His Runaway Juror
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With a sigh, Brand threw some cash down on the bar, turned his back on the brimming shot glass and headed for his car. He maneuvered the dark streets to a private pack-and-mail store that rented post office boxes. The store was closed, but he had a key to the alcove where the boxes were located.
He parked at the entrance and took a moment to roll up the leg of his jeans. Gritting his teeth, he ripped the tape off his ankle and with it the miniature tape recorder that had been a part of him for the last three years.
He massaged his skin where the tape had abraded it, ejected the tiny cassette and inserted a brand new one. He stuck the tape recorder in his shirt pocket. His ankle could use a rest. He’d tape the device back on his leg first thing in the morning.
He pulled his sock up and his cuff down.
Then he wrote the date on the used tape’s label and dropped it into an envelope, unlocked the box and shoved it inside, just as he’d done three or four times a week for the past three years. His fingers encountered a note. A single sheet of paper, folded once. He stuck it in his pocket and grabbed the untraceable prepaid cell phone his contact had left in the mail box.
He dialed the only number programmed into it. The cell phone of FBI Special Agent Thomas Pruitt.
“Pruitt. It’s Gallagher.” He could hear voices in the background. It sounded like a ball game.
“What’s up?”
“I got an assignment today from Castellano.”
“No kidding? Hang on.”
Brand heard Pruitt tell someone he’d be right back. After a few seconds the background noise lessened.
“Sorry. My kid’s baseball game. Go ahead. What happened?”
“Castellano put me with a ratty little lowlife named Foshee. We paid a visit to a juror in the Simon case. Leaned on her hard. Foshee threatened her to vote not guilty, to hang the jury, or something would happen to her father.”
“Wait a minute. Castellano gave you this assignment himself?”
“Yep. I got called into his inner sanctum—his table at Gio’s. Foshee was there, along with a couple of muscle-heads with machine pistols.”
“I’ll be damned. Finally! We’ve waited for three years for a break like this. Who is she? The juror?”
“Name’s Lily Raines. She’s juror number seven.”
“Raines. I wonder if she’s related to a guy named Raines I used to know. He got shot on the job a couple of years ago.”
“That’s him. He’s in Beachside Manor Nursing Home. Something happened there tonight. Foshee didn’t tell me what, but it was enough to send Lily tearing over there about twenty minutes after we left her apartment.”
“I’ll check on it.”
“How do you want me to handle this? You going to let the D.A. know Castellano’s tampering with the jury?”
“How’d you handle it tonight?”
Brand made a rude gesture toward the phone. He didn’t like Pruitt. “How the hell do you think? I went along. I didn’t know any specifics until we got to her apartment.” It had sickened him to have to hold her still while Foshee manhandled her and threatened her. “I tried to keep Foshee from being too rough.”
“You did right. You’ve gotta play along. Three of you undercover for three years and this is the closest we’ve gotten to Castellano. We had a feeling he would try something during the trial, but this is better than we’d hoped. We can’t risk any screw-ups at this point.”
Brand’s gut clenched. His lieutenant, Gary Morrison, who had been his contact for his first year undercover, had stressed the importance of not going outside the law any more than necessary. If an undercover cop was going into a situation where he would be forced to commit a felony, his commanding officer had an obligation to extract him.
Brand and the other two officers working inside Castellano’s operation were protected up to a point, but they were required to report any illegal activities in which they were involved.
“Yeah, well, you haven’t been working with the damn mob for three years. I don’t want any screw-ups, either, but I’d like to know you’ve got my back once this is all over.”
“You do the assignment. I’ll protect your back.”
Brand blew out a frustrated breath. Pruitt was FBI, and there was no love lost between the Feds and local law enforcement. He wondered if he was being set up to take a fall.
He pulled the microcassette recorder out of his pocket. With his thumb he pressed record and held it near the phone. Never hurts to have insurance.
“Gallagher? You there?”
“Yeah. Just thinking. Make sure you understand, Pruitt. I’ve worked too hard to end up getting my badge yanked for committing a felony.”
