Brody & Hannigan 02 - Grand Theft Lotto Read online

  "I'd really like to take a look inside that gym," she commented. "Would we be within our bounds, legally?"

  "We can't be sure Anton was the last person out," Brody pointed out. "When we left, there were others in the gym. What if someone is inside, injured or worse?"

  "Let's take the chance," she said, already heading over to the taped-off crime scene area. She returned a moment later with a set of keys, carefully held in her gloved hand. "This key looks the newest," she said, pointing to a brass key that was still shiny and crisp-edged. "He said he hadn't been the manager here for long, right?"

  She tried the key in the back door. The deadbolt groaned a little but opened when she turned the key. She and Brody reached for their weapons at the same time and, with cautious care, entered the back of the gym.

  There were no windows in this part of the building. A pinpoint of illumination pierced the darkness—Hannigan's trusty little penlight, Brody saw—as she played the narrow beam across the cinderblock walls of the back room. It was largely unfinished, with a simple concrete floor grimy with age and use, and unpainted metal shelf units lining the walls, holding a hodgepodge of gym cast-offs—dinged-up free weights and dumbbells, twisted or bent weight bars, broken benches and ripped-up heavy bags.

  "Oh, look, it's where old gym equipment goes to die," Brody murmured, earning a sharply arched eyebrow from his partner.

  She shifted the penlight beam to the wall behind them, settling on a light switch. Brody reached out and flicked it on. Muddy light poured down on the storage area from a grimy bulb about fifteen feet overhead.

  "That door should lead into the gym," Hannigan said, nodding toward a large steel door set into the wall directly in front of them. She looked to her right. "Reckon where that leads?"

  Following her gaze, Brody spotted a second door in the wall at the far end of the storage area. "Let's go see."

  There was a lock plate on the door in question. Hannigan tried the main key without any luck. Flipping keys, she came to another one that looked fairly new. It slid into the lock and turned with a low creak of metal on metal.

  "Careful," Brody warned as she started to turn the doorknob.

  She eased the door open, her fingers flexing as she tightened her hold on the grip of her Smith & Wesson M&P compact .40. She entered quick and low, weapon extended, the penlight flashing across the cinderblock walls as she swept the place in search of intruders.

  Brody, right behind her, lowered his weapon when it became clear there was nobody else in the room. "What is this place?"

  Hannigan flicked a light switch, and fluorescent bulbs overhead lit the small room. It wasn't much larger than a walk-in closet, with narrow shelves lining the walls, much like the room they'd just left behind. But in here, the shelves held dozens of file boxes.

  Lifting the lid of the nearest box, Hannigan peered inside. Whatever she saw made her dark eyebrows shoot skyward. She looked at Brody, nodding for him to join her.

  Acutely aware of her small, curvy body pressed close to his, he looked into the box. Inside, stacked halfway up the box, were hundreds of photographs of people having sex in a surprising variety of positions.

  "Oh my," Brody murmured. "But a whole room to store porn?"

  "Look closer," Hannigan said, her voice subdued.

  Brody scanned the visible photos again and realized that most of the people depicted would never be candidates for porn. Too heavy, too thin, too saggy or unattractive…

  Suddenly, one of the photos drew his attention. The gray-haired man on his knees with his ass in the air, taking a spanking from a leather-clad redhead, looked awfully familiar. "Oh, my God. That's the mayor, isn't it?"

  "In the flesh," Hannigan murmured.

  "What the hell is this?"

  "At first guess," she answered drily, "I'd say it's evidence of blackmail."

  "You went in without a warrant." Lieutenant Crane's expression was somewhere between troubled and grim.

  "We were looking for other possible victims," Brody answered calmly. He and Hannigan had agreed he'd do the talking. He was better at schmoozing upper management.

  Crane shot him a skeptical look but didn't challenge the assertion, except to say, "You thought you'd find someone injured and hiding in a file box?"

  Brody didn't respond. Hannigan sneaked a quick look at him and saw he really didn't know how to respond.

