in every headline for weeks now. If you had thicker skin, you wouldn’t bruise so easily.” He felt a shiver go through her in reaction to her pain and rage.
“Hardly an amusing observation, considering,” came her wry retort.
“Sit,” he said again, and this time she did.
“It’s not my place to make judgments, Miss D’Angelo. That’s not what I do. I wasn’t aware that my opinions were why you sought me out. So I guess it’s time to ask, just why have you called me?”
“Justice, Mr. Chaney. For my father and me.”
“Vigilante style?”
“Would it matter to you?”
Her sharp tone was a quick barb to a conscience he wasn’t sure up until that very moment could be reached by mere words. His features stiffened.
“Obviously you think it shouldn’t.” She thought she was looking at a gun-for-hire, a quick, violent solution to her problems. What had Stan told her to give her that erroneous impression? Why come to him when the streets of the inner city were most likely teeming with guys who would kill for a quarter? That wasn’t what he did and it was about time she found that out. “What do you want from me, Miss D’Angelo? You want to put a contract out on whomever you think is responsible for putting your father in the ground? You want me to pull the trigger, is that it?”
She never so much as twitched. “I plan to pull my own trigger, Mr. Chaney. That’s not why I need you.”
He blinked.
“I need you to teach me how to stay alive long enough to pull it.”
She was blowing it.
Tessa could tell by the sudden blanking of his dark eyes. Gorgeous dark eyes that she bet could beg for forgiveness while making a woman forget what he had done wrong. Eyes that saw right through her tough outer shell to the marshmallow filling. It didn’t help that with his smoldering George-Clooney-like sex appeal, he looked more like a romantic leading man than the Rambo she’d been expecting. She had maybe a minute to plead her case or he was going to be gone. And with him, her last chance at finding out the truth.
“Stan said you could help me.”
It was an emotional ploy but she could tell it was effective by the way his sensuously shaped mouth thinned into a disagreeable line.
“Stan told you I could make you into a killer?”
Now, she was surprised. “N-no. No, of course not.”
Chaney relaxed ever so slightly. “Then I’m to assume we are speaking of a symbolic trigger.”
“Yes.