Bottom line, p.1
Bottom Line, page 1
Also available from G.B. Gordon
and Carina Press
By the Book
Content Warning
Bottom Line contains descriptions of murder,
kidnapping and memories of a case involving
sexual violence.
Bottom Line
G.B. Gordon
Y—for giving me just enough space.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
About the Author
Excerpt from Liar City by Allie Therin
Chapter One
Nick
Tuesday
Nick stormed out of the SAC’s office and slammed the glass door so hard that the frame rattled.
It was bulletproof glass; it’d be fine. Nick wasn’t. Nobody seemed to give a rat’s ass that Nick had a gun to find. Least of all Peña, the Special Agent in Charge and Nick’s boss, who kept shoving new cases Nick’s way and had now told him point-blank to stop obsessing over a solved case. Except it wasn’t. Solved, that was. It was...complicated.
But by now even Duncan had told Nick more than once to let it go. And Ben—well, Ben didn’t know about the gun. And even if he did, he wasn’t interested in anything Nick had to say, or he would’ve called, wouldn’t he? Not that Nick cared. He didn’t need Ben.
When he reached his desk, Duncan, who sat opposite, took one look at him and burrowed back into the file he’d been reading.
“What?” Nick barked.
“Nothing, dearie. Carry on.”
Nick sank into his chair and leaned his head back. Suddenly he was tired. “Sorry. I’m not fit for human company today.”
Now Duncan did look at him. “You haven’t been fit for human company for nearly two months. Which coincidentally is the time Ben Coyne seems to have disappeared from your radar. Or at least I don’t hear his name from your lips anymore.” He paused, but Nick didn’t comment. There was nothing to say.
Duncan didn’t get the message. “What happened between you two?”
“Nothing.” Everything. Nick flicked his computer screen on so he’d have something other than Duncan’s face to stare at. He didn’t want to talk about it. Hell, he didn’t even want to think about it. There was nothing to think about! One-night stands were Nick’s MO, and there was not a single reason this one should have been any different. Not a single reason why he should keep worrying that tangled mess of what Ben wanted and, most of all, what Nick wanted. Or didn’t want. That shadowy nameless need deep inside him. The thing he didn’t want to want.
“What did he want?” Duncan said, sending Nick’s brain spinning for a second, panicking that Duncan had read his mind.
“Huh?”
“Peña.” Duncan nodded toward the door Nick had just stormed through. “Why’d he call you in? We got a new case?”
“Kinda. Maybe.”
“Could you be a bit more vague? I think I still have a tenuous hold on the topic at hand.”
Nick grinned. Trust Duncan to kick him out of his bad mood. “Remember Rich Fleming?”
“The casino big shot in Vegas? The elusive phantom we’ve been trying to pin with laundering drug money since dinosaurs roamed the earth, but everything slides off him like he’s made of Teflon?”
“Him.” Nick shook his head, reminiscing. “Such a major pain in the proverbial. Has anyone actually ever seen the guy? I feel like all we ever get is the run-around from his lawyers. He must spend half his considerable income on them. Anyway, apparently he popped up in an AUSTRAC investigation recently, and Peña thinks that may give us a new angle.”
“AUSTRAC? What does the Aussies’ financial intelligence have to do with Vegas?”
“Macau.”
Both eyebrows comically raised, Duncan raised his arms. “Okay, you win. I’ve now officially lost the plot.”
“They’re investigating a Melbourne junket operator that organizes casino tours from and to Macau, and apparently now to the US.”
Duncan leaned back with a long drawn-out “Ah.” Not just gorgeous, but quick on the uptake as well. “And Fleming’s casino—what was it called again?—is a destination?”
“Desert Crown. Exactly. Money Laundering 101.”
“So Aussie dude is coming here to collaborate?”
“Not quite. He’s currently on his way to Vancouver. The Mounties are extremely interested in this and are offering their resources as a stake in the game.”
Duncan nodded. “The Laundromat.”
“You know it. Interpol is asking if I can hop on a plane and coordinate an AUSTRAC/RCMP/FBI investigation. Peña just told me to pack my gear.”
“You get all the good stuff. I hope he doesn’t expect me to twiddle my thumbs.”
Nick grinned. “You are going to Vegas, baby.”
Just then Peña stuck his head out and waved Duncan to his office. The Scot folded himself out of his chair. “Here’s my cue.”
Nick watched him go, then, brows drawn together, turned to the small corner of the glass murder board behind him that still sported the words mystery gun, Interpol? with arrows to Henderson (Sullivan? Unknown hitman?), Banyon (hitman), Coyne Sr.(hitman).
Yes, they had arrested Sullivan last year, who’d been convicted of three murders in connection with his import-export/money-laundering business, but Nick was still convinced that the first of those three murders, Henderson’s, had been committed by a hitman, though Sullivan had surely ordered and paid for that hit. Nick was positive that said hitman had also shot Banyon and Coyne, Ben’s dad, both cold cases. Nick had never told Ben about his suspicions. As far as Ben was concerned, Nick didn’t even know that Ben’s dad had been shot when Ben was just a kid.
