His Runaway Juror. Mallory Kane
plainclothes watching you and the lowlife, what’s his name?”
“Foshee. Armand Foshee.”
“Right. Foshee. The task force will step in before the verdict. We’ll probably pull Foshee in on some lesser charge. You, too, so your cover isn’t blown. The trial will end in a mistrial, but it won’t come down on you. Trust me, we’ve got plenty on Simon. We can pick him up on another murder charge before he sets foot outside the courtroom.”
Pruitt made it sound easy. But then he wasn’t out in the field. He didn’t have to worry about who got hurt.
Brand’s thoughts returned to Lily Raines. Terrified, trembling, her soft breasts pressed against his forearms, her dark, shiny hair tickling his nose. He grimaced as his body began to stir. “What about the woman? What about her father?”
“They’re not your concern. We’ll take care of them.”
“The hell they’re not. I’m the one leaning on her. I don’t like it. I don’t like the threats against her father, either. Can’t the police give him protection?”
“We don’t want to blow your cover or endanger your juror. We can’t afford to let Castellano see any change in her father’s care. You just do your job.”
Damn. He didn’t like working with the FBI. They played everything too close to the vest. He rubbed his neck. “Should I call you back to confirm?”
“No. You’ve got the go-ahead. I’ll take care of making it right with the justice department.” Pruitt disconnected.
Brand turned off his cell phone and stuck it in his pocket. Then he stopped the tape recorder, ejected the cassette and held it between his thumb and forefinger.
Like he’d told Pruitt, he’d worked like a dog to pull himself out of the chaos of his childhood. He was not going to let anything ruin his career as a police detective. It was all he had.
He tossed the cassette a couple of inches into the air and caught it in his fist. Insurance. He had Pruitt on tape promising to cover his butt.
As he walked back to his car, he stuck the cassette in his pocket. His fingers encountered the note he’d picked up from the mailbox.
After climbing into the driver’s seat, he scanned the note and cursed. He shook his head as he crumpled the note in his fist. His request for two days’ leave to go to Alexandria, Louisiana, for his father’s funeral had been denied.
He’d expected it. He was in too deep with the Gulf Coast mob to risk disappearing even for a day or two. Especially now that he had finally penetrated the impenetrable armor surrounding Giovanni Castellano.
His eyelids stung and he blinked rapidly. Pop had been dying for a long time. The alcohol had finally killed him. But his death dredged up memories of another death, that of his oldest brother, Patrick. There was nobody to blame for Pop’s death except Pop himself.
But Patrick was another story. Brand’s brother had gotten in too deep with gambling and drugs. He owed Castellano more money than he could ever pay, so the mob boss had ordered his execution to make an example. For all Brand knew, Sack Simon had pulled the trigger.
Patrick was the reason Brand had become a cop. The reason he’d volunteered for this particular assignment in the first place.
He sighed. Now to catch Castellano, he had to let the assassin who may have killed his brother go free. God, he hoped Pruitt was telling the truth when he’d said Simon wouldn’t walk out of the courthouse before they arrested him again.
He cranked his car and pulled away. He had to be up early tomorrow to go to the courthouse with Foshee.
As he drove back to his apartment, the remembered scent of vanilla and coconut filled his nostrils. He squirmed as his body reacted to the memory of Lily’s slender, sturdy body pressed against him.
The justice department had damn sure better protect his badge, because he had no choice but to do this. For more than one reason.
Sure, he was doing it to avenge his brother’s death and to protect his fellow undercover officers. But there was a third reason. His body tightened and a thrilling ache throbbed in his loins. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to ease the pressure of the tight denim.
Lily Raines needed him. She had no one else to protect her.
Chapter Two
The empty halls of the courthouse mocked Lily as the click of her heels echoed through the silent corridors. Within an hour, these same halls would be buzzing with activity, and yet she’d still be alone.
She hadn’t slept a wink all night. She’d been afraid to turn off the lights, and every noise she heard sent fear slicing through her.
Her father’s bland, trusting face haunted her. He was so helpless, and Castellano was ruthless. He’d gotten to her dad inside the nursing home. How could she keep him safe anywhere?
Still, she’d done her best. She’d stalked into the nursing home, indignant and worried, and demanding that whoever had let her father get hold of matches should be let go. She pulled it off with just enough of a touch of frantic daughter that she’d managed to back the head nurse into a corner.
She had agreed to move Lily’s dad next to the nurse’s station so they could keep an eye on him.
She also promised Lily that she would find out who had left matches lying around and have them fired. Lily didn’t bother to tell her that she wouldn’t find anything.
Lily stepped through a set of double doors, and passed one of the assistant district attorneys assigned to the Sack Simon case. The medium-height young man looked smart and capable as he nodded absently at her. Lily wondered what he would do if she told him Castellano had sent thugs to threaten her.
But she kept walking, her hand clenched around her purse strap. The spider-on-your-skin feeling was still with her. She glanced around, expecting to see the little Cajun or his tall partner watching her, but the only person she spotted was a security guard.
She went through the door into the jury room. It was empty. She managed to make a pot of coffee, but spilled a little when she poured herself a cup. Standing at the door, she searched the face of each person who walked by. She recognized some, such as the ADAs, one of the court reporters and a couple of police officers who knew her father.
Every single time someone walked past, her heart sped up and she prayed for the courage to reach out— to ask for help. But each time she gripped her cup more tightly and remained quiet. None of them could protect her against the most powerful man on the Gulf Coast.
How could this happen in this day and age? Years ago, organized crime had been rampant up the eastern seaboard, along the Gulf, even in the Midwest. Back then the mob was into drugs and prostitution, loansharking and money-laundering.
Giovanni Castellano was of a totally different breed. He owned legitimate businesses, paid health insurance for his employees. He was even on the committee for the renovation of the Gulf Coast.
According to defense counsel, Castellano and everyone who worked for him, including Sack Simon, were model citizens.
Whatever illegal activities Castellano was involved in, they were hidden behind a facade of honest business practices. And that meant it would be almost impossible to find anyone who could protect her against him. Who could she trust?
Icy fear crawled up her spine. Even if she could get protection for herself, what about her father? Giovanni Castellano, the King of the Coast, was untouchable.
It was the Gulf Coast’s worst kept secret that Castellano’s money came from illegal activities such as smuggling and loan-sharking. Yet somehow he’d never been indicted by the police. Her father had always complained that Castellano had a politician