Victor Mole fingered the scar on his chin, one of several that marred his massive, muscular body. Growing up in the Bronx, knife fights had left a few jagged marks on his flesh. He’d never backed down from a battle. At the first sign of weakness, the sharks circled.
The large bay window behind his desk overlooked the lake and cliffs. Early afternoon, the sun shined in, warming the room. The expansive estate he owned had come complete with tennis courts, a pool, and a sauna. His dictionary didn’t contain the word “skimp.” Not anymore.
Views like this from his luxury resort would bring in major money if he could ever get a permit to build on the waterfront land. With his Southwest operation shut down, he had to get moving on a new supply of artifacts.
A knock sounded at the door. Must be Eric. He was a loose cannon, but the best connection to the drug dealers that Victor had at the moment. He hit the automatic button to open the door.
Eric slunk into the room, his frame hunched. Wearing torn jeans and a black T-shirt, he reeked of body odor and cigarette smoke.
Victor flicked an ash off the lapel of his designer suit and wrinkled his nose. “Sit the fuck down.” He stood to tower over Eric. “I’m starting to think you aren’t worth what I’m paying you.”
“I’m worth it, man. I’m worth it.” Eric wiped his face, leg bouncing.
“You’d better be. Your life depends on it. I can’t afford to have a useless sack-of-shit working for me. I expect results.”
“Didn’t I just bring you a bunch of artifacts from that storeroom this morning?” He wiped his face again. “Good stuff. Worth a lot, I’m sure.”
The pieces would buy Victor some time with his clients on the black market. They were antsy over the lack of merchandise for sale since he’d shut down his Southwest operation. The sooner he unloaded his inventory, the better to stay ahead of the cops. “My guys hacked the alarm system so that all you had to do was go in and get the goods. I expected more. What happened?”
Eric squirmed in the chair. “The police showed up when I was trashing the place, and I had to run. Didn’t get the last box.” He mopped his brow. “Dropped one, but it didn’t have much in it. I was careful, super careful.”
Fucking useless. “I didn’t tell you to trash the place. Why did you do that?”
“So they’d think kids broke in and messed it up for fun.” A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his neck. “I destroyed all the records as extra credit, so the cops can’t find out what’s gone.”
Extra credit. He had to be fucking kidding. “I don’t pay you to think or change the plans. You do exactly what I tell you.”
Eric bobbed his head repeatedly, and Victor curled his lips. “If you’d been focused, you wouldn’t have trashed the place until all the artifacts were out.”
“I’m focused. I’m focused.” Eric bounced his leg faster.
“You’re high and wired.” Victor propped a hip on the edge of the desk. “Tell me the game plan, because I wonder if your memory works with a head full of crystal.”
“Yup. I’m laying the groundwork. When we get the next shipment of meth, you take out the distributor, and we set up operations. Shit’s gonna hit the fan when the supply is cut. My people are ready to move in.”
“They’d better be, for your sake. And don’t tell any of them who you work for. You blow my cover, you’re dead.”
Eric held up his hands. “I’m not gonna screw up. No one knows anything about you. All they know is I got a supplier. They don’t ask who, and I’m not telling.”
Victor picked up the cigar clipper. He slid a finger through the round hole. Little prick needed to understand who he was dealing with. “You ever been tortured?”
“No.” Eric licked his lips, his gaze on the cutter.
“I wonder if you can keep your mouth shut under torture. I have serious doubts.”
Eric’s gaze darted to the door and then back to the finger guillotine. “I wouldn’t talk for anything.”
“I like to be sure about these things. In the past, I’ve tested my people.” Victor spun the clipper around his finger.
“You…don’t need to test me. I keep my mouth shut.”
“Here’s what we’re going to do.” Victor pushed off the desk.
Eric gripped the arms of his chair, his eyes wide. “Look, you don’t need to do—”
“Shut the fuck up. I’m talking.” Victor yanked Eric out of the chair and shook him. “You risk my business by being high. Makes me wonder how serious you are about work.”
“I’m serious. Dead serious.”
“You’ve got the dead part right. Come back clean tomorrow to go over the final plans.”
“I will. I will.” Eric took a step toward the door.
“Not so fast.” Victor pointed to the desktop. “Empty your wallet.”
“What?”
“Your wallet. I want the money in it.”
Eric withdrew a worn, scratched-up billfold out of his jeans pocket. He opened it upside down and shook out two hundred-dollar bills onto the desk.
