He took the last turn into Becca’s driveway. Her house was located in the Lakeshore neighborhood, in one of the newer subdivisions. The two-story gray brick was modern and sleek, except for the nod to traditional New Orleans architecture with the second story French inspired balcony above the front door.
Once inside, Becca flipped on lights and when she turned Quinten’s way, her intent clear all over her face, he held a finger up to his mouth.
“Give me three minutes.” Then he proceeded to check her home for any possible bugs. He liked her place. She’d decorated it with bold selections and colors, but there were warm touches as well. Books on shelves and end tables, like she couldn’t get enough to read. There were bowls of hand-blown glass, and potted plants spread throughout. He checked in her studio and was struck by the beauty of her art. She had a keen eye for detail and her use of color drew a person in so that they felt like they were inside the painting. He could have stood and looked through her art for the remainder of the night. The pieces were vivid and visceral. He could see why she’d begun to make a name for herself, not that he had ever been to her gallery.
When’d he finished his search, he located her in her state-of-the-art kitchen with all the latest stainless steel appliances. Black granite countertops and light gray cabinets were offset by the honey-gold hardwood floor.
Becca stood with a large glass of red wine, the bottle open on the counter, and the marriage certificate lying beside it.
“So did you finish searching my place? I’m sure the bathroom held a ton of contraband. Or are you going to shush me again?”
“I used the bathroom to flush the bug I found,” Quinten explained, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“It’s the south. What do you expect to find?” She snorted and rolled her eyes.
“Not that kind of bug, Becca. Of the listening in variety. While we were at Rudnikov’s mansion, he must have sent one of his tech goons here to install it.”
Tension snapped her spine straight and the hand holding the wine glass trembled. “They were here? In my house?”
Quinten hated the fear and uncertainty rolling off her. He acknowledged her questions with a slight nod and said, “You don’t have a home security system. You should, by the way. But Rudnikov’s men are experts at breaking into places. And a home like this without any security is child’s play to them.”
“And there was only one bug?”
“Yep.” He’d have to scan his Mustang, too, before they left.
“How can you be certain?”
“I scanned your house using this,” he held up the small device, “it’s a radiofrequency detector.”
Some of the tension left her. Becca took a long drink of wine before she responded. “That’s a relief. Can I offer you a glass? I don’t have any beer. I might have some tequila in the pantry though.”
“I’m good. I have some questions I need to ask.” He leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms. Quinten was not looking forward to the interrogation. Regardless that she was his best friend’s sister, if she was trafficking drugs for Rudnikov… it didn’t even bear thinking about.
“Ditto, husband,” she replied with a derisive snort and took another swig of wine.
Her attitude made his hands clench. She wasn’t his submissive, whom he could spank into submission and a potential confession. “Me first. What in the holy hell were you doing with Rudnikov?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” Becca replied, taking a similar stance against the opposite counter, wine glass in hand, fury darkening her gaze like a thunderstorm as she leaned back.
“Becca, all I know is that I was called to his place because he had a meeting with a new business associate. And, surprise, it’s my best friend’s baby sister. I’m going to ask you one more time, what the hell were you doing there?”
“Like I had a choice in the matter. Wait… do you actually think I’m in business with that man because I wanted to be?” she shouted, with disbelief etched across her face.
“Are you?” he asked, not backing down. He needed to know that he could trust her. Twenty-four hours ago, he would have said yes, she was innocent, but seeing her at Rudnikov’s had shaken that instinctive trust. He hated being wrong about someone.
“Of all the nerve! You can’t actually believe that I would go into business with a crime lord. For your information, Sasha Brevard—the store manager at my gallery—has been working with them. In fact, now that I’ve had a modicum of time to wrap my head around her betrayal, I think she was planted there on purpose to use my gallery for Rudnikov’s business. That he set me up. This morning I went into my gallery because I wanted to see the latest shipment of artwork we received. When I opened the crates, I found them stuffed with drugs. You can imagine my horror and disbelief over my discovery. I wanted to call the police.”
“And why didn’t you?”
She shot him a loaded glare. “Because I wasn’t about to argue with the pistol being pointed at my head. It’s that little thing called self-preservation. When I threatened Sasha with calling the police, she threatened to kill my family if I said anything to the authorities. Tell me, Quinten, what the fuck I was supposed to do? Sasha contacted Rudnikov while holding me at gunpoint. They arranged the meeting like I was being invited to have tea with the Queen. Then Sasha tied me up in my own damn storeroom to wait until it was time to take me to the meeting tonight. Rudnikov orchestrated all of it. It was either I went, or I died. I don’t know about you, but I’m a big fan of living.”
“And that’s it?” He hated that he was putting her through this, questioning her this way.
Becca slammed her wineglass on the counter, and wine sloshed over the rim. She threw up her hands, exasperation written all over her face. “Unreal. I tell you everything I know. That I was betrayed by someone I trusted. And I trusted you tonight, no questions asked. I did everything you asked of me, including marrying your sorry ass, and yet you haven’t explained why you were there! How you were there? I thought cops were supposed to arrest the bad guys, not work with them.”
Quinten conceded. “We are, and do under most circumstances. I’m undercover, in more ways than one. Rudnikov believes I’m a dirty cop. It’s taken me a year of working covertly to get this close. I’m not just working with my precinct, but with the DEA on this one. My precinct doesn’t know I’m working with the DEA, and I need you to keep that tidbit of information to yourself. I’m trusting you with that knowledge. It’s information that could get us both killed. Understood? I was summoned tonight and thought they might have figured out I copied all their upcoming shipments onto a thumb drive this morning. Imagine my surprise at finding you there.” He didn’t mention that he still had that thumb drive on his person. There’d been no time to get the contents uploaded into his cloud server at home or to store it in his safe at the club. There was no chance he would leave it at home, not with Rudnikov’s tendency toward raiding his employees’ homes for any collateral to use against them, not even with the security system Quinten had in place.
“Why are you working with the DEA?” she asked. Some of the fire had left her demeanor. Becca suddenly seemed small and unsure.