  "That's my fault, sir," she spoke up. "I opened the box. Brody had nothing to do with it."

  "I didn't try to stop her." Brody shot her a look of consternation.

  "I suppose you might have been looking for signs of a struggle," Crane said with a sigh. "You do realize that what you uncovered is incredibly sensitive information, well beyond your scope as detectives."

  Brody nodded. "Of course."

  He didn't add that they'd seen enough photographs in the one box they'd examined to know the dirty laundry of several political and social bigwigs in a three-county area. Hannigan had insisted on at least sorting through the photos in the open box, since they might pose a pretty damned good motive for murder.

  Crane released a long, gusty sigh. "I've applied for a search warrant for the gym, and I think we have a good chance of getting it, but I'm not going to expect the two of you to stay up all night going through the place. I've posted uniforms to protect the building. If anything happens, they'll call me and I'll call you. Go write up your report and then go home. Get some rest."

  Brody's dark eyes slanted to meet Hannigan's. "Yes, sir."

  They left the office together, trying not to look as if they were hurrying to get out from under the lieutenant's thumb. He was pretty flexible about letting them run their investigations without interference, as a rule, but he didn't like insubordination. It was a fine line to tread.

  Only one other detective was in the communal office when they entered—Jase Berry, who worked the night shift mostly alone and liked it that way. His wife was a nurse who also worked the night shift, and they didn't have any kids, so the hours suited them.

  "I heard the motorcycle killer struck again," Berry said, leaning back in his chair to watch them settle behind their own desks.

  "Could be," Hannigan said noncommittally.

  "What I can't figure out is why half the upper brass is here so late?"

  Hannigan glanced at Brody. He wore a neutral mask, not giving anything away. She hoped she was as successful at keeping her thoughts to herself.

  Because it was pretty damned hard not to think about the photos they'd seen that night. Beyond the intensely intimate nature of the snapshots, there was the fact that, given the small size of Weatherly, Alabama, odds had been good that they would see people they knew in that box of photographs.

  And they had. The mayor, of course, and a deputy chief in the police department. Hannigan had spotted a shot of a guy she'd dated for a couple of weeks dressed in women's underwear, which, come to think of it, explained a lot about most of their dates.

  She drove those images out of her head by concentrating on the report. She was a better typist than Brody, so she usually handled the reports. Not because he thought typing was woman's work or anything stupid like that; he'd tried, for a while, to share the duties equally, but Hannigan quickly lost patience with his slow, two-fingered typing and had made him a deal: she'd handle typing up the reports if he'd handle dealing with the brass.

  Brody sat at his desk, tapping a pencil on the blotter as he waited for her to finish the report. After several minutes of silence, he spoke in a deceptively nonchalant tone. "Hey, Hannigan. You know that thing we were going to do tonight before we got the call?"

  She looked up from the typewriter and spoke in a half-whisper, aware of Jase Berry sitting idly only a few feet away. "You're really bringing that up now?"

  He shrugged, as if it had been an offhand question. "Just wondering."

  She bit back a smile. "I don't want to make any promises. The evening has not exactly gone as planned."

  "It never does,"
he grumbled.

  She typed in the last line on her report and sent it to print. While she closed out the file report program, Brody went to the printer to retrieve the pages and took them to the lieutenant's office. He caught up with her at the front exit.

  "About what I said before—we don't have to do anything tonight. But I think I'd still like to spend it with you." The look he gave her was remarkably needy for a man who looked like a movie star and came from enough money and social standing to make him a prized catch among debutantes and their matchmaking mamas alike.

  What he wanted with a freckle-faced hillbilly like her, she wasn't sure she'd ever understand, and maybe that had been a big part of her hesitation. It felt as if she was in the middle of some cosmic practical joke that would leave her standing under a metaphorical bucket of fake blood in the middle of the prom.

  Which was stupid, if she looked at things logically. She trusted Brody to have her back when bullets were flying. If she could trust him in that sort of life-and-death situation, why not trust him with her heart?