“Listen to me. The justice department is behind this operation one hundred percent. They’ve given us carte blanche. Any means necessary. Have you talked to Springer or Carson?”
His fellow officers working undercover. Brand frowned. “Nope. Hardly ever see ’em.”
“Well, Carson is working the docks. He’s convinced Castellano’s moving weapons and explosives in. Springer agrees. Plus, he says they’re bringing in illegal aliens.”
“Terrorist activities.”
“Right. So you’re covered on all sides, by justice, homeland security—you know the drill.”
Brand did. Job one was to protect his fellow officers. Job two, earn Castellano’s trust.
“You think we can get Castellano on terrorist charges?”
“I think so.” The excitement in Pruitt’s voice was obvious through the phone line. “If we can, he’ll go away for a long time and the careers of everybody involved will be assured.”
Yeah, Brand thought. You mean your career. But he didn’t say anything.
“So do what Castellano wants you to do. You’ll be protected. We’ll have plainclothes watching you and the lowlife, what’s his name?”
“Foshee. Armand Foshee.”
“Right. Foshee. The task force will step in before the verdict. We’ll probably pull Foshee in on some lesser charge. You, too, so your cover isn’t blown. The trial will end in a mistrial, but it won’t come down on you. Trust me, we’ve got plenty on Simon. We can pick him up on another murder charge before he sets foot outside the courtroom.”
Pruitt made it sound easy. But then he wasn’t out in the field. He didn’t have to worry about who got hurt.
Brand’s thoughts returned to Lily Raines. Terrified, trembling, her soft breasts pressed against his forearms, her dark, shiny hair tickling his nose. He grimaced as his body began to stir. “What about the woman? What about her father?”
“They’re not your concern. We’ll take care of them.”
“The hell they’re not. I’m the one leaning on her. I don’t like it. I don’t like the threats against her father, either. Can’t the police give him protection?”
“We don’t want to blow your cover or endanger your juror. We can’t afford to let Castellano see any change in her father’s care. You just do your job.”
Damn. He didn’t like working with the FBI. They played everything too close to the vest. He rubbed his neck. “Should I call you back to confirm?”
“No. You’ve got the go-ahead. I’ll take care of making it right with the justice department.” Pruitt disconnected.
Brand turned off his cell phone and stuck it in his pocket. Then he stopped the tape recorder, ejected the cassette and held it between his thumb and forefinger.
Like he’d told Pruitt, he’d worked like a dog to pull himself out of the chaos of his childhood. He was not going to let anything ruin his career as a police detective. It was all he had.
He tossed the cassette a couple of inches into the air and caught it in his fist. Insurance. He had Pruitt on tape promising to cover his butt.
As he walked back to his car, he stuck the cassette in his pocket. His fingers encountered the note he’d picked up from the mailbox.
After climbing into the driver’s seat, he scanned the note and cursed. He shook his head as he crumpled the note in his fist. His request for two days’ leave to go to Alexandria, Louisiana, for his father’s funeral had been denied.
He’d expected it. He was in too deep with the Gulf Coast mob to risk disappearing even for a day or two. Especially now that he had finally penetrated the impenetrable armor surrounding Giovanni Castellano.
His eyelids stung and he blinked rapidly. Pop had been dying for a long time. The alcohol had finally killed him. But his death dredged up memories of another death, that of his oldest brother, Patrick. There was nobody to blame for Pop’s death except Pop himself.
But Patrick was another story. Brand’s brother had gotten in too deep with gambling and drugs. He owed Castellano more money than he could ever pay, so the mob boss had ordered his execution to make an example. For all Brand knew, Sack Simon had pulled the trigger.
Patrick was the reason Brand had become a cop. The reason he’d volunteered for this particular assignment in the first place.
He sighed. Now to catch Castellano, he had to let the assassin who may have killed his brother go free. God, he hoped Pruitt was telling the truth when he’d said Simon wouldn’t walk out of the courthouse before they arrested him again.
He cranked his car and pulled away. He had to be up early tomorrow to go to the courthouse with Foshee.
