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Wolf Outen’s face was known the world over, andthere was no mistaking the mane of gray hair framing it or the bodyguards flanking him as he moved toward the front desk.
Bellhops came running.
The manager came out of his office to check Wolf in, while trying not to fawn. Everybody knew of his resurrection and what had happened. Only a few knew he had reserved suites here—the presidential suite for himself and the two nearest suites for his men.
Wolf said little beyond producing a corporate credit card and picking up room keys before heading to the elevators. The guards carried all the luggage. Nothing left their sight. And nobody argued. Moments later, the flurry he’d caused in the lobby was over and he was out of sight.
But word was spreading. Wolfgang Outen was in New Orleans. What was he doing here? Who was selling? What was he buying?
As soon as the guards got Wolf in his suite and put his luggage on the rack, he began issuing orders.
“Get your things in your rooms. Do what you need to do. Order a car and meet me back here in twenty minutes. We’re going straight to the PD before word gets out that I’m in the city. The element of surprise is on my side, but it won’t be for long.”
“Yes, sir,” Joe said. “Nothing has been ordered for your suite. Don’t answer your door.”
Even though all of this was standard protocol for Wolf, after all that had transpired, it had amped up the realityof how fragile his safety really was. He followed them to the door, locked and chain-locked it behind them, then turned around. The luxury was obvious. And expensive. But it also meant privacy, and that was what he needed most.
He quickly hung up his suits, left his travel bag of toiletries on the bathroom counter, and then went through the file he’d brought with him one last time, making sure everything he needed was still in it. Satisfied, he slipped the file into his briefcase and set it on the sofa, then began to pace. His enemy was within this city. They were breathing the same air, and he was about to drop a bomb on their lives.
The car pulled up in front of the New Orleans Police Department long enough to let them out.
“Wait in the parking lot,” Joe ordered.
“Yes, sir,” the driver said, and as soon as his riders were out, he did exactly that. He wasn’t about to screw up the best call he’d ever received. They’d hired him for a thousand dollars a day until their departure from the city. Sometimes he didn’t make that in a week.
Wolf walked straight to the front desk.
“I need to speak to a detective in the Criminal Investigative Division.”
The officer glanced up, then did a double take, thinking he recognized the man. “About what?” he asked.
“A kidnapping.”
The officer blinked. “And your name?”
“Wolfgang Outen.”
The officer blinked, thinking that explained the muscle Outen had with him.
“If you’ll just take a seat, someone will be with you shortly.”
“We’ll stand,” Joe said, as they moved their boss back and out of the way.
The officer picked up his phone and made a call.
Three minutes later, a linebacker of a detective came striding into the lobby, spied Outen almost instantly, and headed toward him, only to find Outen’s defense a little more than he bargained for when both men blocked him, so he decided to introduce himself first.
“Mr. Outen. I’m Detective Louis Giraud. Would you please follow me?” He turned and led the way to the CID wing, and then to his desk. “Have a seat and I’ll get chairs for your men.”
“They’ll stand,” Wolf said.
Louis nodded. It was a simple mistake. He’d never had anyone bring their own security into a police station before.
“Yes, sir. Now, the desk sergeant mentioned something about a kidnapping? Who’s been kidnapped and when did it happen?”
“My daughter was kidnapped. It would be twenty-eight years ago this coming April.”
Louis’s mouth dropped. “I’m sorry, sir. But why is this just being reported?”
