Night of the Lions Page 3

  “Hunh.” Cat scratched her chin in an unladylike fashion. She pushed the cheque back towards Alex. “I don’t want your money. Take it back.”

  “You’re declining both offers?”

  “I’m committed to my client.”

  “Is there any way I could convince you?”

  “Nah.”

  “You’re a stubborn woman.”

  “And you’re an annoying man. You think everything can be bought with money.”

  “In this day and age, yes.”

  “Well, not me.”

  Alex took the cheque back and pocketed it. “I’ll be watching you.”

  “I’m trembling with fear.”

  “Thank you for the coffee. I’ll show myself to the door.”

  Cat watched him leave her apartment with a pout. Invitation to dinner. Bribe money. This case couldn’t get any weirder. Jon would have been proud of her for not taking Alex’s cheque. Integrity was the first credo he’d drilled into her skull when she had started working for him. Earn her pay in the traditional, honest way. Deliver the results to the clients.

  Her belly knotted unpleasantly. What if she couldn’t solve this case?

  If Jon was around, he would know what to do.

  Cat bit her lower lip and reminded herself that she couldn’t depend on her brother any more, the way she always had. They had been orphaned when she’d been in middle school, and Jon, who had been a sophomore in high school, had stepped up to the plate as big brother and parent to her. He’d supported them by working various odd jobs. Jon had gone to the police academy when she’d got a scholarship to a local college. They’d remained close even after she’d moved from their house to start a new job. When it hadn’t worked out, Jon had taken her back home and offered her a job as his secretary in the investigation agency he had started. Without him, Cat felt so lost and lonely.

  She shook herself out of the self-pity. She had bigger problems to face and a case to solve. Time to move on with her investigation.

  Cat stood in the cramped waiting room, shifting from foot to foot while waiting for the receptionist to finish with her rambling on the phone. There was no place for her to sit. All the chairs were occupied by scantily dressed young women waiting for an audition. The women ranged from barely legal to college age. Most of them were blonde, but only a couple looked genuine rather than some product of a beauty salon’s bleaching and colouring. Their faces were slathered in heavy makeup and their skin was Jersey tanned. They were all pretty, sexy, and fake as hell. Cat was the only one who wasn’t dressed like a skank. She was clad in a two-piece beige summer suit and low heels, and her hair was pulled into a tight bun. She was here to interview Oliver Duval, while the girls were auditioning for a hooker character in a low-budget indie movie. Oliver Duval, the fourth person who had been with Cameron Rossi shortly before his demise, was the owner of Hastings—a seedy casting and talent agency that catered to B-movie and indie filmmakers. Duval, who’d entered the country at the same time as Gabriel Larousse and his brothers, had ditched his South African identity and become Alfred Hastings when he’d got his American citizenship.

  Cat had tracked Duval’s whereabouts through a favour from Jon’s friend, a cop named Kevin Preston. Cat suspected this interview wouldn’t be easy, but she was determined not to let this one intimidate her, unlike her interview with Gabriel Larousse. Okay, last night’s failed attempt at stealth in that gentlemen’s club hadn’t led to much of an interview. Gabriel had spooked her and made her horny. It had been a totally dumb move on her part that hadn’t helped her investigation.

  She hated being a rookie. She missed Jon. Her brother was good at this job. He had twice taken her with him when interviewing suspects and he had been able to coerce the truth from people without them knowing it. Jon had been an ex-cop. He’d been tall, imposing, and drenched with authoritative poise. People saw her and all they noticed was her boobs. If her chest could affect people like a truth serum, she wouldn’t be deep in this shithole. The agency was twelve grand in debt in unpaid bills and such; she hoped that Judith Rossi’s final payment would keep it afloat. Besides, she didn’t have a licence. Jon had. She planned to get one after she successfully completed this job.

  If she could solve this one.

  “Excuse me.” Cat interrupted the receptionist when the curly-haired, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound whale, who was squashed into a stretch tank top, made no attempt to cut her rambling on the phone any time soon. “I had an appointment with Mr Hastings at ten.” Cat tapped her wristwatch. “Now it’s almost eleven.” Cat had been waiting for more than an hour in this stuffy office, standing. The place was choking her and her feet were killing her.

