Bad to the Bone Page 4

  Chapter Four

  After Jonathan Crane left last evening, Sammie didn’t get much sleep. Everything he’d told her made her more and more convinced she needed to act quickly if she hoped to clear her uncle’s name. Finding out about the undercover cop would be her number-one priority. The possibility that the guy had set up her uncle made more sense than anything she’d heard since she got into town.

  Jack had owned the bar for ten years. Prior to that, he’d worked there for another ten. Competition was tough, but the bar had been a huge success, at least according to what she’d heard from him. She couldn’t help but wonder if his reassurances had been a cover-up for something much more sinister. And what had he done with the two-hundred-thousand-dollar line of credit advanced from the bank? Had it all gone to feed some sort of gambling addiction that she knew nothing about?

  With that frightening thought, she hopped out of bed, took a quick shower, and grabbed a couple of cookies and a cup of coffee for breakfast. She didn’t want to chicken out, so the sooner she was on her way to see Jack, the better.

  Less than fifteen minutes later, she pulled open the door and stepped inside Monroe County Detention Center a few minutes before visiting time. A small line had formed to check in, and she took her place at the back.

  Sitting behind a glass partition, the guard barely glanced up from his paperwork when it was her turn in line. “Who you here to see?” he barked.

  She quelled the shaky sensation inside, straightened her shoulders, and said, “Jack Murphy.”

  He scanned down a list of names, then nodded and told her to wait until ten. She distracted herself by surveying the crowd. An older couple stood to the side, the woman clearly distraught as she wiped away the tears as they rolled down her cheeks. A young woman, wearing stiletto heels and a jeans skirt short enough to nearly get her arrested for indecent exposure, eyed Sammie up and down with a say-one-word-and-I’ll-kick-your-ass kind of look on her face.

  Mercifully, a few moments later, the door opened, and they were allowed inside. She signed in, showed identification, then walked through the metal detector and past security. The visiting room was a series of booths with a wall of heavy glass in between. Each cubicle had a phone with a chair on the opposite side of the partition.

  After the visitors stood around for several minutes, a line of prisoners filed through. Jack’s shock of blond hair stood out in stark contrast to the other men, which made him easy to find.

  A guard told him which seat to take, and she chose the one on the opposite side of the glass. A smile teased the corners of his mouth, then he scowled and yanked the phone up to his ear. The tremor in his hands let her know he was either angry or nervous.

  “Sammie Alicia Murphy, what the hell are you doing here?” Jack’s voice had adopted a southern drawl over the years. It wasn’t close to the twangy sound of someone born and bred in the South, but it was different from her northern accent.

  “I came to help you.” He’d schooled her to be self-reliant, and she wouldn’t let him flutter in the wind in this kind of dire predicament.

  “I told Jonathan to let you know that I don’t want you down here, Sammie. It’s not s-safe.”

  Judging by the look that came into his eyes, she’d bet he hadn’t intended on stammering out the last part of that statement. Uncle Jack was always a little overprotective when it came to her, but something about the way he looked set off a host of ping-pong balls rattling around her insides.

  “I can take care of myself.” She eased into a smile despite the war going on inside. “I had the best teacher.” He’d schooled her in the martial arts from a very young age, even before her parents disappeared and he took over the full-fledged parenting role.

  Fragmented memories of her biological father had to do with drunken outbursts. Jack was the only father figure she’d ever known. The thought of abandoning him when he needed her the most was unfathomable no matter how much he protested.

  “I got myself into this mess. I’ll get myself out.” Jack’s brow furrowed and his hands shook. A rise of color came into his cheeks.

  “You never deserted me when I needed you.” She forced a chuckle. “Even when I didn’t think I needed you, but you did. Consider this payback.”

  “You don’t understand.” He turned as if to monitor who was listening, then he whispered into the phone. “This is bigger than the both of us.”

