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“I won’t lie. It would help if you could, ah, participate fully.” I took a sip of my juice then sank into a chair at the table. “However, I don’t want to associate you without your clear consent and understanding.”
He leaned back in his chair and regarded me. “This is serious shit,” he said after a moment. “Gimme a few to think it over.” He dropped the paper onto the table, called for Sammy and headed to the back door. Sammy galloped through the kitchen in his eagerness to get outside.
Serious shit indeed. Once Pellini came on board and learned the full story—including all the pesky illegal parts—he’d be duty bound as a law enforcement officer to report all law-breaking activities to the appropriate authorities. Failure to do so would be . . . what was the term? Oh, yeah: Malfeasance in Office. Otherwise known as Dirty Cop. We could bleat all day that our cause was right and just and worth a few bent laws here and there, but at the end of the day it had to be Pellini’s decision to wade into our particular flavor of dirt. No way would I yank him in against his will.
After finishing my juice, I pulled out my phone and sent a quick text to Bryce.
&
nbsp; I couldn’t help but smile after I hit send. Paul used to call Farouche “Big Mack” or BM for short, and now it served as a useful code phrase on the off chance our calls or texts were being monitored.
His response came in less than a minute.
I snorted. It was one thing to tell Pellini about our role in the events at the Farouche Plantation. It was another to tell him Bryce was the one who put two bullets in BM’s head.
This reply took longer.
I exhaled in relief. Would’ve been tough to skirt that whole issue, but I’d been prepared to figure out a way.
I put my phone away then snuck a peek out the kitchen window. No sign of Pellini. Restless, I pulled the newspaper to me and flipped through it, then stopped and stared at a photo on the third page. Amaryllis Castlebrook. I knew that face all too well because a few weeks ago I’d impersonated her. She’d been targeted for abduction by Farouche, but my posse intervened.
Yet sick horror filled me at the sight of the headline. Beaulac Woman Missing Since Thursday. I skimmed the article, frustrated by the lack of details. She’d been last seen as she left work. No suspects at this time. Anyone with information was asked to contact the sheriff’s office.
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered. My gut told me it was no coincidence that she went missing after being previously targeted. Had someone picked up the human trafficking right where Farouche left off?
Before I could retrieve the laptop to check for updates on the case, Sammy bounded in and collapsed into a tongue-lolling heap on the rug by the kitchen sink. Pellini followed at a more sedate pace and dropped into the chair opposite me.
I set the paper down and did my best not to appear impatient for his decision. While I very much hoped he’d choose to hear me out regarding my posse’s dicey history, I wouldn’t blame him if he dodged the whole guilt-by-association bullet.
Pellini flicked his hand toward the Amaryllis article. “Tim Daniels is the hero on that one. He got the vic back alive and almost caught the perp.”
“That’s damn good,” I said with undisguised relief. Tim was the all-around good guy and decent cop who I’d once sent on a wild goose chase to search for a nonexistent cat—which was how Eilahn ended up with Fuzzykins. “She’s okay then?”
Pellini’s expression darkened. “Got the dogsnot beat out of her and was raped several times.” He paused. “She’ll recover, though. Physically, at least.”
And a lifetime of recovery for the rest. I dropped my hands to my lap and clenched them together. This attack on Amaryllis was no coincidence. “Is there a description of the perp?”
“Hold on.” Pellini pulled out his phone and flipped through items. “I was following the reports because it reminded me of the Amber Gavin murder.” He stopped scrolling and clicked a link. “Got it. Inch or two taller than six feet. Brown hair. Possibly a black van. That’s from Tim. Not much from the victim yet.” He turned the phone around to show me a computer sketch. It was a pretty crummy representation—not surprising if Tim didn’t get a solid look at him—but it was good enough for me.
Jerry Fucking Steiner. “Who has the case?” I asked.
“Boudreaux and Wetzer,” he said. “Why? What’s up?”
I leaned back and studied him. “I’d like to tell you one bit of info that will fill in a few gaps without putting you in an untenable position.”
Pellini gave me a slow, considered nod.
“We had intel that Idris was being held at the Farouche Plantation,” I said. “We also learned that Farouche was having people kidnapped to be sent with Rhyzkahl to the demon realm. We found out the identity of the next target, and I took her place as a means to infiltrate the security at the plantation. The name of that target was Amaryllis Castlebrook.”
His eyes widened in surprise before narrowing. “Fuuuuuuuck.”
“It’s not too late to remain uninformed,” I said.
A shimmer of uncertainty lingered on his face. “I don’t know the details of what went down at the plantation that night,” he said. “But I can guess the grand finale, whether you fill in the gaps or not.”
“True,” I said then shrugged. “However, you know as well as I do that guessing and knowing are two different things.”
His hand tightened into a fist on the table, and he seemed poised to get up and leave the room. But then he blew out a heavy breath. “It’s too late to dick around with semantics,” he said with no trace of doubt. “There are no laws that cover this shit, and I have a feeling you know what happened to this Castlebrook woman.”
