The Lowdown (Dale Conley Action Thrillers Series Book 3) Read online

  And he looked about as different from Dylan as one could possibly imagine.

  She watched him study the map. “Sorry to make you drive to Biloxi. I just can’t get too far from home. And I borrowed the car from a friend.”

  He waved it off, continued studying the map.

  It was a bright day. Blue sky, big clouds. They stood under the shade tree next to the picnic table where she’d waited on him.

  “These are the same cities you called in. Where he put the mark for Pensacola is pretty far north. More like the ‘Pensacola area.’ Cantonment, maybe Ensley,” Conley said.

  Luanne was impressed. He had a good command of the Pensacola region.

  “Any idea what the drawings mean?” he said.

  She shook her head. “No clue. But I’m sure they’re connected to these strange meetings he’s been having this past year. At our home. With a bunch of men. I don’t know any of them except my cousin, Jesse Richter.”

  Conley looked up from the map when she said her cousin’s name.

  “And he had a meeting last night in Pensacola,” she said, “with some rich-looking guys in suits. One of them was Mick Henderson.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “A land developer. He’s a big deal in Pensacola. There’re buildings in town named after the Henderson family.”

  Conley ran a hand along his chin. He gazed past her, thinking deeply. He turned his attention to the map in his hand. “A land developer …”

  “I heard Dylan on the phone with Henderson last night. It sounded very urgent. He mentioned that he was going to a cemetery to find coordinates this morning. He said something about a great contingency, that it was going to happen tonight.”

  Conley looked up from the map. “Tonight?”

  By the shocked look on Conley’s face, Luanne realized that whatever Dylan was involved in was huge. No wonder he was dealing with Mick Henderson.

  Conley looked around, frantically, like he was deciding whether he should stay or hightail it back to New Orleans. But when his gaze turned to her for a moment, the expression on his face suddenly changed. He studied her. A look of concern fell over him.

  He’d seen the marks. She lowered her head, tried to hide.

  “What happened?” he said.

  “My husband is a … difficult man.”

  He looked at her for a moment. There were the sounds of birds in the branches above them, cars on the street. Then he reached both of his hands toward her face. Slowly. He placed them lightly on her sunglasses. She did nothing to stop him. He had a gentle touch. He took the sunglasses off.

  Conley’s mouth opened. The look of concern washed away, replaced by one of shock and deep sadness.

  She’d worn her largest pair of sunglasses. The lenses were big and round, the rims were gold. They looked cute on her. And they were big enough to hide what had happened to her eye.

  She had tried putting makeup on it before she left. To no avail. A wide area of the skin surrounding her right eye was deep, dark indigo. Puffy, swollen, with a glossy shine. The eyelids on that side were nearly shut, just a sliver of her eye visible, which was bloodied, deep red surrounding the blue center.

  The sunglasses had also evened her face out a bit. Now that they were off, Conley would be able to see that her right cheek was bigger than the other. Pinker. With scratch lines.

  It was warm and humid, but she was wearing long sleeves that, along with her jeans, hid most everything else—except the finger marks on her neck that also couldn’t be hidden with makeup.

  “Oh my god,” Conley said. “Your … husband?”

  She nodded. Her eyes watered.

  He looked her over. His gaze fell to her long sleeves. “Where else did he hurt you?” His voice quivered with anger.

  She didn’t mean to, but her hands went toward the button of her jeans. Her eyes cast down that direction too.

  Conley’s mouth opened in shock again, and his face went white. He took a deep breath. Composed himself. “We have to get you to a hospital.”

  Nothing good would come from going to the hospital. It would delay her return, and when Dylan found out that she’d gone, his wrath would be terrible.

  “I can’t,” she pleaded. “Please, I can’t be gone long.”

  “Tell me about your husband, Mrs. Mercer. Who is Dylan?”

  “Call me Luanne. Please.”

  “Okay,” he said with a smile. A great smile. Straight, white teeth. “And call me Dale.”

  She smiled back.

  “Okay, Dale,” she said. The smile on her face vanished as soon as she started talking about her husband. “Dylan is from Indiana. He moved down here twelve years ago after he was fired by Eli Lily pharmaceuticals. For gross negligence.”

  “What did he do at Lily?”

  “He was a chemist.”

  Dale’s mouth went straight, his jaw set, as though he was suppressing anger. “Go on.”

  “He’s been in an out of work since I’ve known him. For the last year he’s been working in his field again. From home. Shipping pharmaceuticals. Though, I think he’s lied to me about that the whole time.”

  “I would be inclined to agree,” he said, still suppressing some sort of conflict within himself. It was clear that he was putting pieces together about her husband, connecting what she was saying with what he already knew, building up a case against Dylan.

  “What kind of a man is Dylan?” Dale said. “Does he have a history with hate groups?”

  Luanne shook her head. “He just hates everybody. He’s one man against the world. He hates the people who fired him. Says it wasn’t his fault. He hates Southerners. You know, now that I know he’s involved in these drug deaths …” She paused for a moment, truly processing for the first time that her husband was responsible for countless deaths. “Now that I know that, I can tell you that whatever his reasoning, he’s not doing it for a cause. He doesn’t hate black people anymore than he hates everyone else.”

