Chapter 3

 

 

 

 

STEVE'S PULSE ratcheted higher as he listened to his partner on the phone.

"So," Karen said, "our informant thinks Lundy could show up sooner than we'd planned—maybe the day after tomorrow. The good news is she was able to give me a few more details about the wedding Lundy's bride booked."

Steve removed a small notebook from his pocket. "Go ahead."

Karen cleared her throat. "Apparently, they booked the Aloha—" She stopped and giggled, then recovered. "The Aloha Teddy Bear package." Then she laughed out loud.

Steve pursed his mouth, waiting for her to continue.

Her laughter petered to a cough. "Sorry, Steve, but you have to admit that this Elvis stuff is hysterical. I'll bet the impersonator there is a real hoot, isn't he?"

Steve closed his eyes and decided to withhold the full extent of his undercover duties for now. "See if our informant can find out any other details about the Lundy wedding—what kind of car they'll be arriving in, how big the wedding party will be, that kind of thing. And of course, a name would be great."

"Will do. So, have you met all the players over there? We need a description of the employees so we'll know who's who when the arrest goes down."

"You have the owner's picture on file, right?"

"Right."

Steve hesitated as Gracie's pixie face rose in his mind's eye... along with the sensory details of her surprising kiss. Just the memory of her pink mouth on his elicited a response from his body. He set his jaw, then said, "The only other person I've met is the wedding director. Gracie Sergeant, female, thirtyish, short platinum-blond hair, violet-colored eyes." He bit the end of his tongue as soon as the words left his mouth.

"Violet-colored, huh?" Karen made a thoughtful noise. "With little golden flecks?"

He frowned, disgusted with himself. "I'll call you later." He cut off her laughter by ending the call.

Steve pulled his hand down his face and forced himself to concentrate. Karen's information meant he might have even less time to prepare for Lundy's arrest than he'd thought. He couldn't afford to be distracted by Gracie Sergeant's eyes. Or legs. Or mouth.

Or tattoo.

Turning in the direction Cordelia Conroy had gone, Steve walked down the hall past an office and what appeared to be the drive-through window, to a set of double doors that opened onto a covered concrete patio at the rear of the chapel. Cordelia Conroy stood next to a birdbath that had been filled with sand to serve as an ashtray. The behemoth basset hound sat near her feet. In a corner of the lot, the rear fins of a rusty pink Cadillac peeked out from under a cloth cover.

When Cordelia saw him coming, she took a last drag on a short butt, then snubbed it out. After a few seconds' hesitation, she withdrew another cigarette from a pack and offered him one. He shook his head.

While he watched, Cordelia lit her second—or third?—cigarette and took a deep drag. Well into her sixties, she was still an attractive woman, albeit a little rough around the edges. Street smart, he realized. And wary.

He stopped a few feet away and leaned against a column that held up the metal roof over the sparse patio. The hound dog moseyed over and sniffed at his boots.

"Is Mulcahy your real name?" she asked finally, on an exhale.

"As far as you're concerned."

"You're not what I expected."

He kept his expression noncommittal. "What did you expect?"

She leveled her gaze on him. "Not some good-looking buck who hits on my wedding director."

"She kissed me."

The woman flicked ash. "I didn't see you putting up a fight."

Steve squirmed, feeling like a naughty teenager instead of an undercover agent. "I was simply going along."

Cordelia looked all around, as if she were afraid they’d be overheard. "This situation is dangerous enough without you getting involved with one of my employees."

"I understand. But I have to interact with the employees for things to appear normal—it’s safer that way."

She took another drag, then nodded. "I know, but don't overstep your bounds. Especially where Gracie is concerned. She’s looking for a fairy tale, and although you look like the King, I gather you’re no Prince Charming."

He pressed his lips together and nodded curtly, hoping to end the awkward conversation. "I just received more details from our informant, who says the wedding might take place sooner than we expected, and that the bride booked a—" he pulled out his notebook "—an Aloha Teddy Bear package."

Cordelia frowned. "We have an Aloha Las Vegas package and a Teddy Bear package, but not an Aloha Teddy Bear package."

He scratched his temple. "So it could be either one. Do you keep a record of what customers request?"

"Of course—that's Gracie's job."

"I'll need to see the reservations for the upcoming week."

Cordelia nodded. "Gracie keeps her appointment book at the front counter—make a copy.” She exhaled and ground out the half-smoked cigarette. "I understand Mitchell Lundy's been operating on the wrong side for years, so why the sudden resolve to bring him in?"

"Several years ago the Bureau cut him slack for testifying against an associate and putting him away—as long as Lundy stayed legit. But he slipped back into his old businesses—prostitution, drugs, money laundering. He's ordered at least one hit. He's more arrogant and dangerous than ever."

"So what exactly is going to happen?"

Steve was momentarily distracted when H.D. sat down solidly on his boot. He tried to maneuver his foot out, but the dog was a block of panting dead weight.

"Best-case scenario," he said, "we'll be able to figure out which reservation is Lundy's and alert our agents to stand by. He'll be apprehended after he leaves your property."

"And the worst-case scenario?"

