Beyond Innocence Read online

  Marnie’s eyes flicked to Luke and then back to her brother. “Oh. Well, I—”

  She was glad that Don interrupted her with a raised hand. She wasn’t exactly sure what she was planning to say. She wouldn’t ask Luke to find other lodgings for the weekend. But she didn’t relish the prospect of more bad blood between her and her sister-in-law, either.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Don was saying. “She’ll be fine. She understood when she realized there really was no other option.”

  “Oh.” Not exactly a resounding vote of trust and confidence, but she supposed it would have to do.

  Don bent down to gently peel his daughter off his leg. He whispered in her ear and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “We’ll see you Sunday afternoon, honey.”

  She nodded, her expression bleak.

  Don sighed and cast Marnie a mournful look. “You’ll have fun, Tiff. We’ll call tomorrow night to check in.” He ushered her into Marnie’s front hall. And with that and a brisk thank-you to Marnie he strode back toward his Volvo. He had barely acknowledged Luke’s existence.

  Marnie closed the door behind him and reached for a tiny hand. “Tiffany, this is Luke.” Tiffany’s eyes remained riveted on the scarred stranger.

  “Howdy, Missy,” said Luke with his best grin.

  “Hi.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

  “Supper is almost ready,” cajoled Marnie. “We’re having burgers and I was just about to ask Luke to toss them on the barbecue. Do you want to watch some TV until they’re ready?”

  Tiffany just shrugged.

  Already feeling the tug of frustration, Marnie was ready to just plop the child down on the couch and try to work on her withdrawn behavior after supper. But Luke surprised her when he kneeled down to Tiffany’s level and brushed his fingers over the soft, pink ruffles of her dress. “That’s a pretty dress.”

  Again a shrug.

  He leaned in and whispered conspiratorially. “Marnie doesn’t have anything nearly this pretty.” Then he whispered something that Marnie couldn’t hear and to her amazement Tiffany looked up at Marnie and giggled.

  Marnie frowned. “What did you say to her?”

  Luke ignored her and remained focused on his new fan. “Now, I know that they say barbecuing is supposed to be the man’s thing, but I’m not very good at it. It’s almost like my first time. Do you think you could give me a hand?”

  “I’m not allowed to touch barbecues.”

  “Oh.” Luke nodded with profound understanding. “Right. But I bet you know how to tell if something’s burning.”

  “I guess.” She seemed puzzled.

  “Well, that’s going to be your job. If you see flames shooting up out of the barbecue, or if the house catches on fire or if any small animals that are running by suddenly burst into flame from the heat, it’s your job to let me know so I can put a stop to it before it gets out of hand.”

  Tiffany was obviously fighting a smile.

  “Can you do that?” Luke’s face was so serious Marnie had to stifle a giggle of her own.

  “Um…I guess so.” Unexpectedly, a tiny hand reached up and caressed Luke’s cheek. Delicate fingers traced his scar and ran along his jaw. Marnie could see that his breathing had caught, and he was as still as stone, afraid that a sudden movement might frighten her off like a wild fawn that had consented to take food from his hand. “You have an owie,” she said.

  He swallowed and Marnie thought he had gone pale, but it was difficult to tell under the tan that he had replenished in the last week. “Yes. But it’s better now.”

  She frowned a small, concerned frown. “Did it hurt a lot?”

  “Yes, it did.”

  To Marnie’s amazement she leaned in and planted a gentle kiss directly on the scar over Luke’s cheekbone. “Does that help?”

  “Kisses help make everything better.” His eyes flitted up to Marnie’s, but were drawn back to his little interrogator whose brows had knitted even further.

  “Did you learn your lesson?” She was parroting something that she had no doubt heard from her father. Marnie had often been asked that question herself by their father after taking a spill or climbing too high in a tree.

  Luke smiled and answered honestly. “I’m not sure, Tiffany. I can’t remember.”

  “You can’t remember?”

  “No. I can’t remember how I got hurt or anything before that. Can you understand that?”