  "Okay," she said as they came to a stop in the parking lot where they'd parked side by side. "I'll meet you at your place. I need to run home first. Gotta pick up my jammies and my Teddy bear."

  He grinned at her over the top of his car. "Our first sleepover. Are we going to play truth or dare?"

  "Maybe." Waggling her eyebrows, she slid behind the steering wheel and closed herself safely inside. Squelching the urge to look over to his car, she pulled her Chevy out of the parking slot and onto Grayson Boulevard, one of three main thoroughfares through the city. Her bungalow on Rosedale Drive was normally ten minutes away, but she made it in seven, trying to tell herself that it was the sparse traffic that late at night and not her jittery nervous energy that had made the drive home pass so quickly.

  What on earth should she pack? Her trip to the lingerie store a couple of days ago hadn't been a fit of whimsy. Her sleeping attire consisted almost entirely of cotton running shorts and tees in the summer and thermal tops and tights for winter. She had a rather pretty nightgown left over from her last serious relationship, but she didn't think Brody would appreciate her recycling her nighties from her affair with Greg Kowalski.

  And he'd figure it out. He was brilliant at putting together subtle clues and making intuitive jumps.

  She glanced at her watch. Almost midnight. No store in town would still be open. Oh hell, she thought, and started digging through her drawers for a pair of panties and bra that matched and looked reasonably girly. She laid them on her bed and kept digging, adding a set of silky tap shorts and a matching camisole to her small overnight case. Then for good measure, she tossed in the silk robe that had come with the tap shorts and camisole.

  No Teddy bear. That was what Brody was for, right?

  Grinning at her own nervous mental ramblings, she stripped out of her work clothes and took a quick shower, changing into the pretty underwear. Jeans and a figure-hugging Atlanta Braves T-shirt she knew Brody liked.

  She took a last look in the dresser mirror. She looked…ordinary. Same old Stella Hannigan who met her in the mirror every morning.

  With a sigh, she picked up the bag and headed for the front door.

  As she reached her car, her cell phone trilled. Expecting it to be Brody again, urging her to hurry, she was surprised to find the number unlisted. She almost sent it straight to voicemail, but curiosity made her finger press "answer" instead. "Hello?"

  "Thank God." That was Becky Barlow's voice. She sounded stressed. "I was afraid you weren't going to answer."

  "Is something wrong?"

  "I need your help, Stella. Can you meet me at the beauty shop?" Becky's voice was low and urgent, the tone setting off tremors in Hannigan's gut. She'd never heard her cousin sound quite so frantic before.

  "Of course, but are you in trouble?"

  "Not really. I don't know. I need to talk to you. Just come, please??" Becky hung up the phone before Hannigan could ask any more questions.

  Frowning, she called Brody's cell number. He answered on the first ring, his tone eager enough to make her flattered. "How much longer?"

  "Maybe longer than I thought," she admitted, not hiding her own regret. She told him about Becky's call. "It's probably nothing, but she's in an emotional state because of Dwayne and how it must be affecting Marie. I guess she just needs a sympathetic shoulder more than anything else."

  At least, Hannigan hoped that was all it would turn out to be. She was getting pretty damned tired of murder and mayhem getting between her and her partner's very nice bed in a fancy midtown loft with a view of the city.

  He'd promised her he didn't expect anything to happen between them that night, and he'd meant it. But working with Hannigan for as many years as he had meant a few of her better traits had started rubbing off on him. And one of her best traits, on that had saved his ass more than once, was her unshakable belief in being prepared. So he'd stopped on his way home to pick up a box of condoms.

  One never knew.

  A hard wind was kicking up by the time he parked in the lot behind his downtown loft, flapping the brown paper bag with his purchase so hard it almost whipped out of his grasp. A couple of fat raindrops chased him inside, and by the time he entered the loft, the tall windows that made up one long wall of the apartment were streaked with rain.

  Had the call about meeting her cousin been an excuse to keep from coming over tonight at all? Had she changed her mind and used her family crisis to ease the blow?

