The Two Gentlemen of Altona (Playing the Fool, #1) Read online

  Riptide Publishing

  PO Box 6652

  Hillsborough, NJ 08844

  www.riptidepublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Two Gentlemen of Altona (Playing the Fool, #1)

  Copyright © 2014 by Lisa Henry and J.A. Rock

  Cover Art by L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm

  Editor: Delphine Dryden

  Layout: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Riptide Publishing at the mailing address above, at Riptidepublishing.com, or at [email protected].

  ISBN: 978-1-62649-218-9

  First edition

  December, 2014

  Also available in paperback:

  ISBN: 978-1-62649-219-6

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  Mischief, thou art afoot.

  Special Agent Ryan “Mac” McGuinness is having a rough week. Not only is he on a new diet, but he’s also been tasked with keeping Henry Page—the world’s most irritating witness—alive. Which is tough when Mac’s a breath away from killing the Shakespeare-quoting, ethically challenged, egg-obsessed Henry himself. Unless killing isn’t really what Mac wants to do to him.

  Con man Henry Page prefers to keep his distance from the law . . . though he wouldn’t mind getting a little closer to uptight, handsome Agent McGuinness. As the sole witness to a mob hit, Henry’s a valuable asset to the FBI. But he’s got his own agenda, and it doesn’t involve testifying.

  When evidence surfaces of a mole in the FBI office, Mac and Henry are forced to go into hiding. Holed up in a fishing cabin, they’re surprised to discover that their feelings run more than skin deep. But as the mob closes in, Henry has to make his escape. And Mac has to decide how far he’s willing to go to keep Henry by his side.

  About The Two Gentlemen of Altona

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Dear Reader

  Also by Lisa Henry

  Also by J.A. Rock

  Also by Henry & Rock

  About the Authors

  Enjoy this Book?

  Mac was first on the scene, if you didn’t count the local cops. Which Mac didn’t. It was all very well for Val to go on about fostering a spirit of cooperation blah blah blah, but Mac had been after Dean Maxfield for months now, and no local cop was going to fuck it up for him. Also, it was one in the morning, and Mac hadn’t had coffee in eight and a half hours, and he was feeling it. So cooperation was very much off the table.

  The winding driveway of Gloria Maxfield’s Carmel home was full of police cars. Blue flashing strobes lit up the facade of the house. It was enough to draw most of the neighbors out. They stood in clusters on the sidewalk, in robes and slippers.

  Who the fuck wore slippers anyway?

  Mac growled at the spectacle as he climbed out of his car. He slammed the door, then ducked under the crime scene tape that had been wound between the mailbox and a fence post and twined through the hedges like tinsel.

  A man walked down the driveway toward him.

  Youngish. Hottish. Someone Mac might have even paid more attention to if he hadn’t been busting to get inside and get to business.

  “Agent . . .?” the young guy said, sticking out his hand.

  “McGuinness.” Mac stared up at the front door of the house.

  “Richard Falstaff, Carmel PD.”

  “What’ve we got?” Mac asked, frowning at the spectators.

  “It’s Gloria Maxfield’s house. Dean Maxfield’s aunt. Looks like there was some kind of family gathering tonight, and—”

  “What sort of family gathering?” Mac knew the basics already.

  “The aunt’s birthday.” Falstaff ran a hand through his hair. “So Dean turned up with one Pete O’Flannery, the victim. The other guests had already left when those two had an altercation in the kitchen, and Maxfield shot O’Flannery.”

  Pete O’Flannery. Dean Maxfield’s right-hand man. And, unfortunately, the guy Mac had been leaning on for the past two weeks to turn informant. So much for that.

  “Where was Gloria?” Mac asked.

  “She’d gone to bed. Claims she didn’t hear anything. She’s as good as deaf without her hearing aids.”

  “Witnesses?”

  “One. Some college kid who’s been staying with Gloria Maxfield.” Falstaff looked toward the house. “Probably had no idea what he’d walked into. The uniforms have got him separated in the bathroom. I figured you guys would want to talk to him before we haul him back to the station.”

  Some of Mac’s foul mood lifted. “Thanks.” He headed toward the front of the house, but Falstaff didn’t fall into step beside him. “You coming?”

  “Left my phone in my car. I’ll catch up.”

  Mac nodded at him, and couldn’t help watching for a moment as Falstaff walked toward the street. Helpful guy. And a nice ass. Two of Mac’s favorite qualities.

  Mac headed into the house. A Spanish-style two-story that would have looked out of place among the old stone homes of Carmel’s historic district, except that the privacy landscaping toned down the sore thumb effect. It was larger on the inside than it appeared on the outside, and Mac couldn’t help noting that old ladies decorated pretty much the same way everywhere, regardless of money. It reminded Mac of his grandma’s house—cluttered and too quaint. There was a framed copy of the Lord’s Prayer in the front hall, beside a black-and-white photograph of a young boy with dark hair and gappy teeth. Dean?