  The receptionist gave her a venomous scowl. “Mr Hastings is very busy at the moment.”

  “Could you check it again? It’s been more than half an hour since you talked to him on the phone.”

  The receptionist snapped into the receiver, “Hold on a minute, Cherise, I gotta check something.” She put her friend on hold and called her boss’s line. She surrendered at the fourth ring and flashed a vicious smile at Cat. “Mr Hastings isn’t at his desk. He didn’t pick up his phone.”

  A pang of annoyance stabbed Cat’s guts. “Is he in the office?”

  The receptionist shrugged uncaringly. “He must be. Haven’t seen him outta the joint.”

  Jesus. What kind of businessman would hire such a moron to tend to the front of his office? “Could you go to his office and remind him that he has an appointment, since it appears you’re not doing anything at the moment?”

  The receptionist looked insulted. “No. I’m busy.”

  “With what? Chatting with Cherise about your dead cats?”

  “Look, lady—”

  “Detective Kovac,” Cat bluffed.

  “I’m not going to stand around with you bitching over my shoulder—”

  The door burst open and a balding man dressed in a silk suit padded through the crowded waiting room. Cat recognised him as Alfred Hastings, a.k.a. Oliver Duval, from the immigration photo she had on file. Cat quickly tailed him. “Mr Hastings.”

  The man ignored her call and kept waddling towards the parking lot.

  “Alfred Hastings.”

  He waved dismissively. “Sorry, I’m busy. Some other time.”

  Fuck this. “Oliver Duval!”

  The magic words stopped him in his tracks.

  Gotcha.

  “What did you say?”

  “Your name was Oliver Duval, right? Before you became a US citizen.”

  Now she had his full attention. He cast her a suspicious look. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Catherine Kovac, your ten o’clock appointment. Can we talk somewhere private?”

  Duval’s gaze slid to a black Lincoln parked nearby. “I’m a bit tight at the moment. We can talk if you want to take a ride. Otherwise, you have to schedule another appointment with Janice.”

  The hell she would. That bitchy receptionist? No way, José. “I’ll take a ride.”

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  As Gabriel had feared, Alex came back empty-handed.

  Gabe swivelled in his chair and ordered his secretary to hold his calls until lunchtime. He and Renaud had just had a discussion about the mysterious client who’d hired Catherine Kovac.

  Alex joined Renaud on a sofa across from Gabe’s desk. He sighed heavily. “That’s one stubborn woman,” Alex chided. However, his tone betrayed his words. Respect was shadowed beneath it. “She even refused the bribe money.”

  “She did?” Ren echoed with interest. “Even when her business is down the shitter, she rejected a cool hundred grand, just like that?”

  “Not even a blink. She said she’s committed to her client.”

  Gabe steepled his fingers, listening studiously. The payoff had been Gabe’s idea, to measure what kind of person Cat was. He was glad Cat had refused to be bribed, but he was disappointed that she’d rejected the dinner invitation. He had hoped he could g
et to know her more intimately. After all, they had unfinished business between them. His lion had been on his case since last night, restless with mating frenzy. It had been a long while since he had got laid, and Catherine Kovac was the woman he had been looking for as a mate. As soon as she’d left the club, Gabe had ordered Ren to gather intel about her. He now knew Cat sleuthed unlicensed, running a private investigation agency that she had inherited from her brother, an agency that had mounting debts and served shoddy clients.

  Ren threw a curious look at Alex. “This private eye I’ve been hearing so much about, Catherine Kovac; how does she look?”

  “You saw her pictures in the DMV database when you hacked it.”

  “I mean in person.”

  “Firecracker.”

  “Is she hot?”

  Alex threw a grin at Gabe. “Hot enough to make him frisky. By the way, in case you were wondering, Gabe, she opened her door in her bathrobe.”

  Ren whistled. “Was she wearing anything underneath the bathrobe?”

  “Do you want to hear my best guess?”

  “Cut it out. Both of you.” Gabe was a bit peeved that Alex and Ren were having a ball throwing digs at him. It must have amused them that he was showing interest in a woman after a long time of celibacy.