  He checked his phone messages, half-expecting to hear her voice on the other end of the call, begging off. But the only message was from his mother, reminding him of his father's upcoming birthday celebration a week from Sunday. "I know you're always on call, but if you can manage to keep the criminal element from interrupting our party on Sunday, that would be lovely," she said in a drily humorous tone that made him smile. "And if she's free, why don't you bring that partner of yours? We'd love to get to know her better."

  Unerring motherly instinct, he thought with a smile. He wrote the date on his calendar—something he should have done long before —and made a mental note to ask Hannigan if she'd be interested in going.

  She'd met his parents before, in more public settings, but if they were going to change their relationship from platonic to—well—not, he supposed she'd probably be seeing his parents more often. His father's seventieth birthday party was as good an occasion as any to get started.

  He showered and—still thinking optimistically—shaved while he waited for Hannigan to arrive. Redressed in jeans and a long-sleeved black Henley shirt he knew she liked, he had just started sorting through his MP3 player to work up a playlist he knew she'd enjoy when three sharp raps on the loft door startled him. He glanced at his watch—barely after twelve. She'd made good time.

  He unlocked the door and swung it open, already smiling.

  But it wasn't Hannigan standing in his doorway. It was Cade Sullivan, the boxer from The Body Shop.

  Holding an enormous Colt .45 Combat Elite.

  Chapter Ten

  "You've got to help me, man!"

  "Put the weapon down," Brody said with a calm he didn't feel. His own weapon was on the table by the sofa, several feet away. He'd never make it there before Sullivan took a shot.

  "Look, man—" Sullivan waved the Colt, sending a shock wave rocking through Brody's body.

  Brody held up his hands in the universal "I mean you no harm" gesture, but he was ready to dive for cover at the first chance possible. "I'll help you, but first you have to put the weapon down."

  Sullivan lowered the barrel of the gun, though he didn't relinquish it completely. Still, the small concession was enough to make Brody's whole body quiver with relief. He gripped the doorjamb with one hand just to stay upright.

  Cade stared at him, then at the gun in his own hand. An almost comical expression of realization washed over his face and he quickly bent and set the gun on the floor. "Sorry, man. Sorry!
I wasn't—I didn't mean—" Sullivan sounded as if he were on the verge of weeping. "I didn't come here to hurt anybody. I need your help! Somebody killed Anton. You were there. You saw what they did to him. I'm afraid I'm next."

  "How did you find me?" Brody asked as he picked up the Colt and ejected the ammunition.

  Sullivan looked a little sheepish. "I followed you home from the police station."

  Brody sighed, motioning him inside. He took the sofa, while Sullivan hunkered down, hunched and miserable looking, in the armchair opposite.

  "Do you have any idea who killed Dwayne and Anton?" Brody asked.

  Sullivan shook his head. "Not exactly. It could be a lot of people."

  "People you and your friends at the gym were blackmailing?"

  Sullivan's eyes narrowed. "You know about the pictures, then."

  "You were involved?"

  "It wasn't my idea. I just—" He looked a little sheepish. "Ladies like me, you know? And I have this little video hobby, you see."

  "And you videotaped your...liaisons with women who might not be happy about evidence of those assignations getting out?" Brody said with delicacy.

  Sullivan frowned at him. "I did some chicks that didn't want it to get around, you know?"

  "The other day, we asked if you knew anyone who drove a black Kawasaki Ninja motorcycle. You said you didn't. Would you like to revise that answer?"

  Sullivan looked sick. "Maybe."

  "Maybe?"

  "It's just—she'll know I was the one who told you."

  "She?" Brody asked.

  "She's the one who made me give Anton the videos in the first place. It's where he got the whole idea about the pictures."

  "She who?" he prodded.

  "That Barlow bitch!" Sullivan growled, his fists clenching. "She's the one who made me do it."

  Brody felt as if someone had just put a cattle prod to his chest. "Becky? Becky Barlow?"

  Sullivan nodded. "She's the one who drives the Ninja."

  He shook his head, not ready to believe it. Not about Hannigan's cousin. Not on this man's word. "That bike was reported stolen."