She’d gotten a call four hours ago from Stacy Ellerby, Rory’s assistant at the jewelry shop, saying Rory had been murdered. Worse, according to someone Stacy knew in the police department, it appeared that Rory had been tortured before he’d been killed.
Dreya had refused to believe Rory was dead, even going so far as jumping on her motorcycle and riding over to the jewelry store, then his apartment. Rory hadn’t been at either place, but the cops had. Lots and lots of cops. She’d sped away with tears in her eyes only to pull over and stop barely a mile down the road. Then she’d just sat there on her bike and lost it.
She couldn’t remember ever having cried that hard. But then again, she’d never lost anyone like Rory. He wasn’t just a friend. He was her confidante, her mentor, the only person who really knew her and accepted her. There wasn’t anyone else like him in the world, and now he was gone.
When she’d gotten it together enough not to be a danger on the road, she’d cranked up her bike and driven around town for a long time before she’d finally ended up stopping at the bar where she and Rory had always gone—the same trendy little place where Rory had told her about Thorn and that damn diamond of his. It seemed somehow fitting—and tragic—to come here.
“Thorn killed him, you know,” Kincaid said from the other side of the bar as he fixed her another drink. Big and barrel-chested with graying hair pulled back in a ponytail, he had tattoos on his forearms that would have made Popeye jealous. “Or at least had someone do it for him. The word is all over the streets. Thorn has his people out looking for that big-ass diamond of his, and he’s willing to kill to get it back.”
Mouth tight, Kincaid slid her a shot. Tequila, in honor of Rory. It was the third one tonight.
Dreya knew she shouldn’t be drinking at a time like this—not that alcohol had ever affected her. But she didn’t know what else to do. Without Rory around to serve as her anchor and her compass, she felt as if she was floating away, like a balloon without a string in a windstorm.
Of course, Dreya didn’t need Kincaid to tell her Thorn was behind Rory’s death. Her best friend had as much as told her it was going to happen, that Thorn wasn’t a man to be screwed with. But she’d ignored him and now he was dead. Not just dead, but tortured. Because he wouldn’t give up her name.
Rory hadn’t looked like a tough guy and certainly didn’t come off that way when he talked, but Dreya knew he’d had a quiet strength about him that no one would ever crack. There was nothing Thorn’s goons could have done to make him talk. If giving up her name would have saved his life, she would have been the first to beg him to do it, but men like Thorn and the people who worked for him didn’t let people live after thumping the hell out of them. Rory would have known that as well as she did, which was another reason he wouldn’t have talked.
“Rory was targeted because everyone knew he was the most connected fence in the DC area,” Kincaid continued. “If any thief in this town was going to try to move a rock like the one Thorn had, Rory would be the one he’d go to.”
Dreya picked up her glass and took a healthy swallow, feeling the harsh, agave-based alcohol burn as it rolled down her throat. The funny thing was, she hated tequila. She’d always drunk it because Rory had liked it. Now she couldn’t imagine drinking anything else.
She didn’t say anything in response to Kincaid’s comment because there really wasn’t anything worth saying. Kincaid fancied himself a fence of sorts, but even he knew he hadn’t been in Rory’s league.
Kincaid leaned forward conspiratorially, resting his forearms on the bar. “Do you know if Rory was working with someone to fence Thorn’s rock?”
Dreya looked up, meeting Kincaid’s eyes and staring at him intently. His heart immediately began beating faster and the acrid scent of sweat wafted off him in waves. That particular kind of sweat tended to leak out of people when they were really nervous—or lying. She locked eyes with him a moment longer, then casually looked away. The tight, little world she, Rory, and Kincaid lived in had been buzzing since yesterday with talk of Thorn’s people spreading money around and promising even more for the person who gave up the name of the thief who had broken into the former senator’s mansion.
Dreya had always thought Kincaid was a stand-up guy, but she guessed Thorn was offering a lot of money. Enough to make even a stand-up guy turn his back on his friends. No honor among thieves and all that.
“Not that I know of,” she said softly. “But then again, Rory rarely ever told me about the other people he worked with.”
Kincaid straightened. “I figured. Can’t imagine there are that many second-story men in the DC area with balls big enough to go after somebody like Thorn.”
“True,” Dreya agreed, knowing the bartender was still fishing.
Kincaid turned and headed for the other end of the bar and a group of well-dressed political staffers who had stumbled in looking for one more drink for the night. One of them gave Dreya a drunken smile but blanched and looked away when she gave him a glare that told him he was wasting his time. She rarely had time to play games with wannabe Romeos, tonight even less so than usual.
Kincaid didn’t come back over, and outwardly at least, it seemed like he’d dropped the subject of Thorn’s diamond. His elevated heart rate told her he was still thinking evil thoughts behind those beady, little eyes of his though. He’d sell her out in a second flat if he had the chance.
Dreya tipped her head back and finished off her tequila, the burn reminding her pleasantly of the last time she and Rory had almost polished off that bottle of El Tesoro.
Damn, she was going to miss him like crazy.
She was about pick up her motorcycle helmet and head back to her place—even if that wasn’t the best idea in the world right now—when her cell phone rang. She considered ignoring it, but with all the crap hitting the fan so hard lately, it would probably be a good idea to answer the damn thing.
She pulled it out, cursing when she saw the name on the screen.Oh God, what now?
Dreya thumbed the green button and put the phone to her ear. “Stacy, what’s wrong?”
Rory’s assistant hadn’t been deeply involved in the darker side of Rory’s jewelry business, and as far as Dreya knew, Stacy had only a limited knowledge of the part Dreya played in Rory’s day-to-day life. Stacy might have guessed Dreya was a thief, but she didn’t know.
Stacy didn’t bother with any pleasantries either. “One of Rory’s associates is dead. They found him in his apartment a couple hours ago. The guy’s name was Melvin Whittaker. Apparently, he’d been worked over just as badly as Rory.”
Crap. Melvin was another second-story person like her. He wasn’t as good as Dreya—and his best days were certainly behind him—but he was smart and had still handled jobs for Rory every now and then. The older man had even taught Dreya a few tricks of the trade. Damn Thorn to hell in a little red wagon.
If Melvin was dead, it confirmed that Rory hadn’t broken and Thorn’s men were going after every thief they could find. It also meant they were willing to track down and torture every single thief in the DC area if that was what it took to get their boss’s crap back.
“Where are you now?” she asked Stacy. “You’re not at your apartment, are you?”