  Ren had done a background check on Cat’s client, Judith Rossi. There were seventy-five women in the tri-state area with the name Judith Rossi, yet none of them had had a sibling with the name Cameron who’d died more than a decade ago overseas. Africa, to be exact. Ren had widened his search nationwide and still come up with nothing. Gabe’s computer whiz of a brother had come to the conclusion that Cat’s client might not even be legitimate. Last night, Ren had hacked Cat’s computer and traced the down-payment she’d received from Judith Rossi. The account’s trail had led him to a company headquartered in the Cayman Islands. Gabe had no doubt that the company was a shelter, a fake, designed to front illegal business and money-laundering schemes.

  What made it more interesting was that the same company, with a different account number, had made some steady payments to Jonathan Kovac, Cat’s brother, for over a year and abruptly ended them before his untimely death. Gabe had cross-checked Kovac’s agency client list. The account matched a client named Kelly Rothford. Jonathan had kept an immaculate list of his clients with the descriptions of the jobs he did for them. Most consisted of insurance and divorce lawyer work. But whatever he’d done for Kelly Rothford, Jon had kept a secret. Even from Cat, who’d worked as his secretary since he’d started the agency. Gabe had drawn the conclusion that Judith Rossi and Kelly Rothford were the same person. Or worked for the same man.

  Gabe usually liked puzzles. Solving a mystery. Gaining an advantage over his opponents. This time, he didn’t like where it was headed. He had a theory that Cat’s mysterious client had deliberately given her a fake job with a sinister purpose. And it connected to Gabe personally. Gabe had been up thinking all night, trying to guess who would want to take him down.

  He had a few enemies.

  One didn’t reach success at this level without stepping on a few toes along the way. But judging by the intricacy of this threat, Gabe believed this problem was more personal than it was business.

  And Gabe knew one person who had a grudge against him, silently lurking with an eternal hatred burning in her soul. Sophie-Marie Veron. Daughter of the alpha Marius Veron, the man Gabe had killed in a duel at the Night of the Lions.

  “Who’s in charge of Cat’s personal detail this morning?” Gabe asked Alex. Last night, after he’d realised the connections and that Cat might be in danger, he had called Todd Johnson, the head of his firm’s security, and ordered Todd to assign men to watch her.

  “Danielson. Saw him when I went to Kovac’s apartment.” Alex’s cell rang. He took the call. His face darkened as he hung up. “Speaking of Danielson, that was him. We have a problem.”

  “What is it?”

  “Danielson just witnessed Catherine being hauled into the trunk of a car.”

  Oliver Duval drove the Lincoln past Riverside Park and into a seedier part of Harlem. He was busy on his cell while driving, and Cat didn’t have a chance to fire her questions at him. She wondered what Oliver was doing in a place like this. Oliver had said he was meeting his business partner for lunch. He hadn’t said where. Cat silently regretted agreeing to take a ride with Oliver. It was going to be a bitch to get back to his office to get her car. She would have to take the subway and she wasn’t familiar with the area.

  Finally, Oliver stopped talking and pulled into the driveway of a building. The façade looked run-down and the pavement was littered with junk and aluminium cans and God knew what else. A crumbling sign graced the entrance, Chantale’s. Live girls and cocktails.

  It was a strip club.

  Cat gave Oliver a dirty look. “Really?”

  Oliver spread his hands. “This is one of my businesses. You think all of those girls sitting in my office make it to the silver screen? It’s tough competition out there. You know what they say—there’s no business like show business.”

  “You’re telling me you’re recruiting those poor girls to work as your strippers?”

  “Only if they don’t make it as actresses. What’s wrong with being a stripper? It’s honest work and the pay is good.”

  Cat was already disgusted by this man. The guy’s attitude matched his appearance. For somebody who was at the same age as Gabriel Larousse, Oliver had definitely let himself go. He’d tried to cover his receding hairline with a pathetic attempt at a comb-over. The paunch in his belly could rival a pregnant woman’s, and his pants would have slid down if it wasn’t for a tight belt. The belt itself seemed to distract his breathing. Oliver sounded like a man on the verge of dying during a marathon. His double chin wobbled each time he spoke, and, most annoyingly of all, he didn’t try to be secretive about appreciating her breasts. Oliver Duval gave her the willies.

