One Last Chance

Eaton’s head snapped around, but they could tell by his expression that he hadn’t heard the actual words. Chance smothered a laugh.

“You have something to say, Detective Buckner?”

Chance raised an eyebrow. “No. I think you’re saying quite enough.”

Color suffused Eaton’s face. “If you can’t treat this with the seriousness it deserves, perhaps we should find someone who can.”

“Oh, I’m taking the case very seriously.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Was there a word in there you didn’t understand?” Chance’s tone was innocent.

Eaton sputtered, but no recognizable words came out.

“All right, gentlemen,” Jim Morgan interjected sternly, “let’s get on with it. What do we have so far?”

“I talked to one of the doormen last night,” Quisto said. “He said that about half the crew was hired for this opening week only. That leaves about ten or fifteen that are probably de Cortez’s own men.”

“Most of them are from his organization in Miami,” Chance added. “We spotted them in the photos they sent out.”

Morgan scanned the papers on the table in front of him. “It seems he brought only those with clean sheets. No serious charges against any of them in Florida or anywhere else. His right-hand man, Escobar, has a local juvenile record, but as far as we can tell, nothing as an adult.”

“Yep,” Quisto drawled, “just a pack of Boy Scouts.”

“Can we get on with this?” Eaton dropped down on to a chair that creaked ominously under his bulk.

Morgan’s eyes flicked to the federal agent, then back to the papers he held without comment. “We’ve gotten nothing on the wiretaps,” he went on as if the man hadn’t spoken. “Only normal business calls, nothing unusual.”

“Unless it’s in code.”

Morgan nodded at Chance’s comment. “Yes. But so far every call has proven legitimate. Every call to a supplier has resulted in a delivery of what was ordered. No unscheduled deliveries have been made. No unaccounted-for appointments.”

“And no unknown visitors to the house,” Quisto put in. “Only the men we already know about.” His eyes flicked to Chance. “And the singer from the club.”

Chance’s face remained impassive as Morgan read from a page of the surveillance log. “The other members of the band are fairly clean. Local. No connections. A couple of arrests on traffic warrants, but no felonies. One marijuana cite, a couple of years ago. Less than an ounce.”

“They may be clean, but the bimbo’s dirty as hell.” Eaton’s voice was almost avid in its luridness.

Chance didn’t visibly stiffen, but Quisto had come to know his partner rather well over the past two years. He looked from Chance’s face back to the agent’s.

“You’ve got proof of that?”

“Proof? If he’d just wanted someone to sing in his club, he would have hired local talent, instead of bringing her in. What more do you need?”

“She’s not from Miami,” Quisto argued. “Our sources say she came in from Reno. And de Cortez has no known contacts there.”

“He obviously has one,” Eaton snapped. “Her. He must have stashed her there when we made it too hot for him in Miami.”

“Then why isn’t she in the file on his known associates? She’s not in any of the surveillance photos, either.” Quisto gestured at the pile of black-and-white pictures.

“Look,” Eaton snarled, “she’s shacked up with de Cortez, isn’t she?”

“She comes and goes from the house. Doesn’t mean she lives there,” Quisto said.

“She doesn’t have to live there to give Mendez what he wants,” Eaton suggested with a leer.

“That doesn’t mean she’s part of it.” The words broke from Chance as if against his will, and Eaton turned to stare at him.

“She’s screwing him, she’s got to know. Even if she isn’t involved in his operation, she has to know what’s going on. Dirt by association is still dirt.”

Chance sat up sharply, but when Eaton’s beady brown eyes narrowed with a gleam of interest, Chance made himself sit back. He stared at his hands, his eyes fastened on the adhesive bandage that was wrapped around his thumb.

“We can’t assume she’s involved,” Quisto put in quickly. “She may be with de Cortez, but that doesn’t mean she knows the details we need.”

“She could be the weak link,” Morgan said slowly. “Can you work her?” He looked at Quisto.

“Er…” Quisto jerked a thumb toward Chance. “He’s already started.”

“I’ll bet,” Eaton sneered. “You pretty boys are all alike.”

Quisto moved as if to stop Chance, then stopped himself when his partner never moved, never even reacted, only lifted a finger to run it lightly over the flesh-colored bandage. His dark brows furrowed.

“That’s enough,” Lieutenant Morgan said. He looked over at Eaton. “Your other men reported in this afternoon. I’ve assigned them to take over the surveillance so my men can get some rest.” Eaton stood up, ready to protest this appropriation of his authority, but Lieutenant Morgan gave him no chance to speak. “Since there’s nothing further to discuss, I suggest we all get some rest.” He got to his feet. “Detective Buckner, my office please.”

Chance’s eyes flicked to his boss, then to Quisto. Had he said something? Was he about to get warned about keeping this completely business? Quisto shrugged, eyebrows raised to indicate he knew no more than Chance did.

You’re a basket case, Buckner, he told himself grimly. Suspecting your own partner of ratting on you about…about what? What was there to tell? Nothing, he answered his silent question firmly. He’d overreacted to a beautiful voice, a pair of wide gray eyes. And those words. Words no doubt borrowed from whoever had truly felt them and set them to music, he told himself.

He walked into the lieutenant’s office, sat down and waited. Morgan dropped the files onto his already cluttered desk, then turned and sat on the edge.

“I know he’s a pain, but we’ve got to work with him.”

Chance smothered a sigh of relief. “I can work with anybody. But I can’t work for him.”

“You’re not. This is our town, and de Cortez is our problem now.” Jim Morgan smiled wryly. “The feds always have a problem about local jurisdiction, but his is—” his mouth quirked “—larger.”

Chance grinned. “Yeah, it is, isn’t it?”

“Try to live with it, will you? It won’t be forever.”

“It’ll only seem that way,” Chance said dryly. He slid forward to the edge of the chair. “I’ll be good, I promise. Is that it?”

After a split second of hesitation, Morgan answered. “No. Not quite.”

Uh-oh. Chance sat back.

“You know this is our number-one priority now.”