He also liked making sure people understood their place in the scheme of things . . . it was wherever the hell he wished to place them.
The man came highly recommended, but that didn’t mean much. The last man had come highly recommended as well. It hadn’t stopped him from trying to fuck Patrick over.
He parked the car and climbed out, giving a casual look around. The Ford Explorer was a deep maroon, looked like a family car. Good choice. Not quite the “drug dealer” or “dirty cop” car that some of the pricier models were, but it would provide a good ride, and lots of room. Appeared to be well cared for, and he didn’t see a rental tag sticker. Noting the license plate number, Patrick committed it to memory.
He’d run a check once he left. He doubted it was traceable back to anything, but he had to be certain. If the man couldn’t handle this small thing, then he was useless.
THIRTEEN
NOTHING out of place so far.
He was pretty sure Chapman was chasing windmills on this one, but so far, she’d managed to point him in very odd directions that had yielded some disturbing results.
Too bad they’d yet to find any evidence.
Just coincidences.
Tucker Collins couldn’t exactly see the local cops doing shit to Patrick Whitmore based on coincidences. The bastard had deep pockets, and he had more than a few high-society bastards on his payroll, too. Collins had learned that a long time ago.
Granted, he hadn’t thought Whitmore would be doing anything this twisted. Drugs, sure.
But this . . . nah. He hadn’t planned on anything quite this deep. Still, Chapman wasn’t often wrong. And they were friends. He didn’t have too many people he could say that about. He’d hold tight for a little while, see what he could see.
Then he’d—
A woman appeared in his line of vision.
And dayyum.
What a woman.
He snapped a picture of her, although he wasn’t here to troll for babes. Chapman wanted him to watch for the mark, and that’s what he’d do.
Although this woman . . . man. She was practically a piece of art, strutting down the road, a little purse hooked over her arm, her ass swinging with each step, long legs, a pair of fuck-me shoes, that short little skirt . . .
Just looking at her made him itch. He wanted to keep on looking, just enjoy that view for as long as he could.
But he was here to work the job. And the jobs Chapman called him for were always the weird kind. That meant he had to to keep his eyes open . . . and not on that gorgeous woman . . .
* * *
HER name was Nalini. At least, that was what she usually went by. It wasn’t a name she gave out easily. Honestly, she preferred not to give it out at all, but there were certain people who did need to know her real name.
When she didn’t need to give a real name, she had a handful of fakes she gave out that were close enough. Nala. Lini. Nali.
The names varied, along with her appearance.
Lately, she’d decided to let her hair go back to her natural pale blond, just a few shades darker than platinum. There was nothing normal about the style she’d gone for, though. As if the unusually pale locks weren’t odd enough, she’d let her hair grow long, and it grew fast.
A while back, she’d had the odd urge to do the thick mess into dreadlocks. And that had been a nightmare. The initial process hadn’t been too bad. One day, and several long, tedious hours with her ass stuck in a chair while a woman who must have excelled in torture back-combed, twisted, and teased Nalini’s hair into submission.
But the time after it? That was the pain in the ass.
There had been days when she wanted to just cut them off. White women just weren’t the ideal specimen for dreads, she knew.
But the effect was stunning, and she was either honest enough, or vain enough, to admit it. When she looked into the mirror, the woman looking back at her was stunningly exotic, the long, dense hair falling more than halfway down her back. Her eyes were large, dominating the clean, elegant oval of her face. They had a faint, upward tilted slant at the corners, a sharp, clean line echoed in her cheekbones, her jawline. Her mouth was full, and although she rarely