Eyes locked on the name Coyne, Nick reached for the eraser, then, ever so slowly, drew it across the glass surface of the board, freeing up the space for more current investigations.
It didn’t matter. The words, the puzzle they represented, were firmly imprinted on his brain. And the fainter they became on the board, the more brightly they blazed in his head.
Back at his computer he filled out the forms for the travel department that took care of booking his Vancouver flights and hotel, then sent a quick message to Duncan that he was going home to pack.
* * *
Late-morning traffic was light and the route too familiar to occupy much of Nick’s brain, leaving it way too free to think. He tried to get lost in the joy of driving, and, as always, the vintage Jag delivered.
The underground parking garage was a late addition to his building, but still older than Nick. His grandmother had shelled out an insane portion of the family fortune to bring the heritage property up to code a couple of years before Nick had been born. And he’d spent another insane portion of his trust fund to renovate the penthouse when he’d moved in.
Now he left the elevator on the sixth floor, and walked into George’s front office. Cameron Yale, her brand-new secretary as of three weeks ago, immediately jumped to his feet. “Mr. Marshall, what can I help you with? I’m afraid Ms. Freedman is on the phone at the moment, but I’ll let her know you’re here.”
Nick blinked but tried not to smile. The kid was trying so hard. “Breathe, Cam. Any idea if it’ll be a longer phone call?”
Cameron was typing furiously, still standing, half bent over his keyboard. “She’ll be done in a sec. Can I get you a coffee?” He was a pale redhead, still in college, and so far working his ass off to pay for his senior year. Nick liked him, but wished he’d tone down the intensity just a bit, and hoped his nervousness would abate over time.
“I’m afraid I’ve already had too much coffee today, but thanks for the offer.” He was about to sit in one of the two chairs flanking a potted fig tree in the corner, when Cam said, “You can go in now, sir.” The sir making Nick feel about a hundred years old.
George’s office was all light and strong lines: vertical blinds, silver-gray wall-to-wall carpet, a raw-steel sculpture of three diagonal lines hanging on one wall instead of the usual painting, casual seating area across from gray floor-to-ceiling maple cabinets surrounding the door.
George, who was first Nick’s friend, and only after that his financial advisor, sat behind a glass-and-steel desk placed kitty-corner to the opposite wall that sported a flat screen and the windows. Charcoal pinstripe suit with bell-bottoms and a shimmering gray silk shirt with long collar points complemented her stark cheekbones and the Grace Jones haircut. Not a soft curve in sight. She briefly looked away from her computer when he entered. “Hey, Marshall. Are you psychic now?”
“Not that I know of, why?”
She quickly finished whatever she was typing, while Nick admired the Feininger painting currently displayed on the flat screen. “I have some stuff for you to sign. I was just about to send it to you, but since you’re here.” Inviting him to sit with one hand, she flipped a tablet around to face him with the other. At his raised eyebrows she said, “The fossil-free investments we talked about the other day?”
“That was quick.” He flipped through the pages and signed on the line, not even pretending to read it all. That was her job. Handing the tablet back he said, “I have to leave for at least a few days. A job in Vancouver.”
One corner of her mouth quirked up in a sly half grin. “Drive you to the airport?”
He raised his hand with the car keys already dangling from one finger. “I was hoping you’d say that. I’d hate to have the Jag in long-term airport parking. She’s all yours for as long as I’m gone.”
As much as George herself was all severe lines, she had a weakness for curvy women—her latest arm candy was a diminutive, raven-haired beauty with heart-shaped hips and pillow eyes—and Nick had always thought that her love of the Jag fell into the same category. He dropped the keys into the hand she held out, and the way she closed her fingers around them was almost a caress.
He grinned. “I’ll just run upstairs to pack a few things. Okay if I lasso you in about half an hour?”
Her gaze flicked to the computer screen to check what he assumed was her calendar. “Works for me. Grab some lunch at the airport?”
Nick checked his watch. “Unless the lines are crazy, we’ll have ample time for a bite.”
He’d already turned to leave when she said, “Did you call him?”
He was tempted to feign ignorance and ask who she meant. But George didn’t suffer fools gladly. “No.” To drive home the point he added, “I never call my one-night stands.”
She gave him a long, level look. “Is that all he was?”
Nick shrugged. He needed her to drop it. “I appreciate the volatility—”
“You mean callousness.”
“—in my pickups,” Nick continued as if she hadn’t interrupted. “It makes for scorching sex.”
George rolled her eyes. “And a trashed bathroom. You might want to look for a bit more neatness in a relationship.”
It took some effort for Nick to keep his voice casual. “Who needs a relationship?”
But George wasn’t having it. “Call him!” When he didn’t reply she added in a softer voice, “I like him.”
“I know,” Nick groused. “You let him into the kitchen. Something I haven’t managed in eleven years.”