  The more she described Dylan’s hatred, the more upset she became. By the end, her voice was shaking. These last couple days she was beginning to realize that Dylan wasn’t just “grouchy” or “introverted” as she’d convinced herself all these years. He was dangerous. She was in danger. And so were her boys.

  Dale put a comforting hand on her shoulder. She looked at him. He took off his sunglasses and gave her a reassuring look. It told her that everything was going to be okay. He was a kind man. His hand felt warm through her shirt. She put her own hand on top of it, rubbed her fingers over his knuckles.

  She had been so impulsive lately, acting upon her desires, no longer waiting for an approval from Dylan or anyone else. So she did something very impulsive just then.

  She leaned up and kissed Dale.

  His stubble tickled her lips. It was different than Dylan’s sweaty beard. The whiskers were softer, more refined. He tasted better too. Higher quality. A better vintage. A better man. He reminded her of Alec Corber.

  Though she’d savored it, the moment was over as soon it started. He’d immediately put his other hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her back. He must have thought she was being inappropriate.

  When she opened her eyes, she saw that there was a strange expression in his eyes, and she knew immediately what it meant. It was more than just the fact she’d been inappropriate.

  He had a girl.

  Luanne felt guilty. She hadn’t an ounce of guilt for kissing someone other than Dylan, but she felt ashamed that she’d put Dale in this position.

  Chapter 32

  Dale was stunned.

  How could Luanne Mercer have possibly thought her actions were appropriate? And why had she done it? It was both awkward and confusing.

  Then he noticed again her massive black eye. The marks on her neck. And he saw a perplexed look in her eyes. Dale’s experiences at the BEI had shown him that people often act in highly unpredictable ways during times of extreme mental and physical stress.

  There was
something else in Dale’s mind, some other objection to what had just happened.

  Guilt.

  He couldn’t entirely understand his guilty sensation, but as soon as he pushed himself away from Luanne, he felt like telling Allie about what had happened, being truthful with her. Which meant only one thing. Something had resurfaced. Some level of feeling for Allie was there.

  Oh, shit.

  “I’m so sorry,” Luanne said. “You have someone, don’t you?”

  Dale stammered. “I … I don’t … Maybe.”

  “That was improper of me.” She looked to the ground.

  “Don’t sweat it. There are bigger things for us to be concerned with. I need to examine this map, and you need to take care of yourself. I wish I could persuade you to visit a hospital.”

  She shook her head.

  “Do you have children?” Dale said.

  Her eyes went wide. “Do you think they’re in any danger?”

  Dale calculated his response. “I think you need to take them someplace safe for the next couple days. Until me and my team can get this figured out.”

  Luanne panicked, looking left and right. “Oh my god. How could I be so careless? What if something’s happened to them since I left?”

  Dale tried to say something—there were so many important questions he still needed to ask her—but she was already running to her car.

  Chapter 33

  Jesse stood at the filling station across the street from the building he was monitoring—the NOPD District 1 Station. He’d been loitering for hours. In his hand was a soda he’d bought from the convenience store. He was using it as a prop, something to keep his hands busy, to look less like he was stalking.

  The orange sports car had left a couple hours ago. But Jesse had a damn good reason for staying behind.

  Both of the agents had left the station and approached the car. Jesse got in his truck, ready to follow them. But when Agent Conley got in the car, his partner stayed behind. Agent Gordon. The DEA agent. The black agent.

  Jesse killed the engine then.

  He was going to follow Gordon. It would be a lot sweeter to exact his revenge on the black one.

  But it had been two hours since Gordon had gone back into the station, and Jesse was getting discouraged.

  The station’s back door—which led to the rear parking lot—swung open, and out stormed a black teenage boy with a large Afro. Moments later another person came out and followed him.

  Percy Gordon.

  Gordon chased after the boy. The boy didn’t sprint away from him; he just kept on walking. This was no escape attempt. There was a different sense of urgency to their situation. The two of them knew each other.

  Gordon put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and turned him around. This pissed the boy off, and he brushed the hand aside. An argument followed. Percy could hear their voices across the street but couldn’t make out what they were saying. It was clear, though, that they were extremely angry at each other. He caught the occasional word. Never. You. Not going to. Hate. Your decision.

  Yes, the two of them definitely knew each other. They knew each other quite well.

  “So,” Jesse said to himself with a smile, “Mr. DEA has a son.”

  Jesse parked his truck. After the argument had ended, the kid had taken off, leaving Gordon behind. Jesse had driven a couple blocks up to get ahead of him.

  He stepped out of the truck and walked around the building, turned the corner. They were alone, he and the boy with the Afro, walking toward each other.

  The kid had his hands in his pockets, looking at the ground, shuffling forward. When they were about twenty feet apart, Jesse called out to him. “How’s it going?”