  Every crim used to be an innocent child, and all that bullshit.

  The local guys had Dean Maxfield cuffed in the living room. Empty wineglasses and beer cans stood on the side tables, and someone had overturned a basket of pretzels near the entertainment center. Mac didn’t like the look of the two cops—big and stupid, he thought, but he nodded at them, because Val would want him to. He wished Falstaff would hurry bac
k. He’d seemed intelligent enough, at least.

  Dean Maxfield was chewing gum and looking pretty unimposing for a mob boss. Leathery face flabby, like the rest of his body. Dark, combed-back hair, and curly, out-of-control eyebrows like an old man’s. He had a cream jacket on over a charcoal mock turtleneck, and there was a dark stain on the cuff of his pants.

  “Agent McGuinness,” Mac told the cops. “FBI.” He turned to Maxfield. “You must be Dean Maxfield. Been looking forward to introducing myself.”

  Maxfield smacked his gum. He grinned suddenly. “You look like a penis.”

  Mac stopped himself from running a hand self-consciously over his shaved head. His hairline had been receding since his early twenties, and when he hit thirty, he’d decided to buzz everything off. Val said he had the right type of head for baldness, and he’d trusted her.

  He nodded at Maxfield’s massive stomach. “When was the last time you saw yours?”

  One of the cops laughed.

  Maxfield stretched his gum over his tongue and grinned again.

  “You shoot your buddy Pete tonight?” Mac asked.

  “You’re not in such great shape yourself, you know,” Maxfield remarked, glancing at Mac’s midsection.

  Okay, that hurt a little. Mac wasn’t overweight, but he was stout, and he’d definitely developed a bit of a paunch over the last couple of years. He had a tendency to stress-eat, and he and his doctor were working out a new diet plan that didn’t involve coffee or donuts. Or alcohol.

  Mac really hated his doctor right about now.

  “On a new regimen. I’ll send you an After photo. In the meantime, you and I are gonna have a long talk back at the office, all right?” He looked at the cops. “The witness?”

  “Bathroom. He’s a—” The cop turned to his buddy.

  “Art student,” the second cop said. “Staying with Gloria while he studied poetry or something.”

  Maxfield muttered something at that, and swore under his breath.

  “What’s that?” Mac asked him.

  “He’s a pissant. A sponging little asshole pissant!”

  Say what you liked about the guy, Mac thought, at least he didn’t beat around the bush.

  “A sponging little asshole pissant who’s going to put you away for a long time,” he suggested.

  Maxfield snorted. “Kid hasn’t got the balls!”

  “We’ll see.” Mac smiled exactly the sort of smile that men like Dean Maxfield hated: Gotcha, asshole. He nodded at the cops. “Bathroom?”

  “Down the hall, on the right.”

  His smile grew. “Well then, I might just go and see what our witness has to say for himself.”

  “Ha!” Maxfield twisted in his seat, heaving his body around to watch Mac go. “You tell the little snot that he’d wanna think real carefully before he talks!”

  Mac shook his head. “Yeah, I’ll be sure to do that.”

  He headed down the hallway, checking rooms as he went. The kitchen was a mess. A pair of legs stuck out from behind the bench, and there was a fuck-ton of blood. A spray of it against the refrigerator, stark and lurid, and a dark pool of it on the floor, inching along the gaps between the tiles. A crime scene guy in plastic booties was snapping pictures.

  In the next room, an older lady was talking to a detective. Her neck wobbled whenever she spoke. She was wearing a robe and hair rollers, and smoking a cigarette. “Well, I don’t know. I just don’t know. I’m sure Dean couldn’t do anything like this. He’s such a nice boy. Toby must have been mistaken.”

  Families.

  She looked up at Mac standing in the doorway, her face drawn and pale. There were deep shadows under her eyes and a strange, hopeful expression in them, as though she believed Mac could possibly make some sense of this for her. She was in shock, probably. And in denial, absolutely. Dean Maxfield was not a nice boy at all.

  He continued on.

  There were two more cops stationed at the end of the hallway. He flashed them his badge. “This where my witness is?”

  “Toby Seacoal,” the first cop said, and grinned at the second cop.

  The second cop grinned back.

  Okay. Private joke? Mac had definitely not had enough coffee or sugar to deal with this. This detoxing thing was bullshit. “Something I should know?”

  “He’s ah . . .” The first cop made a face.

  The second cop snickered. “The kid’s like twenty, and he’s boning the old lady.”

  Nope. Not enough coffee in the world for a revelation like that one. Gloria Maxfield was what, about sixty? Sixty-five? Which isn’t to say that he had any problem with people that age having sex. Hell, he hoped to still be at it himself in thirty years’ time. Just . . . just she looked so much the way he remembered his grandma, with her turkey neck and her floral robe, that he could feel his balls trying to climb back into his body at the thought of it.