Victor picked up the money and waved it in front of Eric’s face. “I know you aren’t paying for whatever shit you’re using of mine. That ends now. No more of my crystal.”
“Okay. Whatever you say.” Eric stepped back, his gaze on the cash.
Holding the money against the red tip of his cigar, Victor inhaled a puff. Flames curled up the sides of the bills. An acrid chemical scent permeated the air. He didn’t flinch when the fiery ashes fell on his other hand.
But Eric did.
The fucktard beat it out of the room, and Victor returned to his seat.
Heels clicked on the marble hall floor, and he looked up. Gina, dressed in a conservative navy-blue suit, stepped into the room. Clips held her blond hair in a tight bun. As his lawyer and public relations representative, she kept up a professional image at all times. For what he paid her, she was willing to bend some rules and do whatever he needed. At least this bitch could follow instructions and knew her place. If not, she’d be ashes in the wind like the others who’d disappointed him.
She closed the door to his soundproof office and took a seat in front of the huge cherry wood desk.
After easing into the oversize leather chair across from her, he picked up a cigar and wove it between the heavily ringed fingers of his hands. She’d better have some good news. Plans for the construction hadn’t been an easy sell in a town with a fetish for history. “What’s the latest with the locals?”
“The door-to-door campaign seems to have worked. Once I talked about how much money the tourists would spend in their shops, the owners stopped protesting. Same with the wineries.”
“Greed always wins out.” One obstacle down. He clipped the end of his cigar. “What’s going on with our permit?”
“We’ve reached another roadblock.”
“Now what?” Enough delays. The proposed construction area should hold a veritable gold mine of artifacts according to his research. Once he had the permit, everything on the land would be legally his. He needed the resort to launder his money, if he could ever get the fucking thing built.
Gina waved a hand to the window over the lake. “Because this site is on the shore of a navigable waterway, we need an Army Corps permit prior to construction. With the federal government involved, this land falls under the guidelines of the National Preservation Act.”
“Cut to the chase. What does this mean?”
“They require a field survey to determine if there are any finds that need to be analyzed for historic properties.”
Another hoop to jump through. He lit his cigar. “What’s that involve?”
“An archaeologist has to check out the land and probably dig a portion. If anything significant is found, more surveys could be ordered.”
He talked through his teeth, clenching the cigar. “Define significant.”
“I don’t know. The law is arbitrary.”
Fucking feds. Always gumming up the works. Coffee churned in his stomach. He plucked the cigar from his mouth. “You couldn’t find a palm to grease with what I’m paying you?”
She shook her head. “This is federal. No way around it.”
“How long will this take?”
“It depends. If they uncover valuable artifacts, it raises everything to another level.” She frowned. “At the next phase, we’d have to go into consultations with the State and Tribal Officers. Engage the public as well. The process could take a year, maybe more.”
“The construction delay has already cost a fortune. Find someone to do the survey. I want it done yesterday.” He leaned forward, body taut, and tapped his cigar on the ashtray.
Gina nodded. “I checked. There’s only one person listed in the area that does them. Her name is Madeline Cooper.”
No fucking way. He had a room full of stolen artifacts that belonged to her. Victor didn’t need her snooping around his business. “There’s no one else?”
“I called everyone even remotely close.” Gina frowned. “It’s slim pickings around here with such a small population. We would wait months for someone outside to do the survey, so I scheduled a meeting with Ms. Cooper.”
Shit. They were already running behind schedule. He’d just have to be careful around her. No reason to think she’d suspect him of being behind the burglary. “What all do you know about her?”
“She’s active with the Seneca Nation tribes. Currently working for Cultural Resources leading an excavation, and she’s a teacher’s assistant at the university.”
Nothing he didn’t already know. He sat back in his chair and puffed the cigar. Cooper might be sympathetic to the Indians, but everyone had a price, and time was of the essence. “The field survey has to come up empty. I’ll handle the girl. When’s the meeting?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Move it up to today.”
Gina clicked her pen. “She said she was fitting us in and had nothing sooner. Do you want me to cancel?”
Fitting them in? Bitch would need to get her priorities straight. He’d see to that. “No, keep the appointment.”
“Okay.”
After Gina left, he picked up the cigar cutter and ran his thumb along the outer edge.
Tomorrow morning, he’d meet the Cooper bitch and buy her off. If she couldn’t be bought, he had other ways of convincing her to cooperate.