  Cat stalked Oliver into the establishment.

  A dark, claustrophobic room, thick with the stench of stale beer and cigarettes, welcomed her. She followed Oliver, winding her way through masses of cheap aluminium chairs and tables and dingy, vinyl-covered booths, over to the equally dark bar. The stage had been constructed from wood and lit with festive lights. There were three poles on the stage, where the dancers would tease the patrons. But no one was dancing at the moment. No music blared from the speakers. It was lunchtime and Chantale’s didn’t open until late in the evening.

  However, there was someone manning the bar. A burly man in his thirties. Tall, muscled, and built like a Mack truck. He also had a pit bull face, with grimness perpetually etched on it. Cat was sure he was popular with the deadbeats and drunken patrons in this joint.

  They sat by the bar. The pit bull bartender served them two cold drafts from the tap. Cat eyed the glass with repulsion. It seemed they didn’t bother washing them clean. She could see flecks of dirt smeared on the edge. She would rather skinny-dip in a tar pit than drink the beer.

  Oliver thanked the bartender and took a long drag. He belched and patted his belly happily. “Now, Miss Kovac.” His eyes fixed on her chest instead of her face. “Who the hell are you and why are you digging into my past?”

  “I’m a private investigator and—”

  “No shit,” Oliver exclaimed. “With tits like that, you could easily become one of my girls and be the star of the show.”

  Cat wished she was a real detective with a real gun, so she could shove it up Oliver’s ass. On second thoughts, he’d probably like that. “I’m here because I have a few questions about the death of my client’s brother, Cameron Rossi.”

  “You’re a cop?”

  “No, I told you, I’m a private investigator. Do you know Cameron Rossi?”

  “Who? Doesn’t ring a fucking bell.”

  Cat flipped open her journal and read from her note. “On October fifteenth, fourteen years ago, you and three of your friends, Judith and Cameron Rossi and Gab
riel Larousse—”

  “Did you say Gabriel Larousse?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know of him, from way back in Cape Town.”

  “Were you close?”

  “I said I know of him. I didn’t know him personally. Of course, I’ve seen him on TV. The swagger of that bastard, it’s like he owns the world. Hey, every dick with a few billion in his pocket could do the same thing, ya know?”

  “My client said you and Gabriel Larousse were students at the University of Cape Town and the two of you were close.”

  Oliver laughed. He sounded like a rusty machine that needed a thorough oiling. “Honey, I never went to no stinking university. My da repaired trucks for a living. You think he could send me to a fancy-ass place like that?”

  Cat frowned. “You were never a student at the University of Cape Town?”

  “Nah.” Oliver spread his arms. “What you see here is the true American dream.” He beat his chest. “I came with nothing but the clothes I was wearing, stowing in a K-line cargo. But now look at me. I own several respectable businesses and I’m surrounded by beautiful girls. Ain’t that a hoot?”

  In a warped mind like Oliver’s, owning skin bars might be a hoot. “Just to make it clear, you don’t know Judith and Cameron Rossi?”

  “Who the fuck are they?”

  “I’m asking you, Mr Duval.”

  Oliver threw her a cross look. Cat sighed inwardly. This interview was going nowhere. She wished Jon were here. Her brother would know how to make a character like Oliver squeak out the truth.

  Oliver sensed frustration seeping from her. He motioned to the pit bull. “How about some Coke for the detective? I see she ain’t the beer type of gal.”

  “No, thank you. I’m not thirsty.”

  “Come on. I let you ride in my car and I answer all of your questions. The least you can do is enjoy my hospitality.”

  Pit Bull opened a can of Coke and placed it right in front of her. Well, good thing it wasn’t served in a glass. She’d bet Pit Bull didn’t know what a dishwasher was. Cat took several small sips. The Coke was ice cold and felt good going down her throat. “Back to Gabriel Larousse. How did you know him back in Cape Town?”