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He hadn’t expected to get the scar, of course. After studying the incredibly rich—and unmarried—woman for weeks, he’d hired one of his former clients to mug her. He’d been on hand to “save” her. Unfortunately, the former client had gotten carried away, slicing his face.
It had been painful but had earned him the gratitude of both the woman and her old-moneyed father, so when he’d asked for her hand in marriage, it had been a done deal.
Their money had allowed him to become the man he was today. Powerful. Well-connected. Poised on the brink of greatness. His first wife would have approved were she still alive. But she wasn’t, having taken her own life.
Or so the medical examiner had declared. Just like I planned.
Rocky Hebert’s hadn’t been the first suicide he’d staged.
He tilted his head, studying the face that stared back. He had a few silver hairs among the black, but not bad for a fifty-two-year-old man. He knew that people liked his face, and he made the most of it. His face, combined with the sophistication and respectability that came with his wealth, would take him wherever he wanted to go.
At this moment, he wanted to go to the mayor’s office. They had a lunch meeting scheduled, and Lamont knew there’d be cameras about. A man such as himself was nearly always in the public eye.
Except when he didn’t want to be, but that was necessary less frequently these days. He could afford to pay others to get their hands dirty.
Pity.He kind of missed the personal touch.
Deeming himself ready for his meeting, he walked to the window where his burner phone got better reception and dialed his second-in-command. “Did you get him?”
“I have him under surveillance,” Stockman said quietly, like the narrator of a wildlife documentary. “He’s been with people all morning, but I’ll take care of it as soon as he’s alone.”
“See that you do,” he snapped. “The kid is the final loose end.” The kid who’d seen him kill the woman whose name he hadn’t said aloud since that night during Katrina. The kid who’d seen his scar. The kid who might be able to identify him.
The kid who he hadn’t even known existed until two months ago. The kid who’d been allowed to live because Rocky Hebert had protected him.
Rocky was no longer a problem, but the kid still was. Because even if the boy couldn’t identify him by name, he might come forward at any time and testify about his scar. There were enough photos of him before his plastic surgery that people would make the connection. And once the accusation had been made, it wouldn’t take much to link him to that damn house where he’d kept the woman. Back then, getting his mistress pregnant was the worst scandal he could think of. Now, no one would blink at that, but murder...
Just the whisper of that kind of scandal could tank his political aspirations before he’d even begun. Lamont couldn’t take the risk.
“I know,” Stockman said evenly. “I’ll do my job, but these things take time.”
“I’ve given you plenty of time, most of which you wasted. It took you long enough to find him.” Because Rocky had encrypted his hard drive and it had taken Stockman weeks to unencrypt it. Lamont had considered bringing in an expert, but hadn’t wanted anyone else to know that he’d located the kid. Especially not his partners in crime. They’d horned in on Rocky’s murder and had made it a lot more complicated than it had needed to be, what with planting drugs in Rocky’s pantry. It hadn’t been necessary and now he didn’t trust either of them. He only trusted Stockman. “Just finish it.”
“I’ll do my job,” Stockman repeated, sounding offended.
He didn’t care how offended Stockman was. He paid the man a helluva lot of money to do his job. Let him be a little offended if it made him do his job faster.
“See that you do,” he repeated, then grimaced as a call came through on his regular cell phone. “I need to take another call.” He ended the call with Stockman and composed his features before he answered the other call. This was a FaceTime call, and he couldn’t grimace.
Damn, he wanted to grimace.
Instead he pasted a smile on his face. “Hello, darling. Is everything all right?”
His third wife’s smile was lovely. She was lovely. To look at, anyway. Beneath the pretty face was a whiny bitch whose voice made him want to drive spikes into his ears.
He wished he’d had her taken care of years ago. Now it would raise too many questions, so he’d learned to smile and nod and then do whatever the hell he wanted to once she’d stopped blathering.
“Just reminding you that we have reservations for seven o’clock tonight,” she said. “We’re meeting the Nelsons.”
He hated the Nelsons, too. But Lyle Nelson was useful—or, at least, his money was—so at least there was that. “I remember. Did you get reservations at the place I wanted?”
“Yes. But I still don’t see why you want to go there.” Her tone held a combination of confusion and condescension. Le Petit Choux was not their normal kind of restaurant, lacking the elegance to which his wife had so quickly become accustomed. But he had his reasons for choosing the place, reasons she didn’t need to know.
“I’m thinking of investing in a similar restaurant, and I need to check out the competition.” It was a lie, but one she wouldn’t be able to refute. She was not privy to his business dealings. He didn’t trust her that much.
He didn’t trust her at all.
“Oh. I guess that makes sense.”