  “No. But you can explain it to me later.”

  Luke chuckled as he stood and grabbed her hand. “Good, now that that’s out of the way we can get down to business. You remember what I asked you to do?”

  She nodded solemnly.

  He wagged a finger at her. “Okay, I’m counting on you. I just can’t handle this by myself.”

  He cocked his head at Marnie. “So?”

  “So, what?”

  “Where’s the meat?”

  “Follow me.”

  But Tiffany was still hesitant. She tugged on Luke’s hand and forced him to bend down in order to hear her. Her tiny voice barely reached Marnie’s ears. “I gotta go pee.”

  Luke grinned and pointed her to the powder room. “Okay, but be sure and wash your hands when you’re done.”

  When they were alone Marnie asked. “What on earth did you say to her to make her laugh?”

  Luke sniffed and lifted his nose marginally. “It was personal. It had to do with your underwear.”

  Marnie blinked. “You’ve never seen my underwear.”

  “Maybe not, but I have a very active imagination.”

  “Why, Luke! Here I thought you were innocent in matters of sex and seduction.” She was startled to feel his arm wrap around her waist and draw her against him, snug and hard and strong.

  “A problem that I hope to remedy shortly.”

  “Luke!” she said with a sly smile. “Are you growing up on me?”

  “I really hope so.” He blinked. She could feel his heart pounding against her chest and his eyes were wide and dark, almost as if he were just as surprised by what he had just done as she was. “God, you feel good.”

  They heard the water running in the bathroom and he reluctantly let go. She didn’t verbalize it but she was thinking exactly the same thing. He felt good. Really good. Maybe too good. What would Daddy think of her if she slept with a married man? And then she wondered why she cared what Daddy thought now, when she never had before.

  Chapter Twelve

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  Pete knew it was a losing battle, but despite the odds against him he hunkered down in the booth at the back and tried to blend in.

  The Pit was dark and dank, with flashing strobes and the musty smell of bodies and booze. Cigarette smoke hung in the air like a thick smog and the music throbbed, loud and relentless. Pictures of both NASCAR and Formula One drivers and cars bedecked the walls. Tires and jacks lined shelves and hung from the ceiling. Tate had even dug up an old fuel pump, which now sat at the far end of the bar. The waitresses wore tight, revealing bodysuits with Valvoline and Quaker State logos. The zippers were open to a breath above their navels and the legs were cut off just a breath below their buttocks, but despite Tate’s tendency toward tacky and trashy, Pete had to give him this—Tate was consistent.

  A brunette swayed on stage, wrapping herself around a tall steel pole and gradually removing items of clothing in a desperate attempt to be slinky and seductive. Pete knew from experience that she would stop at the G-string. Tate ran his business by the book. The illegal activities were shrouded so thickly by a cloak of codes and intrigue that the authorities had yet to penetrate beyond the first layer, let alone actually find anything concrete on which to arrest the son of a bitch.

  With all that in mind Pete considered that Sam would probably laugh at this ridiculous plan. Hadn’t they tried the same thing over and over, time and again, ad nauseum, only to be thwarted at every turn? They would go in undercover or send in decoys or women, anything to help them
sort out the complex system that Tate had devised to hide his high-priced call girl business.

  But they would always walk out empty-handed, usually miserable and dejected, and there they would find Tate. He would often lounge in a doorway on the other side of West Market Street, a cigarette dangling from his mouth and a smirk adorning his lips. Silent and smug, he would watch them through the bustling crowds. He had picked a prime locale for his profitable enterprise. Barely a block away, the Thirtieth Street Subway Station spewed out hordes of horny men, eager to stop for a drink and a little eye candy on their way home from work. Tate offered them exactly what they were seeking…and more.

  Occasionally, he waited just outside the door, ready to offer the frustrated officers a complimentary mint as they exited his fine establishment. He would be grinning from ear to ear, obviously pleased with his own exceptional intelligence and by the fact that he had humiliated Philadelphia’s finest yet again. Sam would toss out an insult or two, Tate would take it without batting an eye, and Pete would have to drag Sam away before he could land a punch in Tate’s arrogant, self-satisfied face.