  He chose his tone carefully. With a lot of his victims, he’d played the fool, the bumbling simpleton. But he had been able to tell when he watched the argument with Gordon that this kid had an attitude. Jesse would have to play it friendly … but cool. He didn’t smile, not really, just gave his face a believable, authentic look.

  When the kid looked up from the ground and saw Jesse, there was the something in his eyes. Something strong. Almost revulsion. Like he’d taken one look at Jesse’s skin and knew he hated him.

  The feeling is mutual.

  “Man, piss off,” the kid said.

  “Looks like you’re having a hard time. I got something that can help.”

  “Get the hell out of my way.”

  Jesse glanced left and right, dramatically, letting the kid know that what he was about to show him was private. And secretive. He reached into his pocket, inconspicuously, and partially revealed a bag of his pot. “You party?”

  The kid’s expression changed drastically. A slight smile.

  Jesse gave him a knowing look. Transmitted his trustworthiness. Fooled him. Fooled yet another one of them.

  But this one was special. This one was Percy Gordon’s son.

  Chapter 34

  “The Great Contingency is happening tonight, Allie,” Dale said. “We have to figure out how these damn symbols connect to everything. Fast.”

  Dylan Mercer’s map was on the table in the office at the New Orleans police station. It was a photocopy of the original that Dale had gotten from Luanne. Dale and Allie had scribbled some notes along the side. She was beside him. Both of them were standing at the table, leaned over the map.

  It was crudely drawn. Almost childish. Somehow this made it even more perplexing. And creepy.

  “Dad and I were just starting to look into the KGC gold when he passed. It wasn’t long after you and I broke up.”

  “The last thing you two worked on?”

  She nodded.

  Dale thought back to the previous day when he’d dismissed the idea of KGC gold and those looking for it. He felt like an ass.

  “Cancer had other plans for us,” Allie said. She cleared her throat, refocused, pointed at the map. “See, each KGC symbol is supposed to point to another location. At each new location you either find the treasure or, more likely, another clue that takes you further along the search. There was supposed to be a system for coordinating the locations, but these four spots are more or less a straight east-west line along the coast. Doesn’t make sense. Also, since the symbols are supposed to be in cemeteries and parks and places like that, I don’t understand Naval Live Oaks. Didn’t you say it’s a nature preserve?”

  “Yes, but there’s a Civil War connection. The Confederates occupied the land in 1861, and the Civil War was also the effective end of the necessity for live oak timber with the development of ironclad ships. I looked into Marianna too. Another Civil War connection. A pretty huge one, as a matter of fact. Florida’s governor during the Civil War, John Milton, was such an adamant supporter of the cause that he said death would be preferable to rejoining the Union. Shot himself in the head. He’s buried in Marianna.”

  “Another cemetery,” Allie said. Her eyes lit up in the way that they did when the pieces of a puzzle were coming together. “Of course all the KGC symbols would have ties to the Civil War.”

  She liked solving a riddle just as much as he did. He’d almost forgotten about moments like this, working on a puzzle together. It was something that he’d not experienced with any woman before. Or any woman since. The partnership. The cooperation.

  Now they were working together again. Standing close. Their forearms brushed occasionally, and her smooth smooth skin tickled his arm hair. He noticed her body heat, and when she would turn to say something to him, there was a moment of slight awkwardness, the kind of moment when you realize that you’re too far into someone’s personal space. But neither one of them retreated. She was wearing a T-shirt and jeans again, and like the shirt she wore yesterday, this one was a V-neck, a bit deeper, revealing more of her chest when she bent over. When he spoke to her, that close, in her personal space, he could see the detail in the freckles on her cheeks.

  This time when she looked up, with that bit of historical excitement in her eyes, there was a sl
ight moment when her expression changed. Her eyes lingered. Blue. The corners of her mouth dipped down. Not a frown. Something earnest. A recognition.

  She smiled and turned away, back to the map. “But what about the symbols? Where could they be pointing?”

  Dale looked at the symbols. They were scattered, seemingly random. What could it mean? What indeed? “I just don’t know,” he said. “Evidently Dylan’s not entirely sure either since he has this question mark next to the New Orleans symbol.”

  Allie stood up straight. “Why didn’t it work?”

  “My guess is he had his doubts about the New Orleans symbol until last night when he heard from Jesse Richter. The creep must have found the symbol in the cemetery right before we caught him.”

  He looked away from the map to find her gazing right at him, seriously.

  “That’s not what I meant,” she said. “Why didn’t we work?”

  Dale shook his head, shrugged. “You tell me. You kept throwing me away.”

  “That’s right. I was ‘fickle,’ wasn’t I? That’s what you used to call me,” she said, again finding a hurt to relive. She was that type of person: a hurt-collector. She held them close.

  “Yes, you were fickle. I was your eighteenth boyfriend, after all. You threw away seventeen others before me.”

  “Dale, I did love you. You can choose to believe that or not. I thought you were an amazing man. Even with all your faults. But now … you’re so much more.”

  “So what you’re saying is that this second edition of Dale is even better?” He gave her a goofy smile. It made her laugh, tossing her head back. The pale skin of her neck stretched out before him. Her wild, red hair bounced.