AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Except for Rachel’s third-floor neighbor, everyone in the building did the same things, day in and day out. They talked with the same people, left at the same time, came home from the same direction.Boring.
The third-floor neighbor was different though. His name wasn’t listed on the mailbox like the other tenants, and his schedule was erratic. He always dressed in black and he looked like the kind of guy who didn’t miss much. In fact, Jimmy was certain the guy had spotted him when he was out for one of his daily walks. The police presence in the park had picked up that afternoon, and Jimmy had gone back to his room, watching them through his binoculars.
But the time had come, and he’d felt it was time to make his move and get back to Chicago.
He’d passed the evening at Pat O’Brien’s Bar down in the French Quarter, nursing a couple of glasses of Irish whiskey and charming a waitress named Candy. He’d charmed her into inviting him over to her place once her shift was over, and he left with a spring in his step and a song in his heart. Murder and sex all in the same night. What a way to say goodbye to the Big Easy.
Jimmy didn’t consider himself an attractive man. He skimmed just under six feet and had the body of a brawler and the crooked nose to prove it was true. His hair was dark, his eyes black and his scarred complexion was covered with a short beard, but he never had trouble scoring with the ladies.
He liked to think he carried a certain…charisma. It’s how he’d risen through the ranks of the Valentine organization so quickly. He was a loyal foot soldier, but there was an authority and danger about him that made people sit up and take notice. And it just so happened that authority and danger attracted a certain kind of woman.
He’d left Pat O’Brien’s just after 3 a.m. with a soft buzz and Candy’s address in his pocket. If he timed it right he’d get the job done and have time for a shower before taking his car to meet Candy at six.
He didn’t have anything with him—no ID or wallet—just a money clip with a couple thousand in cash for business expenses. He took his time and walked almost three miles from the French Quarter to Prytania Street in the Garden District.
The rain was an added bonus. Cops rarely left their warm, dry cars for a random stop or to ask questions of otherwise suspicious characters. Besides, he was hardly the only person out walking in the rain in the middle of the night in New Orleans. It was a city that never slept, even in the rain.
He’d parked his car on a crowded side street adjacent to Rachel’s apartment so he could get away quickly if things went wrong, but things hardly ever went wrong when he set out to do a job.
He walked behind a couple who staggered their way down the broken sidewalk, laughing uproariously and stopping to lift their faces to the rain or kiss passionately. A horse and carriage clopped by beside him, a raucous group of six in the back who were headed to their next bar. And a single man, lit by a gas lantern under a balcony, wailed out notes of sorrow on a gold saxophone.
From time to time, a patrol car would pass by, but no one was looking too hard at anything. The couple in front of him were getting more passionate in their kisses, and he watched, annoyed, as they slipped into the park to finish the job. All he needed was them drawing attention before attention was due.
A Confederate statue stood sentry in the center of the park, surrounded by benches and mossy trees, and he slipped through the open iron gates and stood behind the stone pillar while he waited for the couple to be thoroughly distracted.
They’d found a bench partially hidden behind a tree, and it wasn’t long before their moans echoed the low rumbles of thunder. He checked his watch and then moved toward the thick bushes, where he’d hidden the small box with all his supplies. It held everything he needed—a tin can of kerosene, matches, old rags he’d made from clothes he’d gotten from a thrift store, a penlight, a crowbar, and finally, the handcuffs.
Torch work was his specialty, and he could set a fire in his sleep. Not just any fire, but the kind of fire that looked like it was living and breathing, stretching the walls of its cage until it burst free. He set the kind of fires that were meant for total destruction. They didn’t call him “Jimmy Inferno” for nothing. He wasn’t trying to hide Rachel’s murder in the fire. The fire was his weapon. The cops would never trace it back to him. He’d be back on a plane to Chicago as soon as he gave Candy a sweet goodbye and zipped up his pants.
And if the fire didn’t hit the target…well, then, there were other ways. She could only run so far with only the clothes on her back.
Jimmy knew the code to the gate. None of the tenants except the guy on the third floor had bothered to cover the numbers when they entered. He heard the wailing sax in the distance. He carried the box and its contents up the three flights of stairs, sweating slightly and huffing a bit by the time he reached the top.
It was black as pitch, so he had to pick at the thick tape that held the box closed by feel. When the box finally opened, he dug around for the penlight and stuck it between his teeth before getting out the crowbar. The door was sturdy, but the locks were flimsy and it was just the break he needed. The door splintered open and he was inside in just a few seconds. He immediately began dousing the rags and laying them around the apartment to make a trail to the front door. He poured the rest of the gasoline on the rugs and curtains and dumped the cardboard box in the middle of the living room before heading back to the bedroom.
She was lying on her stomach. A long expanse of pale leg was visible from where he stood. She’d left the bathroom light on, so he put the penlight in his pocket and pulled out the cuffs. He could see the curtain of her dark hair as it framed her face, and her breathing was slow and easy. It was a shame the boss wanted to knock her off. A waste of a good woman in his opinion. But the boss had his reasons. Rachel Valentine was a threat.
The quiet click of the cuffs being fastened to her wrist and then to the headboard didn’t wake her—the empty bottle of wine sitting next to a thick novel and a pair of reading glasses on the nightstand had been a twist of fate. Jimmy figured he’d let her sleep through her death. It was the least he could do for Dom’s daughter. Kind of a last tribute.
He struck a match as he walked back out the door and dropped it onto the soaked rags. They didn’t flare and spread as quickly as he would have liked, but it would get the job done. He left the door open and started back down the stairs, looking for any potential witnesses.
He saw the jogger after he closed the front door behind him, and he immediately took cover behind the garbage bins. The guy was huge, and he looked like he knew how to handle himself. The man was a little over six feet with the kind of muscle that reminded him of his favorite MMA fighter, and the way he moved was deliberate and disciplined. If this guy had been at Pat O’Brien’s, Jimmy had no doubt who Candy would have given her address to. Danger reeked from every pore.
He guessed it wasn’t really a surprise to see the man charge ahead into the smoke and flames and through Rachel’s door. A dangerous hero was not what they needed for a job that should’ve been an easy in and out.
Jimmy snuck back across the street to the park and watched the action from a distance. And when Rachel and the guy both came out together, Jimmy knew he’d failed. The boss wasn’t going to be happy with this latest setback. His orders had been to get rid of Rachel and get the hell out of New Orleans, and Angelo Valentine wasn’t one to give second chances very often. Jimmy was dreading the phone call he was going to have to make.
On second thought, maybe he wouldn’t place the call just yet. He could follow her and take care of the problem in the next couple of days. He’d be back in Chicago before the weekend.
ChapterTwo
Shane waited patiently for Rachel’s answer and knew from experience it wasn’t going to be good.
She took off her own oxygen mask and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She hopped down from the back of the ambulance and tossed off the thermal blanket the paramedics had wrapped around her.
“I can see the smoke has addled your brain,” Shane said, irritated, tossing off his own blanket and hopping down to follow her. “Let me see if I can jog your memory, sugar. Someone broke into your apartment, cuffed you to the bed, doused everything in gasoline, and then set your place on fire. Maybe people do things different up north, but down here that’s considered attempted murder.”
“How’d you know I’m from up north?” she asked.