  Brothers? That was crazy. Or was it? Had he and Elsie really been that blind? Had Sam known? Had Tate? Did it matter?

  Pete scrubbed his hands over his face. There was no point in torturing himself with those questions. He had spent enough time doing exactly that the night before. He had lain awake, smoking and remembering all the nights he had spent sitting beside Sam in their car or in their tiny office, scarfing down cold takeout and complaining incessantly about the job they loved. He remembered all the times he had caught Sam sitting in his car, on his own time, watching the doors to this very place. He would sit and stare at The Pit, hoping for a glimpse of the man who had once been his friend.

  He always told Pete he was hoping for a glimpse of Tate with his guard down in the middle of a dirty deal or slapping around one of the girls. But they both knew that was a lie. Tate’s places were fronts for prostitution, but they were clean. They had never been able to find evidence of drugs. The girls seemed healthy. And only very rarely had they ever seen evidence that they were mistreated. Pete seriously doubted that Tate had anything to do with those bruises and cuts. They were much more likely the result of a drunken or dissatisfied client.

  Once, Pete had seen Tate dragging a young girl back with him after an extended “business trip”, as he was so fond of calling them. She was a new recruit and had obviously been recovering from a sound beating. But when questioned she insisted that Tate had nothing to do with it. She had told some ludicrous story about falling down a flight of stairs. It was fishy, but Pete still had trouble picturing Tate slapping around the women who worked for him.

  That was another reason Sam’s obsession had been a little tough to sympathize with. Strictly speaking, Tate’s operation was illegal. He was exploiting these women both as exotic dancers and prostitutes. Many of them were young. A few possibly under eighteen. But he took good care of them. They seemed happy. And they were fiercely loyal to him to a degree that was, at best, puzzling and, at worst, infuriating to Sam’s quest for justice.

  Pete sipped from his drink and managed to catch a glimpse of Kyle at his table near the stage. He had been there for some time, taking in the show and nursing a scotch. A waitress approached and bent low, affording Kyle an enticing view of the attractions beneath the jumpsuit. Kyle seemed intent, and Pete guessed he was making his move.

  The girl smiled, brushed some lint off Kyle’s lapel and shook her head. Pete could almost hear the familiar song and dance.

  “Sorry, honey. If that’s what you’re looking for you came to the wrong place.”

  “But a buddy of mine said this was the place to come for some top of the line action.”

  “We got drinks and we got girls. But they’re just for lookin’ at. No touching.” She might pat a hand sympathetically. “Would you like a complimentary basket of wings? Or maybe a finger of whiskey on the house? We hate to see our customers disappointed.”

  “No thanks,” the undercover cop would grumble. “Forget it.”

  And that would be it. Attempts by women to infiltrate the ranks and get in as waitresses or dancers or hookers would meet a stone wall. Tate’s girls were almost never local. He brought them in from as far abroad as LA and Miami. He’d even made a few trips across the border to Toronto and Edmonton. It seemed like extreme measures to avoid inadvertently snagging a cop, but Pete couldn’t deny that it worked.

  They watched men leave The Pit and show up the next day or, occasionally, later the same night at The Palace. They would be approached by a woman who appeared to be a patron of the higher-class lounge with the piano bar and the jazz trio. They would chat and eventually leave together bound for her apartment, which was always within easy walking distance.

  From what they could see no money ever changed hands between the trick and the chick. In fact, finances were never even discussed. Eavesdropping had never yielded more than pleasant conversation regarding the man’s business and interests. They would decide to go for a stroll and disappear into the confines of an upscale, controlled-access apartment building.

  Very occasionally a man would arrive there, seemingly out of the blue, and be let in with barely a word. These were probably regulars who didn’t have to go through the rigmarole that the bar scene demanded. They had probably made private arrangements with Tate.

  Kyle interrupted Pete’s thoughts as he slid into the booth and plunked his drink down on the table with an audible thud.