  Sammie could have sworn she heard fear in his voice. Which wasn’t possible. She expected a lot of things, but not that. As long as she’d known him, Uncle Jack had been a fearless kind of guy. When she thought of him she envisioned a superhero—nothing could defeat him, no matter the obstacle.

  She had a faint memory of him raising holy hell when her mother tried to take Sammie away in the middle of the night. Even though Sammie couldn’t remember the specifics, she remembered being scared and clinging to Jack’s side as her mother and father ranted and raved and pointed a gun at him. But he’d never backed down, despite the real threat to his life.

  The memory made his current dread seem even more ominous. “What’s going on? I can’t get enough money for bail because your line of credit is exhausted at the bank. What happened?”

  “I had to take care of some things.”

  There was more he wasn’t saying. “Is this about the undercover cop? Was he shaking you down or something? Because if it is, I can take care of that for you.” She couldn’t utter the words and ask about the possibility of him having a gambling habit. For some reason, making the accusation out loud would feel like a betrayal.

  “I don’t want you messing around in this. You need to get your butt on the next plane home.”

  “And you know me better than to think I’d desert you like that.”

  He shrugged noncommittally, as if regretting his earlier outburst. “You know I don’t like you being around this area. Florida has never been a good place for you.” He attempted to smooth things over with a smile and nonchalant conversation, but underneath, his body practically vibrated with unspoken worry.

  Sammie sighed. “That was a long time ago. I was a kid. I’ve learned a lot since then. You need to let me help you.”

  “And I want you on the next plane back to Providence.” The vehemence of his tone rattled her. Jack had never been a forceful kind of guy. Even when she’d misbehaved as a child, he’d never raised his voice. He’d been like a rudder on a boat, silently steering her in the right direction.

  She dug in her heels as something akin to terror snaked up her spine. “I can’t rest until I get to the bottom of this trumped-up charge against you and track down that cop.”

  With his hands clenched so tight in front of him his knuckles had turned white, he spoke. “Please, I’m begging you, leave before it’s too late.”

  Her heart stuttered. Finally, she managed to say the only thought that occupied her mind. “You’re scaring me.” She pressed her fingers to the glass separating them. “I need to know what happened.”

  Instead of responding, Jack shook his head and placed his hand against the glass, mirroring hers. A hint of a brightness wavered in the corner of his eyes.

  “Time’s up,” the guard announced.

  “Remember what I said,” Jack muttered then hung up.

  When she blew him a kiss, there were tears in her eyes. She wasn’t sure if he’d survive. He knew something but couldn’t or wouldn’t tell her. But how could she help him if he didn’t give her the information she needed to get to the bottom of it?

  The visit hadn’t accomplished anything, unless she counted inching up her anxiety level a notch or two and raising more questions than answers about what exactly was going on at Murphy’s Bar.

  …

  Enrique plopped down in the chair opposite Mel’s desk. “She visited her uncle?”

  “And all those phones are monitored.” Mel handed him a tape. “Let’s see what the Murphy family had to say.”

  Enrique put the tape into the machine and hit th
e play button. Hopefully, he’d learn something from the conversation that would give him more confidence about the bust. Anything that could help him make sense of the contradictory messages flitting through his brain would be a welcome relief. Rarely did he second-guess himself, but the last couple of days with Sammie had caused him to do exactly that.

  “He wants her to leave? And she’s gunning for me, it seems—even if she doesn’t know I’m the guy who busted him.” An uneasy tingle pricked at the base of his skull. That wasn’t the conversation he’d expected. It only reaffirmed her statement about her relationship with her uncle.

  “Maybe you need to pull back, especially if she’s as involved as Jack.” Mel flicked his pen against the mounds of paper littering his desk.

  “Could have been an act.”

  “If he’s telling the truth, and not just wanting to get his niece out of the way, there could be a whole lot more going on. You might be in real danger if some of the big cartels are involved. Who knows what connections Jack had? We need him to give us names. Sounds like he’s not running it, but somebody is and he knows who.”