"Worst case is he sneaks in and I don't have enough time to call for backup."

Her eyes narrowed. "But you'll still wait to arrest him until after he's off my property."

"That's the plan," he said. "But I have to be honest with you, Ms. Conroy—Mitchell Lundy is a dangerous criminal who's played cat and mouse with the Bureau for years. If something goes wrong, we'll still seize the opportunity to arrest him."

"Even if it puts my employees in danger?"

"Civilian safety is always our first concern," he said, and stubbornly, a civilian with white-blond hair came to mind.

"Are you sure you'll recognize this Lundy fellow?"

"If I see his eyes—he sustained a wound to one eye that left a permanent and recognizable scar."

"What if he recognizes you?"

"We're operating under the assumption that he or his people have a file on all the agents in the state." He frowned. "That's why I agreed to wear the costume—I doubt if Lundy will suspect Elvis. I understand there's a wig and sunglasses?"

"That's right." The shadow of a smile played on her lips, then disappeared. "Are you carrying a gun?"

"Bureau policy, ma'am."

She nodded, then straightened. "Well, Mr. Mulcahy, you have a job to do, but so do we. If you want to fit in here at TCB, I suggest that you do whatever Gracie tells you to do." She frowned. "In regards to work, that is. Until you make the arrest, we need for you to be a convincing performer for our customers."

He nodded, but his stomach felt queasy. And he wasn't sure what bothered him most—the thought of impersonating the King, or working closely with Gracie Sergeant.

"Come along, H.D.," Cordelia said. The hound lifted his fat rump from Steve's instep. Steve shifted his weight to send blood back to his foot, then glanced toward the covered car. "Ms. Conroy?"

She turned back. "Yes?"

"Does the Caddy run?"

"Not for a while now."

"Care if I take a look under the hood?"

"Be my guest," she said, then withdrew a thick ring of keys from her robe pocket. She removed two keys on a separate ring, tossed them to him, then reentered the chapel.

Steve strode toward the old car, burning with curiosity. As he rolled back the cloth tarp, his pulse spiked in appreciation of the four-door Cadillac, rust spots and all. The paint was faded, revealing lots of body filler along the side panels, but the chrome was intact and the white hardtop and interior were in amazingly good condition. All four tires were flat and probably ruined, but it should have whitewalls anyway. He lifted the hood and stared down at the corroded engine, registering in one glance that two hoses were disconnected and the carburetor lid was missing.

"She's a beauty, isn't she?"

Steve looked up to see Gracie walking toward him, and his pulse spiked again for a different reason. Did she realize in the sunlight her white eyelet dress was transparent? She wore a lacy strapless bra and high-cut bikini panties. The silhouette of her opposing curves—breasts, waist and hips—stamped into his brain.

His sex hardened, preventing him from straightening to greet her. "Yeah," he murmured. "She's something." The fact that they were talking about two different things didn't matter.

Gracie ran her hand along the top of the car. "It's a 1955 model, just like the one Elvis bought for his mother. The real one is on display at Graceland."

He smiled. "Have you been to Graceland?"

She shook her head. "I... haven't seen much of the country."

"Did you grow up here?"

"Um... no. Do you know something about cars?"

He filed away the fact that she had sidestepped his question, but let it pass. "A little."

Her eyes went round. "Do you think you could get it running again?"

"I don't know—I can give it a try."

She grinned. "That would be wonderful—it would be a boon to our business if we could offer couples a ride in a pink Caddy."

"Has anyone tried to fix it?"

She shook her head. "Just between us, Cordelia hasn't had the money."

He frowned. "Is business bad?"

"Well, the wedding chapel business isn't what it used to be—the competition is fierce, and taxes are astronomical. I think Cordelia would like to retire, but she doesn't want to put the rest of us out of a job." Then she wet her lips. "I'm sorry—I shouldn't be telling you Cordelia's business. I came out to get you—we need to prepare for the four o'clock wedding."

"Right," he said, lowering the hood and replacing the tarp. "The suit."

"Yes, the suit. And I have a favor to ask," she said, turning back toward the chapel.

When he lifted his head, he saw that she was wearing a thong, and all rational thought fled. "Anything," he murmured, hurrying to catch up with her.

"How do you feel about... singing?"

He blinked. "Singing?"

"It's just like karaoke," she said hurriedly. "The music will play, and the words will scroll across a screen."

"I don't sing," he said, shaking his head, his feet feeling heavier with every step. "I'll wear the costume, but I don't sing."

She bit into her pink lower lip. "I have to be honest with you, Steve. We really need the business, and we need a good Elvis to keep our customers happy."

"But I don't sing."

She pshawed. "Everybody sings."

"Not me."

She crossed her arms under her breasts—an unfair and distracting maneuver, in his opinion. "Cordelia told me you'd do whatever we needed for you to do."

A sick feeling settled in his stomach. "I did say that, yes."

Her smile was brilliant, pushing her cheeks up, highlighting the little brown beauty mark. "Good." She turned back toward the chapel, practically skipping. "We have just enough time for a practice run. Do you know the words to 'All Shook Up'?"

Steve closed his eyes and smothered a groan—what had he gotten himself into?