  “You sure about that?” he asked.

  The cops exchanged another look.

  “She’s paying for some trip to Europe for him,” the first cop said. “For his poetry.”

  Second cop’s grin returned, creeping across his face. “Yeah. Does she look like a patron of the arts to you?”

  Mac had no idea what a patron of the arts was supposed to look like. He couldn’t say he’d ever met one. Gloria Maxfield looked like an old lady who’d been pulled out of her sleep to find herself in the middle of a nightmare. Whether or not she was screwing some kid young enough to be her grandson was the least of her worries now.

  “Toby Seacoal. Has he said anything?”

  “What? About the old woman?” the first cop asked.

  Mac scowled. Both of these guys shared the same one-track mind. “No, about the fucking dead body in the kitchen.”

  Oh. Professionalism. Mac saw the moment it occurred to the pair of them. They even stood up straighter.

  “Says he came downstairs for a drink.” The second cop scratched his thigh. “Heard Dean Maxfield and the vic arguing in the kitchen. Stuck his head around the door just in time to see Maxfield shoot the guy.”

  Better and better.

  “Maxfield didn’t see him, so he went back upstairs, locked his door, and called 911.”

  Lucky guy, not to go to pieces. Smart too, keeping his head down and calling the police.

  “We were first on the scene,” the second cop continued. “Detective Barnes said you guys would be interested in Maxfield, so we figured you’d want your witness separated.”

  “Thanks.” Mac frowned. “Wait, which detective?”

  “Detective Barnes. He’s in with the old lady now.”

  “What about the other detective?” Mac asked. “I thought he was in charge.”

  The cops exchanged a look, and then the first one said, “What other detective?”

  Shit shit shit.

  Something was very wrong about this. Very fucking wrong.

  “Falstaff.” Mac’s heart beat faster. The blood rushed to his head. “Richard Falstaff.”

  “Um.” The first cop shrugged. “Never heard of him.”

  “Open the door.” Mac clenched his fingers into fists. “Open the fucking door!”

  The first cop pushed the door open.

  A neat, tidy bathroom. An apricot mat around the base of the toilet. One of those freaky dolls that sat over the toilet rolls. A framed homily of some sort on the wall. And, floating in the breeze let in by the wide-open window, a pretty gauzy curtain.

  The bathroom was empty.

  Mac’s witness was gone.

  Henry Page was cruising down I-75, heading south. He didn’t have much of a plan, just knew Stacy had some people in Richmond, Virginia, and he’d be able to hole up there for a while. He didn’t like to get too far away from Indianapolis—from Zionsville, specifically—but he was hardly going to stay around and wait to have his head blown off and his body dumped in White River by Dean Maxfield’s buddies.

  Holy shit, if he’d had any idea who he was getting into bed with
—figuratively speaking; he’d never actually done anything with his patron—when he’d charmed his way into Gloria Maxfield’s home . . .

  He’d have picked some other rich old lady to sponsor “Toby.”

  He stayed at five above the speed limit. It was Flashback Weekend on 106.7, and he couldn’t help thinking his mother would have been proud he still knew all the words to “Summer Nights” from Grease. He and Viola used to be able to sing the whole show, to their mother’s delight. Back when she was still capable of delight.

  He’d never had a great voice. Probably best he’d given up his Broadway dreams. He was better suited for what he did now.

  The Subaru behind him was right on his ass. He signaled and got into the right lane. Then, when it tried to pass, he sped up. Every time the other car accelerated, he did too. Every time it slowed down, he slowed down, keeping just abreast of it. The driver turned and gave him the finger, then roared past. Henry let him go.

  Henry sang the last line of the song loudly, holding out “niii-hiiiiiiiiiiii-ghts” as the chorus swelled behind him and the drums crescendoed.

  Suddenly there were flashing lights. Henry didn’t know where the cop behind him had come from, or why he didn’t go after the dickhead in the Subaru, who’d just headed for the horizon doing at least ninety.

  Henry knocked his head against the seat rest and sighed. He could speed up, but he doubted that would help anything. Wasn’t going to shake a cop on the interstate. And no chance of wheedling his way out of trouble once he was caught. So he pulled onto the shoulder and held his breath, hoping the cruiser would pass him. It rattled onto the gravel behind him and stopped.

  He tried to assess the officer who got out. Male, probably fifties. Not at all attractive, but maybe that was a good thing. Sometimes the uglies appreciated an ego boost. But sometimes they were so bitter that any effort to charm them pissed them off. Female cops were the hardest to win over, which had surprised Henry at first but made sense, he supposed. Most people would accept a man catching a pretty girl speeding and letting her go with a warning. But there’d be no end to the shit a woman would get for letting a hot guy off the hook.

  The officer wasn’t dog’s ass ugly. Just kind of boring looking. Henry rolled down the window.