  He’d worked this case, followed trail after trail to get the eventual arrest. He’d dotted every i and crossed all the t’s. Damn it. With Teresa long gone from his life, he could focus on his job and do it better than 90 percent of the other agents in the field. He was back in the game. He had to prove it. “Everything pointed to Jack.”

  “I’m not saying you’re wrong, but we need to be open to the possibility based on what we just heard. Who the hell knows? Maybe Jack and his niece are world-class actors or blowing smoke to get us off track. Either we confirm you were right on with your bust and all the facts are in order, or we go to trial and find out our case is shot full of holes. Let’s err on the side of caution.” Mel avoided looking at him. Although the guy had faith in him, he was questioning Enrique’s judgment. Not that he blamed him.

  “I’m solid on Jack’s involvement in this. The only question is if Sammie Murphy is involved, too.” Enrique rose and moved toward the door.

  “I’m counting on you, Enrique.”

  The burden of proving himself, after sliding down the hole of screwups and miscues, had been a journey of scratching and crawling his way back. Now that he was finally so close to the surface, he wasn’t about to be brought down by Sammie Murphy, or anyone else for that matter.

  Those angelic looks could very well be hiding a master criminal. She was intelligent. Her honed karate skills showed she’d had to defend herself on more than one occasion. Most criminals were street fighters. And now she’d openly admitted she would take him down.

  Bring. It. On.

  It took Enrique about forty-five minutes to reach the bar from Mel’s office. By the time he got there, Murphy’s was packed. Some regulars. Some he’d never seen before.

  A sense of trouble wafted around like the eye of a hurricane. He could almost smell it in the air. It hung there like the perfume, aftershave, and sweat of the patrons.

  Nothing was obvious. The Hells Angels hadn’t decided to make Murphy’s Bar their new home away from home. Hordes of skinheads weren’t drinking toasts at the bar. Still, something gnawed at him. But he couldn’t put his finger on it. He’d be a fool not to speculate on the increase in trouble since Sammie came to town.

  She confused him. The conversation with her uncle at the prison today was a perfect example. Logic told him she was scum, she just surrounded herself in a nice package. But then he looked at her—the epitome of innocence—and any logic he possessed flew out the window.

  “Tony called in sick, so would you mind serving yourself?” she asked him as he took a seat at the bar. “I’ve got my hands full.” Not waiting for his reply, Sammie scurried back toward the kitchen area.

  Once behind the bar, he drew a draft and surveyed the crowd. Still bothered by the weird vibe he’d learned from experience not to ignore, he searched for well-known drug traffickers and users without luck.

  “While you’re back there, could you get me a draft?”

  Obliging the customer, Enrique drew on the tap. Still preoccupied with what he was missing, he moved over as Sammie scooted back into place.

  “Thanks.” She shook her head while she mixed up some kind of rum concoction with coconut and threw it in the blender. “I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s crazy in here. Not that I’m complaining. Jack could use all the money he can get.”

  “I can help, if you need an extra hand.” Volunteering to work there came to him as a spur-of-the-moment kind of idea. It might make sense to ensconce himself at the scene of the crime, so to speak.

  Her brows furrowed together as she scrutinized him. “I need three drafts, five shots of tequila, and two white wine spritzers. Can you handle it?”

  “No problem.”

  It didn’t take long for them to develop a rhythm. She handled the more complex Key West–style drinks; he took on the drafts, bottled beer, and glasses of wine.

  “You must have tended bar in another life.” She looked at him out of the corner of her eye while she flipped on the blender, the sound of the crunching ice adding to the noise of the crowd.

  He shrugged. “Haven’t we all.”

  She glanced at him and smiled. “It feels like I’ve tended bar all my life—” The sound of breaking glass cut off her words. Immediately, Sammie told him to stay put and jumped the bar.

  Instead of listening, he followed. Only the top of her head remained visible as she pushed her way through the anxious crowd.

