Damn it, Theresa. Woman up.
I’d committed. I straightened the little black dress I threw on for this meeting. Something told me this was going to be the kind of place that called for a more formal appearance. Besides, given my suspicions about this “fixer,” I figured a little disarming beauty might go a long way.
XXV.
The doors swished open. I balled my hands into tight fists to hide their shaking and stepped off the elevator.
The dress was a good call. The bar was elegantly understated. It seemed awash in a dim orange glow that highlighted the refinement of the few guests scattered here and there. I was struck by the paradox of the place and its customers. For an establishment and clientele so intent on not being seen, everything about the place and the people was flashy.
Everything, that was, except for the man seated alone in the corner. He was somehow the most handsome and the most inconspicuous person I’d ever seen. He was dressed all in black. Black suit, black shirt, black tie. His black hair was slick, not a stray strand out of place.
He had his eye on me the minute I stepped off the elevator. Like he somehow knew the exact moment I’d arrived.
He nodded to me, confirming that he was my contact. I stepped toward him and immediately stumbled. It wasn’t a gaffe not brought on by nerves. Instead, I was disarmed by this man’s good looks.
Flustered on top of your nerves? Good going, Theresa.
I took a deep breath and swallowed hard to get a grip. Then I marched to the table with what I hoped was a measured pace. Not too eager. Not too cowardly. Nice and easy.
The moment I slid into my chair, I noticed that there were two drinks in front of him. He slid one my way—a dirty martini. My drink. How the fuck did he know?
Shit, the glass was still cold. It must have just hit the table—this guy was good.
I accepted it without a word. Stirring the olive through the vodka, I looked at his glass. It looked like a scotch. Though I wouldn’t have been surprised if he was one of those guys who drank apple juice while pretending it was straight booze. I’d heard Sinatra used to do that kind of thing.
This guy didn’t have the singer’s crystal blue eyes. His were as black as his ensemble. Eyes you could get lost in and be fine with not knowing how to escape. I realized I was in danger of exactly that, so I focused on his lips. Mistake. They were full and gorgeous and I immediately started thinking about how they might feel on my body…
“I’m Theresa,” I blurted out in an effort to get myself to focus.
“I know.” He spoke softly, yet somehow his voice carried clearly through the low mumble of the bar.
“And you are?” I took a sip of my drink.
“Just call me ‘Fixer’.”
“Mysterious.” I was trying to be coy myself and hoped it wasn’t reading as phony.
“It’s necessary, given my line of work,” he said. “It protects me. My family.”
“What exactly is your line of work?” I asked, feeling emboldened. “I mean, McDonnell was vague.”
“My work is all in the name, sweetheart. You need something fixed. I fix it.” He shrugged.
“But, how, exactly?”
“With whatever tool the job requires. What exactly do you need fixed?”
It was clear I wasn’t going to get more out of him. And I was afraid he was starting to get annoyed with the questions. I had come to the meeting. I might as well follow through. Besides, if I walked out now, I might never get to interact with this handsome devil again. And that’d be a shame.
“There’s a man I’ve been determined to put away. But the son-of-a-bitch is so protected by the mob and corrupt politicians that he’s able to murder and extort with impunity. I’ve done everything I can to do things by the book. Now I’m ready to try another way.”
“Who?”
I reached into my large bag. It didn’t go with the dress, but it was the only thing I had that could contain the huge file I’ve got on Larroca. I pulled out the thick brief and slid it across the table to him.
The guy—Fixer—had mastered the art of hiding his expressions. Still, when he opened the file, I thought I saw a hint of recognition flash across his features.
Given the depth of Larroca’s network, I wondered if that was good or bad. My hands quivered ever-so-slightly around the martini glass’s stem.
4
The Fixer
Larroca. I’ll be damned.
I knew the guy. Antoine had been on my radar for years. The things this guy had done would make some hardened criminals I knew blanche. He was bad news all around. Zero scruples. Zero morals.
You always hear in movies and TV about a certain kind of “code” among criminals. Honor among thieves and all that shit. Certain things that “a man just doesn’t do.” To some extent, that’s a real thing. After all, nobody makes money in the midst of anarchy. So even among the scum of the earth, there’s a set of fuzzy rules that people generally followed.
Not Larroca. Murder. Mayhem. Extortion. Men, women, children, even animals, so I’d been told. Nothing was out of bounds for this son-of-a-bitch. There were psychopaths out there who would clutch their pearls at some of the things I’d heard associated with Larroca.
Some of those things were included in the file Theresa had just passed me.
It was only a matter of time. Larroca was someone I’d kept tabs on for a while because I figured sooner or later our paths might cross. My skills and his mayhem made that nearly impossible to avoid.
It just never occurred to me those paths would cross because of a woman like the one sitting across from me. I pretended to skim the file, but my eyes kept slipping up to take her in.
Her skin was fine and pale. There was something angelic about her, the way the light hit her as she sat there in the dim glow of XXV. Her dark hair and black dress highlighted the porcelain quality of her face. And her plunging neckline didn’t hurt. There wasn’t a lot of cleavage because she was a thin girl. But she looked strong. And her breasts seemed full and firm despite their smaller size. She was captivating, no doubt.
Why the fuck was someone sweet like this involved in something as depraved as Larroca’s profile?
I flipped through the file deliberately, studying each report, each photo. There was some disgusting stuff. Even given some of the things I’d seen in my day, it was gruesome. I was also already familiar with most of it. Like I said, this sicko had been on my radar.
Hers, too, apparently.
“I’ve been trying to nail this bastard for years.” She spoke quietly, befitting the intimacy of the bar, but her tone was fiery. “Time after time, I build one case after another. And one after the other, the case falls apart, or gets thrown out. A witness balks or goes missing. A judge finds a reason to dismiss the charges. A cop suddenly can’t find, or produce, evidence.”
“That’s how men like Larroca are able to operate with impunity.”
“I’m sick of it. I had him dead to rights in a courtroom today, and the rug got yanked out from under me.”
“Sounds frustrating.” I empathized.
“You have no idea.”
“And so, you picked up that card McDonnell gave you. And despite the warning he no doubt gave you along with the card, you dialed my number.”