Chapter 10
Mitch and Roland Malone had stood eye to eye, nose to nose, toe to toe. Mitch in holey, filthy sneakers now freshly spattered with lasagna, and Malone wearing polished Italian leather loafers. Malone had had no idea he had been face-to-face with an enemy who was dead set on a reckoning.
When Mitch reached the end of the alley, he separated himself from the others and turned down a side street where the traffic was much lighter than on Esplanade. He avoided eye contact with what few pedestrians there were, and, fearing panhandling, all gave him a wide berth.
He walked the now familiar circuitous course that he’d mapped out for himself over the past six months.
It wove through the darkest back streets and sinister-looking alleyways to the rear parking lot of a thrift store, which, according to the sign in the window, had gone out of business three years earlier.
Weeds sprouted up through cracks in the buckled asphalt, so his means of transportation for these nocturnal round trips to New Orleans looked right at home there.
The pickup truck was a holdover from his days of undercover work for the DEA.
It looked like a patched-up, rusted-out piece of shit with bullet holes in the bumper.
But the engine and brakes were new, and the battery was kept charged.
He used it exclusively for these excursions to the city.
He’d initiated them shortly after his meeting with Jim Tucker when he’d first told him about Roland Malone, seeming restaurateur, actually a drug dealer’s right-hand man and executioner.
Sensing the interest he’d stimulated in Mitch, Tucker had admonished him not to go off on a “wild hare” that would cause more trouble for himself.
But that had also been Tucker’s way of telling Mitch not to do anything that would alert Malone to the DEA’s interest in him and his extracurricular activities.
Mitch had made no promises and, within days of that conversation, had begun his self-commissioned undercover work.
Since, he tried to go to the city two or three nights a week to surveil Malone’s restaurant in the guise of one of the homeless population, which had its own societal hierarchy and rules of conduct.
In order to avoid any kind of altercation that would draw attention to him, he’d been careful not to breach anyone else’s territory or even appear curious about their stuff.
Nor did he buddy up to anyone. Giving mumbled, unintelligible answers to direct questions, he’d eventually been accepted as a loner and now was generally ignored.
He hadn’t staked out a permanent spot for himself, but on each visit had taken up a different position along the street that had given him a vantage point from which to observe the goings-on at Roland Malone’s establishment.
Few tourists happened upon Ristorante Italiano, but the place had a loyal following made up of locals, and it hadn’t taken him long to mark the regulars.
Some he’d recognized as people who held positions of power, while others were minor celebrities of one stripe or another, wannabes, or has-beens.
Using the smallest camera possible, he’d surreptitiously taken photos and now had an extensive file.
He’d paid close attention to the customers Malone personally welcomed with demonstrative affection or deference, and then bade goodbye in a conspiratorial manner. He’d paid just as much attention to those Malone observed with a speculative scowl or overt disfavor as they left.
Each night toward closing time, Mitch had ventured into the alley behind the restaurant, where sometimes food from eateries along the avenue was given away on a first-come, first-served basis.
The service door to Malone’s restaurant had always remained closed except for employees going in and out, hauling garbage bags to a dumpster.
But tonight, as Mitch had entered the alley and seen a ragtag group already clustered at Malone’s door, he had rushed to join them, elbowing his way to the front in the hope of catching a glimpse into Roland Malone’s domain.
He’d no sooner grabbed the proffered carry-out box from a benevolent kitchen staffer than Roland Malone himself had appeared in all his greasy glory.
Mitch’s heart had lurched. Until that moment, he’d seen Malone only from a distance.
Suddenly, he was looking straight at the man from no more than a foot away.
Only from having years of practice doing undercover work had he managed not to reveal his shock and near irresistible impulse to go for the man’s throat and kill him on the spot.
Malone was built solidly and squarely. His dark suit had been tailored to perfectly fit the blocky frame. Running through his heavily waxed hair were parallel channels plowed by a comb. A diamond-studded Rolex twinkled on his left wrist.
His voice was monotonal and as weighty as an anchor, but oddly soft-spoken.
It was the voice of someone devoid of emotion.
If eyes emitted sound, Malone’s would match his voice.
They were flat, blank, emotionless, soulless.
Looking into them, Mitch had been convinced they were the eyes that had passively watched as Angela died.
In the seconds they had stood facing each other, Mitch had registered and mentally catalogued as many of these details as he could.
But it wasn’t until Malone had gestured when he’d ordered them to scatter that Mitch had seen the signet ring on his right pinkie finger.
Its red stone had caught the bright beam of the overhead security light, flashing its fire directly into Mitch’s eyes and searing his heart with savagery and exaltation.
The two emotions struck him simultaneously, one as powerful as the other. Miraculously, he managed to keep both harnessed.
But, as he’d turned away, he’d smiled into the zipped-up neck of his hoodie and whispered, “I’m on to you, cocksucker.”