As he drove back to his apartment, the remembered scent of vanilla and coconut filled his nostrils. He squirmed as his body reacted to the memory of Lily’s slender, sturdy body pressed against him.
The justice department had damn sure better protect his badge, because he had no choice but to do this. For more than one reason.
Sure, he was doing it to avenge his brother’s death and to protect his fellow undercover officers. But there was a third reason. His body tightened and a thrilling ache throbbed in his loins. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to ease the pressure of the tight denim.
Lily Raines needed him. She had no one else to protect her.
Chapter Two
The empty halls of the courthouse mocked Lily as the click of her heels echoed through the silent corridors. Within an hour, these same halls would be buzzing with activity, and yet she’d still be alone.
She hadn’t slept a wink all night. She’d been afraid to turn off the lights, and every noise she heard sent fear slicing through her.
Her father’s bland, trusting face haunted her. He was so helpless, and Castellano was ruthless. He’d gotten to her dad inside the nursing home. How could she keep him safe anywhere?
Still, she’d done her best. She’d stalked into the nursing home, indignant and worried, and demanding that whoever had let her father get hold of matches should be let go. She pulled it off with just enough of a touch of frantic daughter that she’d managed to back the head nurse into a corner.
She had agreed to move Lily’s dad next to the nurse’s station so they could keep an eye on him.
She also promised Lily that she would find out who had left matches lying around and have them fired. Lily didn’t bother to tell her that she wouldn’t find anything.
Lily stepped through a set of double doors, and passed one of the assistant district attorneys assigned to the Sack Simon case. The medium-height young man looked smart and capable as he nodded absently at her. Lily wondered what he would do if she told him Castellano had sent thugs to threaten her.
But she kept walking, her hand clenched around her purse strap. The spider-on-your-skin feeling was still with her. She glanced around, expecting to see the little Cajun or his tall partner watching her, but the only person she spotted was a security guard.
She went through the door into the jury room. It was empty. She managed to make a pot of coffee, but spilled a little when she poured herself a cup. Standing at the door, she searched the face of each person who walked by. She recognized some, such as the ADAs, one of the court reporters and a couple of police officers who knew her father.
Every single time someone walked past, her heart sped up and she prayed for the courage to reach out— to ask for help. But each time she gripped her cup more tightly and remained quiet. None of them could protect her against the most powerful man on the Gulf Coast.
How could this happen in this day and age? Years ago, organized crime had been rampant up the eastern seaboard, along the Gulf, even in the Midwest. Back then the mob was into drugs and prostitution, loansharking and money-laundering.
Giovanni Castellano was of a totally different breed. He owned legitimate businesses, paid health insurance for his employees. He was even on the committee for the renovation of the Gulf Coast.
According to defense counsel, Castellano and everyone who worked for him, including Sack Simon, were model citizens.
Whatever illegal activities Castellano was involved in, they were hidden behind a facade of honest business practices. And that meant it would be almost impossible to find anyone who could protect her against him. Who could she trust?
Icy fear crawled up her spine. Even if she could get protection for herself, what about her father? Giovanni Castellano, the King of the Coast, was untouchable.
It was the Gulf Coast’s worst kept secret that Castellano’s money came from illegal activities such as smuggling and loan-sharking. Yet somehow he’d never been indicted by the police. Her father had always complained that Castellano had a politician in his pocket.
“Lily Raines? Little Lily? Is that you?”
She jumped and almost spilled her coffee again.
A man in an ill-fitting brown suit smiled at her. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said.
Swallowing the urge to back away, she smiled quizzically. “Yes. I’m Lily Raines. Do I know you?”
“Bill Henderson. I used to be on the job. Worked with your dad.” The man’s florid face lit with a smile as he tugged on his belt, adjusting it over his pot belly.
“Of course, Officer Henderson. It’s been a long time.”
Henderson’s smile faded. “Sure has. Last time I saw you, you were still in high school. Call me Bill. I heard about your dad. Been meaning to get by to see him, but you know how it is. I’m real sorry. He was one of a kind.”