  A man, who had to be close to three hundred pounds, brandished a knife. An imposing figure by size alone, decked out in black jeans and a black T-shirt, with tattoos up and down his arms, long greasy hair, and a missing front tooth, he was scary as hell.

  Wielding the knife back and forth from hand to hand with an ease that was unnerving, he dominated the man who stood before him. Already bleeding from what looked like a superficial wound, the other guy was either too drunk or too stupid to be frightened.

  Since Enrique was neither, he knew the whole thing was about to go south. Every inch of his body screamed out a warning.

  “You’re going to die,” the big man rasped through slightly parted lips. His voice matched his body, big and loud and laced with meanness.

  “Not in my bar, you aren’t. The police are on their way.” Sammie clipped the phone back onto her belt.

  Securing a cue stick from the pool table, she headed toward the man holding the knife with a sense of bravado that was either crazy or admirable. Enrique couldn’t decide which.

  “Put it down before the charges escalate.” She marched up to the big guy like an equal in stature. In reality, she stood about a foot shorter and two hundred pounds less.

  “Go away, bitch.” The man’s hand swept out in a broad arc, narrowly missing her when she ducked out of the way.

  While the guy’s focus was on Sammie, Enrique kicked the knife, sending it skittering to the floor. That’s when the big guy’s attention turned toward him.

  Shit. He ducked and avoided the first clumsy punch. Enrique figured he could wear the guy out by dodging. The police should be there in time to pick up the pieces, in case the asshole landed one.

  Seizing a window of opportunity, he caught the big guy with a side kick to the back of the neck. Damage to anything but the guy’s ego was minimal, unfortunately. He glared at Enrique and charged. The resultant force drove him across the room until his head and back crashed against the wall. His breath whooshed out, and stars danced before his eyes.

  He didn’t duck in time to avoid the next punch. Luckily, it only skimmed the side of his face. Pain shot from his temple to his jaw then pulsed to a stop around his eye.

  Somehow he managed to get off another kick, although his legs felt like rubber. Momentum combined with rage had set the guy off balance, and the counterpunch went wild, shattering a nearby table.

  Sammie slammed the pool stick against the back of the asshole’s knees, hittin
g the sweet spot. He crumbled to the ground.

  Before he even knew what hit him, Sammie had the cue stick pressed against his windpipe. The big guy sputtered and coughed and struggled to get upright, but he was too drunk and winded to get any leverage. Enrique joined Sammie, imprisoning the guy’s arms to keep him immobile.

  The wail of a siren broke through the tension. Patrons cleared a path for the approaching officers.

  It took about an hour before the police left. All the customers had dispersed, and the place had been cleaned up. Enrique sat in the back room with Sammie, holding a rag filled with ice against his rapidly discoloring eye. Sammie fidgeted in the seat next to him.

  “I wish you wouldn’t have done that. I could have handled it alone.”

  If he had to guess based on her inability to look directly at him, she felt guilty about what had gone down. He wondered again if the escalation of violence had anything to do with her being in town. Drug sales were territorial, and if a new player moved in, things started to get ugly.

  He shrugged and tried to ignore the pain throbbing at the side of his face. “Something about the whole scene brought out the big brother in me.”

  She huffed as if not quite believing his response. “You didn’t tell me you knew martial arts.”

  He nodded. “I’m a little rusty.” Over the last couple of years, he’d opted for running and lifting to keep in shape rather than the disciplined practice.

  “Why didn’t you mention that before?”

  “I didn’t want you to go all crazy ninja and expect me to back you up. Like I said, I’m a little rusty.” Based on the sluggishness of his reflexes, that was a gross understatement.

  Sammie chewed at her lip. Despite his monster headache, Enrique found the sight both fascinating and disturbing. Not a good sign. Fixating on Sammie Murphy’s body parts shouldn’t be in his repertoire of sexual fantasies right now. Somehow, though, they kept creeping in, even while he should be thinking about how to nail her pretty little ass to the proverbial wall.