Prologue
He was a rotund little man, an unashamed paunch straining the seams of his tailored vest. Shiny wing- tipped shoes were on his small feet. He had a great leonine head with a cherub’s face, small brightly twinkling eyes, and pouty lips. And he was so much a caricature of a strutting banty rooster pleased with his own importance that few people casually encountered would even look for more than that.
Lucas Kendrick was one of the few; he knew from past experience that the federal agent calling himself Hagen was about as harmless as a battleship and just as tough. So he stood in the dingy hotel room gazing out a dirty window for long moments before turning to cut off the droning voice of the federal honcho. “All right.”
Hagen blinked. “All right? Just like that?”
Lucas leaned back against the window frame and smiled sardonically. “There was really no need for all this cloak- and- dagger stuff,” he said. “Meeting secretly like this. But you have to play your little games, don’t you?”
“Mr. Kendrick, this is a serious matter,” Hagen retorted in his best official manner. “And I felt it only fitting that you complete the job your friend Steele began a few weeks ago. The stolen artwork must be recovered and Rome prosecuted— ”
“Sure he has them?”
“Positive.”
Lucas didn’t question the assurance. “Okay. So how do I get inside his estate? He has more security than we do.”
The
we Lucas used referred to Josh Long’s worldwide financial empire, something that hardly needed clarifying between him and the federal man. Lucas was the chief investigator for Long Enterprises, and Hagen had spent the past year and more involving Josh and his men in various “assignments” for his agency.
The federal man looked somewhat searchingly at Lucas now, seemingly disturbed. “You’re willing to accept the assignment, no questions asked?”
“Plenty of questions,” Lucas corrected. “But why fi ght it? I’m the only one you haven’t grabbed for one of your assignments; it was a matter of time. If I turn you down, you’ll either talk me into it somehow, or you’ll get me involved whether I like it or not. So how do I get onto Rome’s estate?”
Hagen’s cupid lips pursed slightly, but he responded readily enough. “Rome’s having a weekend party soon; he does that from time to time, and his guest list is rather exclusive. There is a past . . . connection between you and the only single woman on that guest list. If she agrees, you’ll be accepted onto the estate as her escort.”
Lucas’s expression never changed, but some tautness crept beneath his classical features, and his sharp blue eyes, flecked with gold, hardened. “Oh? Who is she?”
“Kyle Griffon.” Hagen’s small eyes were very wary.
Softly Lucas said, “What past connection are you talking about, Hagen?”
“We both know the answer to that, Mr. Kendrick.”
“And just how the hell do
you know? Her name was never in any of my reports.”
“No, it wasn’t. She was never linked to your undercover operation. You did an excellent job.”
Lucas decided not to repeat his question. He really didn’t want to know the answer. Instead he asked tersely, “What’s the plan?”
More than an hour later Lucas again stood gazing through a dirty window. He was alone now, Hagen having left, and he looked back over his shoulder at the shoddy room. He had almost forgotten that secretive men met in dingy hotel rooms to discuss and plan dangerous operations.
Almost forgotten.
Ten years hadn’t changed his memories, just made them more distant. He could still remember the cardboard taste of burgers and cold coffee, the stiffness of sitting for too long in cars, and the grinding frustration of political games having no place in his vision of the role of the law in human affairs.
He could remember undercover operations during which he literally had become someone else, and the disorientation of returning to the real world with memories of junkies and glittering lifestyles and violence in the back of his mind. He could remember triumphs and tragedies, a little laughter and a lot of pain, and people briefly known.
He remembered Kyle Griffon.
Lucas half closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of a dingy, rainy street seen through a dirty window. And only sagging furniture marred by cigarette burns and too many hard years heard his low murmur.
“Oh, hell, Kyle, how am I going to face you?”
Copyright © 2011 by Kay Hooper. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