She nodded. She remembered her dad talking about Henderson. Good people, her father had called him.
“You’re on jury duty?” Henderson asked, raising one gray eyebrow.
“The Sack Simon case.”
“Whoa! That rat bastard.” Henderson shook his head. “He’s guilty as sin. Everybody knows he’s Castellano’s top hit man. Got at least fifteen notches in his gun.”
Lily nodded and glanced up and down the hall. As a juror on the case, she wasn’t supposed to talk about it with anyone. “You said you were on the job?”
“Yep, I took my twenty-five and retired. I do some private work here and there, when I’m not fishing.”
“What brings you to the courthouse?” she asked, her thoughts racing. He knew her dad. He’d been a police officer for twenty-five years. She could trust him.
“Divorce case.” He made a face. “I’ve gotta testify. I took the pictures the wife is using to squeeze a bundle out of her soon-to-be ex-husband.”
Lily’s pulse thrummed in her ears. Maybe he could help her. If she knew her father was safe, she could vote guilty. Then, as soon as the trial was over, she and her dad could move far away from Castellano’s reach.
She glanced around again. “Can I ask you a question, Bill?”
“Sure. Anything for Raines’s girl.” Henderson laughed. “You need a ticket fixed, I’m your man.”
A nervous smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “Not exactly.” She took a deep breath just as the double door opened.
It was the bailiff. Lily blew her breath out in frustration. He would reprimand her if he caught her talking in front of the jury room.
Two of her fellow jurors entered behind the bailiff.
As she watched the bailiff approach, Lily decided to go ahead. If she was going to reveal what had happened, what difference did it make if the bailiff overheard? Maybe she could let the court know what had happened to her, and Castellano could be arrested for jury-tampering.
“Bill, what if I told you that—” The door opened again, and when she saw who entered, terror sheared her breath.
Sauntering in behind the jurors was a skinny man with sun-darkened skin and coal-black eyes. He leered at her and bared his teeth.
Just like last night. It was him. The Cajun. Lily’s throat closed up. She couldn’t breathe at all.
Behind him came another man—taller, broad-shouldered and confident. It was the Cajun’s tall, menacing partner. His gaze met hers and he frowned. His eyes were a piercing blue, she noticed abstractedly.
He gave a quick, almost imperceptible shake of his head.
She froze, unable to look away from his intense blue gaze. Her fingers tightened reflexively around the ceramic mug in her hands. He was warning her.
She looked from him to the Cajun.
“Lily?” Henderson raised his bushy brows.
She sucked in a long breath and forced herself to face her dad’s former colleague. “N-nice to see you,” Lily stammered as the bailiff stopped in front of her.
“Good morning, Ms. Raines,” the bailiff said.
Lily nodded jerkily.
“I’ll let my father know you asked about him,” she said to Henderson, stepping backward into the room. Her voice was too loud, but she couldn’t help it.
Please don’t say anything, she silently begged Henderson.
More people entered the hallway. The Cajun and his partner passed the door. The Cajun’s black eyes sparkled and he made an offhand gesture at the level of his neck. Lily read his message loud and clear. She touched her throat where the point of the Cajun’s knife had pricked her the night before.
The other man kept his gaze averted, but she felt his presence, his overwhelming attention, and she remembered that he’d stopped the Cajun from hurting her— twice.
She watched the back of his head as he followed the Cajun through the door into the main corridor of the courthouse. Just as he stepped inside, his head angled, as if acknowledging her gaze.
She shuddered, her stomach flipping over. They had to be here checking on her. There was no way she could escape them. They would be there through every minute of the trial. They’d watch her when she went in and out of the jury box. And anytime they wanted to, they could hurt her father.
She ducked inside the jury room, her stomach rebelling at the black coffee she’d swallowed. How would she make it through the day, much less the whole trial?
“WHAT THE HELL’S the matter with her?” Foshee said.
Brand bit back a curse. He knew exactly what Foshee was talking about.
