Trace of Fever

“So, what’s he going to do, sell me to the highest bidder?” When Trace scowled, not about to confirm or deny that, she asked, “Out of the country, or just someplace isolated? I bet he has contacts in California and Arizona, right?”

Trace did a double take. What did Ms. Priscilla Patterson know about any of that? Murray Coburn hadn’t gotten his fame by making mistakes or leaking information. “Come again?”

“Oh, give it up, Trace.” Rather than look afraid, or even worried, by the reality of Murray’s malevolence, she seemed speculative. “We both know how Murray made his fortune, right?”

Dangerous. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

She turned so that her shoulders were in the corner of the seat and she half faced him. “You need me to go first? Is this a test of some kind? Fine. No problem.” She leaned toward him. “Human trafficking.”

Trace tried not to show any reaction.

“I assumed the sick bastard would stick with immigrants. I mean, I know the employment agencies—profitable as they might be—are just a front for the real moneymaker.” She looked out the window at the passing scenery—and didn’t ask where he took her. “But if Murray discovered good income with homegrown females, I guess he could be expanding his business enterprises.”

No way in hell would Trace corroborate any of her supposition—and it had to be supposition. No way in hell could she have any hard facts, because they were few and far between, and near impossible to uncover.

Trace didn’t trust her, not in any way, shape or form. But her theory brought about some interesting questions. “What do you know about human trafficking?”

In a barely audible mutter, she said, “More than I want to.”

A chill of alarm ran down Trace’s spine. “What was that?”

She gave an aggrieved huff. “Look, I’m not stupid, okay? Before coming here, I did as much studying on the subject as I could. I know how so many poor immigrants are abused, promised good jobs only to be recruited into prostitution and worse. And I read that white females are in higher demand, because they’re not as commonly traded as immigrants.”

Trace did a little more white-knuckle squeezing. “If that’s what you think, then what the hell are you doing here?”

She shook her head, making that long reddish ponytail swish. “No more questions.”

His teeth came together. “Oh, no, you don’t, Priscilla. Refusal is an option you don’t have. If you want to live through this, which is still doubtful by the way, you will tell me everything.”

She sighed. “It’s a horrid name, isn’t it?”

Lost, he glanced at her. “What? Priscilla?”

“Yes. Mom shortened it to Priss, so that’s what people call me—at least, the people who know me well. But that’s not much better.” She rubbed at tired eyes. “It makes me sound stuck-up, like a straightlaced Goody Two-shoes. I thought finally, for once in my life, my name would be worthwhile.”

“Because you wanted Murray to believe you’re some Little Ms. Innocent?”

“Yeah.” She eyed him. “You don’t think he bought it?”

Trace snorted. “He’s not a fool. I don’t think he’s completely onto you, but he’s definitely suspicious.”

“But you are onto me?”

“I know you’re a fraud, Priscilla. I know you have something planned, something that might get us both killed. And I know you’re out of your league.”

She looked sleepy. “All that, huh?”

While she was being marginally agreeable, Trace pushed his luck. “Is he really your father?”

“What do you think?”

“I think skewed personal vendettas are the most dangerous kind.” And somehow, this was personal for her. Because of her mother? Likely. Especially if she had no other family.

“Personal vendettas are always a good reason to get involved.” She studied him. “So why are you here?”

Trace kept his gaze on the road ahead. “It’s a job.”

“Bull.” She laughed, and the sound was pleasant despite the strain. “Okay, so you’re good at deciphering situations. Me, too. Wanna know what I think?”

Trace tipped his head toward a squat brick structure with a purple awning out front. “There’s the boutique where you’ll shop.”

She didn’t pick up on the subject change. “I think you’re more than capable of killing, but not innocents. You kill people who deserve it. You’re good, so that means you’re a professional of some kind. Government operative maybe?”

When he sat there, stony-faced, she shrugged.

“Okay, maybe not. I suppose you could be an independent contractor. Actually, that’s a better fit because you seem like the independent sort, more so than a man who takes orders.”

Good God. He didn’t look at her.

She smiled. “The way I see it, everyone knows Murray is scum, but he has friends in high places. He does big-time contributions to political campaigns and that buys him enough immunity. For added insurance, he has a few senators neatly tucked into his pocket.”

If that was all he had, the authorities could have eventually brought him down—and Trace wouldn’t be on the case right now.

He pulled into a parking spot on the street across from the boutique. “We’re here.”

Priscilla reached for his arm. “Extorting women from other countries is dangerous enough. But when you start tampering with legal citizens, someone is bound to get fired up. Whoever that someone is, he hired you to shut down Murray’s operation.”

Interesting take. Except that no one had hired him. No one needed to. “That’s one hell of an imagination you have there, Priss.” Trace pulled free of her unnerving touch. She was good, he’d give her that. But she’d missed the motivation entirely.

Human trafficking had hit him on a very personal level, so he’d made it his mission to demolish anyone and everyone involved, starting with the biggest, most obvious organizations. Thanks to his best friend, Dare Macintosh, they’d made great headway already.

And now he wanted Murray Coburn.

Trace left the car, put change in the meter, and went around to Priss’s door. She’d just stepped out when his phone rang. Again, not trusting her to be more than a foot away from him, Trace held her arm while he answered. “Miller.”

“It just occurred to me,” Murray said. “I should know if she really is my daughter, right?”

Trace saw how the sunlight shone on Priss’s hair—and yeah, the name Priss suited her, whether she realized it or not. The bright day amplified the red in her long ponytail, showing a dozen different shades of brown and auburn.

She looked nothing like Murray. A good thing, that. “Up to you.”

“I need to test her DNA. Discreetly. Helene said it’d be best to get some of her hair, but it has to have a root attached, so get a couple of good ones, pulled out, not cut. Got it?”

Now that he had the opportunity to slant things however he wanted, Trace pondered the situation. Which would be more advantageous to his plan, if Priss was not Murray’s daughter, or if she was?

He shrugged. At this point, it was all still up in the air, so he’d just have to play it by ear. “Not a problem.”

Murray gave a few more instructions on the type of clothes he wanted to see her in. “Talk her up, see what you can find out, okay? But be discreet. I don’t want her to bolt. Not yet.”