He had so much to think about, the ninety-minute drive home seemed to go quickly. At the storage unit, he swapped out the ratty pickup for his other with the efficiency acquired by routine.
As soon as he’d secured his apartment for the night, he rid himself of his disguise.
First came off the knitted stocking cap.
Sewn into it was what appeared to be straw-colored, unwashed, lice-ridden, stringy hair that draped his shoulders like an unraveling knitted shawl.
It made his head itch, but it was essential.
Next, he unzipped the filthy hoodie and pulled it off inside out. Then, wincing, he peeled off the stick-on beard and mustache. If he’d actually been working undercover, he would have had to grow his own, but for a drizzly night in a dark alley, the artificial had been sufficient.
He scrubbed off the “dirt” makeup he’d learned to apply in special ops, took a hot shower, then got into bed, where, finally, he let himself relax—as much as he ever relaxed—and let his thoughts drift back to the time he’d spent in the company of his therapist.
It was time to ponder this dilemma also known as Dylan Reede.
After waving goodbye to Officer Clarence, he’d driven around the corner and pulled into one of the covered and shadowed drive-through bays of a bank across the street which had afforded him a view of the medical building’s parking lot.
He hadn’t had to wait long before Dylan emerged from a door with “Personnel Only” stenciled on it. She’d taken in her surroundings with a cautious look around. But not all that cautious, because she’d missed his truck. She’d then gotten into the only car left on the lot.
He’d been responsible for making her late to leave, so he’d figured the least he could do was make sure she got home safely.
He’d followed her, at a distance, to one of the coveted townhomes that backed up to Auclair’s only country club’s golf course.
He hadn’t headed for New Orleans until she’d gotten inside and the lights were turned on.
When he’d first seen her this morning, he’d been struck by how attractive she was. That was a forgivable offense. He wasn’t blind. But he’d kissed her only to rile her and test how she would react, not because of unbridled desire.
Tonight, however, in that small space, with no Ellie in the next room, with Dylan looking as rumpled as she had, he’d come close to kissing her again for another reason entirely: He’d wanted to.
He’d wanted to a lot. If his tongue had touched her lips again tonight, he would have slipped it between them, stayed a while, taken his time to taste her, and given vent to the pressure below his belt that had been increasing since he’d walked in and seen her all tousled.
Tousled was not an adjective he’d thought he would ever use in his lifetime. But here he was, using it.
Tousled Dylan, looking up at him with dazed eyes as he’d counted her heartbeats, was an altogether different animal from buttoned-up Dr. Reede tapping her pen against her notepad. Tousled Dylan had roused the animal inside him that had been sleeping since Angela’s death.
He’d spent his first eighteen months as a widower in full-blown mourning. More often than not, drunken mourning. The past six months, since that fateful meeting with Jim Tucker, he’d spent plotting his vengeance against the men who’d robbed Angela of her life and Andrew of his mother.
First profound grief, then vengeful wrath, had been inhibitors to his sex drive. He’d had no interest in, nor inclination toward, romance on any level. He’d curtly rebuffed every tentative inquiry whether he was ready to start dating.
It wasn’t as though he’d taken a vow of celibacy out of respect for Angela. He had loved her body and soul and would cherish the memory of her and their time together until he drew his last breath.
But she would be the first to encourage him not to live the rest of his life alone and lonely. She wouldn’t want that for him or for Andrew. He wasn’t against the prospect of having a future relationship. He just hadn’t met a woman who’d sparked his interest.
Dylan hadn’t sparked it; she’d ignited a bonfire. Even if his head and heart had rejected the very idea, his libido hadn’t. But why, when his future was dependent on the success or failure of their doctor–patient relationship, had she been the one to elbow his dick awake?
If ever there was a DO NOT GO THERE, this was it.
If he still believed in the Almighty, he would take him to task over this cruel joke.
And if John could read the train of his thoughts right now, he would shit.
With all ten fingers, he raked his hair off his forehead, held it back, and asked the ceiling above his bed, What am I going to do about this? What? What?
But hold on. He hadn’t crossed a line. Not yet.
He hadn’t acted on the urge to kiss her again, had he?
Okay, he’d held her wrist and counted her heartbeats.
Big deal. And maybe his thumb had made a few stroking passes against that super-soft skin.
But it was her wrist, for crying out loud. Not her… something else.
Dylan, the buttoned-up rule-keeper, wasn’t going to tell John or anybody else that he’d touched her in a way that was… iffy. And even iffy was a stretch. Nothing seismic had happened. This quandary was all inside his head without any actuality on which to base it. None. At all.
Bottom line? No harm, no foul. Everything would be all right if he stuck to the plan, stayed the course, and didn’t think about his therapist in that light.
In soft light. Unbuttoned. Tousled. Falling apart. Under him.