Lily looked as if she might faint and fall right out of her chair. Her face was pale and her eyes had dark circles under them. Her dark hair hung limp and straight around her face, and she clutched the armrest of the jury box chair so hard he could see her whitened knuckles from across the room.
He bent his head and whispered to the shorter man. “She didn’t sleep. She’s probably so scared she’s sick, and I can see the bruise you left on her jaw from here.” You stinking little bully, he added silently.
“Whassup wi’ you, Brand? You sweet on her?” Foshee grinned, showing crooked, stained teeth.
“Nah. Guess I just know better than you how to handle a lady.”
“Zat so?” Foshee angled his head. “Mebbe I let you handle her after I finish wit’ her, eh?’ Cause if she don’ straighten up, she get herself kicked off the jury. See how the DA’s watching her?”
Brand clenched his fists. He’d already noticed. The Assistant District Attorney in charge of the case had been watching Lily all morning, probably worried about the same thing Brand feared. She was so pale and drawn. Was she about to faint?
It was time for the ADA’s summation to the jury. He looked at Lily again, then whispered to his co-counsel. Brand could imagine what they were saying.
They wouldn’t want a sick juror, or one who was terrified, helping to decide the fate of Sack Simon. They had to be sure all the jurors were capable of coherent thought and rational reasoning.
Brand had been there through the jury selection and voir dire. There were two very competent alternates waiting in the wings. The ADA could easily replace Lily.
After another few seconds of whispering, the ADA nodded at his colleague and stood. “Your honor, may we approach?”
Brand stiffened. This was about Lily. He knew it. What if the ADA demanded she be excused from the jury? What would Castellano do then?
He wished he could catch her eye, but after last night, anything he did would be interpreted by her as a threat. If he even made eye contact with her, she would faint.
The judge and the two attorneys consulted while eleven jurors fidgeted. Lily sat stiff and still, her too-wide eyes watching the lawyers and the judge talk. Every so often, her gaze would flicker toward either him or Foshee.
He saw her throat move as she swallowed nervously.
Get yourself together, Lily, he begged her silently. They’ll kill you.
Then the defense attorney glanced their way with a tiny smile.
The lawyers returned to their seats and the judge rapped his gavel. “We’ll recess until tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”
Brand let out a deep sigh.
“What’s going on?” Foshee asked in surprise as they stood while the judge left the bench.
“We just dodged a bullet. I’m guessing the ADA was asking to excuse juror number seven.”
Foshee’s black eyes glittered. “We gonna have to pay our girlfriend another visit?”
“No,” Brand said quickly. “Look at her. She looks better already. She’s exhausted and scared to death. A good night’s sleep and she’ll be okay. She just needs some time.”
“Mais, oui. We call her, eh? Tell her good-night?”
Brand shook his head. “Leave her alone, Foshee. You hurt her. You scared her half to death. Trust me, she got the message. Let’s give her a day to think about it. She’s smart. She’ll come around.”
They filed out of the courtroom with the rest of the curious onlookers and walked around to the side of the courthouse to stand at the door where the jurors exited. They mingled with the media and the onlookers.
Brand stood beside Foshee, dreading the moment when Lily walked out and saw them waiting for her.
She was the last one through the door. Her face was still pale, and she clutched a tissue as she was escorted to the door by a security guard.
“Sure you’re okay, honey?” the uniformed woman asked her.
Lily nodded and smiled faintly. “Thank you. I feel much better. I appreciate the ice water. It’s probably just a bug. I’ll be fine by tomorrow I’m sure—” Her gaze met Brand’s and she faltered.
Brand lifted his chin and sent her a faint nod.
Her gaze flickered from him to Foshee. She brought the hand holding the tissue to her mouth and hurried past them, catching up with a middle-aged man—juror number three, if Brand wasn’t mistaken.
“Okay. We gotta check in,” Foshee said. “See if the boss wants us to follow her.”
“She’s not going anywhere. Other than maybe to see her father.”
Foshee squinted up at him. “You sure do know a lot for a two-bit bouncer.”
Brand glared down at the little man. “Castellano obviously thinks I do. He gave me this job.”