She laughed. “He was looking at me like a lost guinea pig. The fuck was I supposed to do?” Suddenly her eyes sharpened. “He isn’t, though, is he? A guinea pig?”
Nick looked away, afraid the sudden surge of heat would show in his face. No, Ben Coyne was no guinea pig. Which was sort of the problem, wasn’t it?
Having so skillfully placed her barb, George left it at that, but Nick suddenly regretted having agreed to a lunch date. For the first time in his life he crossed his fingers for long lines.
* * *
He packed a full suitcase rather than an overnight bag. He didn’t know how long he’d be stuck in Vancouver, and he liked to dress well.
His phone vibrated with the message that his tickets would be waiting for him at the airport, and he’d been booked into a Holiday Inn. Convenient for everyone involved but decidedly uninspired. He mentally added five minutes to pick up the tickets and frowned at a pair of Italian loafers.
It wasn’t like George to get involved in his weekend fucks. She usually maintained a general air of disapproval at the types he picked without getting involved in the details. Her comments about Ben were decidedly out of character. And out of order. Because it really wasn’t any of her business. Or Duncan’s.
His phone buzzed him out of his musings. Brussels number. “Hey, Dad. How’s life?”
“Oh, you know. Same old. Hi, Nicky.”
“I have to warn you, I can’t talk long. Plane to catch.”
“All by yourself?”
“Jesus, Dad. You have to stop asking that question.” That had come out sharper than Nick had intended. But really, would everyone just get off his case?
“Sorry, sorry.” His dad sounded genuinely contrite.
“It’s all right.” Dad didn’t even know about Ben. He was just trying to get Nick hitched as a matter of general meddling or, fine, concern for Nick’s well-being.
“I promise you,” Nick said, more conciliatory, “if and when I have some news in that respect, you’ll be the first to know. Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of your call.”
“Oh, just a warning. You’ll be getting an invitation to one of your mom’s receptions at May’s. If you can at all manage, would you try to come? This one means a lot to her personally.”
“Oh?” Nick packed the loafers and a pair of black dress shoes as well.
“Look, I don’t want to make you late, and the invitation is pretty self-explanatory. Call me if you have any questions?”
“Okay, will do. Thanks for the heads-up. I promise not to trash it right away. I like May’s cottage.”
Dad’s laugh came through the line carrying wordless understanding. Mom did a lot of fundraising for every charity on the planet, and she included Nick in her event invitations as a matter of course, knowing full well he had neither the time nor inclination for them. He wondered briefly why this one was different. Well, he’d find out.
“Okay, talk to you soon, then, Nicky. Stay safe.”
“Always.”
Nick did not throw the phone across the room. He sank it back into his pocket, like an adult. But goddammit, everyone just needed to keep their pants on and let him figure out his own shit. Not that there was anything to figure out. Meet a cute guy on a case (steel-blue Bambi eyes), get laid—finally, move on. Nothing to it. The only reason Ben lingered in his brain was because Nick had had to wait for that lay so long. Blue balls trauma. He laughed, but quickly swallowed the strangled sound that actually came out of his throat, finished packing, and went to pick up George.
* * *
He let George drive. She loved the car, and it would occupy her attention away from him. He hoped for no parking at the airport, so that she’d have to drop him off and leave, but the place looked positively deserted. Of course, there were no lines either. Nick picked up his ticket, sailed through the check-in, and was left with an indecent amount of time for lunch.
They sat at a corner table, and after they’d ordered, Nick tried for a neutral topic. “I wonder if the weather’s going to hold.”
But it was no use. George didn’t even smile at his transparent effort. “You’re so full of shit, Marshall” was her caustic reply.
“What did I do now?” It was an automatic defense mechanism. He knew it wouldn’t stop her, and it didn’t. She’d been sitting on this all morning, probably longer.
“Ben Coyne is the best thing that ever happened to you. And don’t tell me he wasn’t into you. Hell, you two could barely keep your hands off each other.”
Nick leaned away from the attack, and tried for a nonchalant smile. “Well, he wasn’t into me enough to call. And I’m not interested enough to run after him.”
“Like hell you aren’t. I’ve seen your face go from glow to glower with every day that passed without a call. And you’ve been about as well balanced as a wounded bear ever since.”
“That’s quite enough, don’t you think?” It was supposed to have come out lightly, not-a-care-in-the-world. Instead it came out low and dangerous. Nick swallowed hard. Fuck it. He was fine. He’d just gotten a talking-to from one too many people today.
George got the point, though, and switched her attention to the sandwich the waiter placed in front of her. They finished lunch in blessed, if somewhat strained silence.
But when they parted ways George said, “Well, don’t get shot, okay? And when this is over, maybe you wanna take some time for a good, long think.”
“I love you too. Enjoy the Jag.”
He watched her leave, then started the long walk to his gate, her Don’t get shot lingering in his mind. It was what his mother invariably ended every phone call with, and it made him realize that for the first time in his life he had not asked Dad how she was doing. What the fuck was wrong with him?