  “No luck?” Pete liked to state the obvious.

  “Do you know what she said to me?”

  “I could take a pretty good guess.”

  “She said I was cute for a cop and I should really be looking for a nice girl to settle down with instead of scoping the bars for an easy lay.”

  Pete chuckled. “She was right.”

  “Jesus! How did she know? I have never been in here before in my life. This is way off the beat I had in uniform, and I live on the other side of the damn city. There was no way in hell she could have known I was a cop.”

  “Oh, there’s a way. We just haven’t figured it out. Tate seems to have a knack or an inside track on the men in blue, even when they’re not in uniform. And he trains his minions in his tricks. That’s part of the reason we’ve never been able to catch him.”

  “And the other part?”

  “He’s smart. And he’s made it too complicated. Catching a guy picking up a girl on a street corner and stuffing a twenty into her hand is one thing. Catching a guy who apparently makes the contact at one bar, makes the pick-up at another, and pays the piper somewhere in between is quite another.”

  “Things seem to be going fine without their mighty leader.”

  “Yeah. For now.” Pete scouted the room in search of the real reason for their visit. “But I’ve got a feeling Calvin is in the process of making changes now that his boss has flown the coop. And I’ve got a feeling that Calvin isn’t nearly as smart as he thinks he is.”

  Kyle was tapping the table with an impatient finger. “If Tate runs two successful clubs and takes in money from turning tricks that are obviously high-end and probably going for a couple hundred a shot, why does he live in that hovel?”

  “Another good question that always drove Sam around the bend.”

  “You think maybe he was saving until he had enough to skip town in style?”

  “Maybe. Tate’s a planner. I wouldn’t put it past him. But I honestly just don’t know. You’d think he’d want his wife and his kid to live better than that.”

  “Speak of the devil,” whispered Kyle.

  Faye Barton had sidled up to the bar. Her dusty blonde hair was in disarray and her hands were shaking as she demanded something from the bartender. She was sporting her usual tight jeans and shimmering silk blouse.

  “She’s drunk,” observed Kyle.

  “Yeah. And I think she’s high.”

  Kyle studied her while she tossed b
ack a shooter and turned around to scan the room. “You said Tate’s girls were clean. Why would he hook up with a junky?”

  “I don’t think she was always a user. Even now I don’t think it’s much more than a little nose candy now and again. But I’m pretty sure Tate doesn’t approve. They’d been seen arguing frequently in the bar, and fights have been overheard from his office in the back.”

  “They been together a long time?”

  “Almost from the beginning. It’s actually a little unclear as to how they met. But that was another thing that bugged Sam. Faye was nothing like the other women that Tate had dated while he and Sam were friends. He didn’t know what Tate saw in her.”

  Kyle snorted. “Maybe they had to get married. That Tate, he’s a man of honor, right?”

  Kyle was kidding, but Pete just said, “Yeah. Maybe.” He ran his finger around the rim of his glass while he watched Faye hitch a hip up onto a barstool and primp, plastering on lipstick that would have been better applied with a trowel. A man in jeans and a T-shirt that strained over a well-developed torso appeared at her side and whispered in her ear.

  “Is that Calvin?”

  “None other.”

  Calvin was shorter than Tate but he must have weighed a good twenty pounds more. He obviously spent a good chunk of his time at a gym, and Pete suspected he downed a few steroids on top of his usual dose of cocaine and whatever other designer drugs he could get his hands on. He was a slug with nice pecs and a tight ass, and how Tate had hooked up with him was just another in a long line of mysteries that had kept Sam up at night and had eventually ruined his marriage.

  Pete slid out of the booth. “Come on. Let’s see how we’re received by the current king of this particular castle.”

  Kyle followed Pete’s lead and was at Pete’s elbow when he finally tapped Calvin on the shoulder.

  Smiling, and obviously feeling very pleased with himself, Calvin turned around to greet yet another satisfied customer. He caught sight of Pete and his face fell. “What the hell do you want, Gruber?”