Prodigal Son Page 3

  What the hell? He’d never before looked at a photo or person and seen nothing—except with his own family. What was wrong with him?

  He scanned the information in the file, anxious to see any hint of a vision. Name, address, phone number, employment record, next of kin—

  The image roared into his mind like an ocean wave. It was a woman, with eyes like melted caramel and honey-colored hair that curled in a ponytail. She was dressed in a simple shirt and jeans, but the way she filled out the clothes snagged his interest and would not let it go. She smiled, beckoning to him, a hint of mischief in her eyes. Come with me. Let me make you whole.

  The vision shimmered and dissolved like smoke, and he found himself staring at her name in the file: Cara McGaffigan. Relationship: stepsister. He glanced back at the picture of her stepbrother. Still nothing. What was going on here?

  He tensed his fingers around the manila folder before shutting it, blocking out the unresponsive face of Danny Cangialosi. He should shake this off, leave the case for someone else, but he couldn’t force himself to set the file down on the pile of discards.

  Sal hung up the phone. “Something wrong, Rafe?”

  “No. Nothing’s wrong.” Rafe hesitated a moment, then tossed the file on top of the other, more lucrative skips he had chosen to bring in. Who was this guy? And why could he see the stepsister but not the fugitive?

  Sal glanced at the name on the file tab. “Danny Cangialosi? Isn’t that a little small time for you, man?” He eyed Rafe, one bushy brow raised.

  “Maybe I need an easy one after Jack.” Rafe scooped up the short stack of files.

  “But Danny Cangialosi?” Sal gave a laugh. “You’ll get paid beans on that one, pal.”

  Rafe tucked the file folders under his arm. “Money’s money.”

  Sal shrugged. “You’re the best agent I got, Rafe. You wanna chase down small time, knock yourself out.”

  “Thanks, Sal. This is why we work so beautifully together.” He offered his hand.

  “Come back when you want some real work.” Sal shook his hand, then turned back toward his private office, chuckling.

  Rafe headed for the exit, eager to be alone. His abilities had never failed him before, not once. He was a Seer, descended from an ancient line. His talents came to him as easily as breathing. Why now?

  You know why.

  The idea seized hold and would not let go. He had known all those years ago that abandoning his birthright was a risk, but over time he had become confident that as long as he continued to observe most of the ancient customs, he would be okay. Besides, he had good reasons for what he had done.

  But now … Maybe there was something wrong with his powers, maybe a delayed consequence of that rash choice to walk away from his family and never look back. Maybe because he’d been making money from using those powers, a big no-no in the family tradition, even though he brought in the bad guys. Or maybe he’d been gone from his own kind for so long that his powers were disintegrating. He didn’t know enough about how it all worked. He was supposed to have completed the Soul Circle when he was twenty-four, but he’d left before he could finish training for the ritual.

  Was he losing his gifts? If so, then what would he do? Would he end up like Jack, alone and bitter?

  He reached for the handle of the door and nearly bumped into Darlene as she came in from the street.

  “Rafe! You scared me. I was just coming back from lunch.” Darlene smiled at him, her blue eyes innocent as a babe’s.

  Truth. He could see it in her eyes, plain as day. The ability to see the truth was a gift that every Seer had—and one that was apparently still working for him.

  Some of the tension drained out of him. He hadn’t lost the old superpowers after all. He could still tell lies from truth, and he’d been able to locate the other skips in the files without a problem. He’d seen the stepsister, for whatever reason, though he preferred not to think too much about that provocative vision. So why the big blank screen for a small-time punk like Danny Cangialosi?

  The only way to know, it seemed, was to find him.

  * * *

  Cara clenched her fingers around her purse, then looked Artie Bartow straight in the eye with what she hoped was calm inquiry. Her energy flagged from both the five-hour plane ride and the hundred-plus degree heat. She wasn’t sure how she’d ended up in the limo—she distinctly remembered saying no—but nearly half an hour ago she’d climbed out of the luxury car in front of the Mesopotamian Resort and Casino with Adrian Gray walking beside her to his boss’s office.

  Jet lag dragged at her. All she wanted right now was to head to Danny’s place and crash, but she was here already, so she might as well take the opportunity to get some answers to questions she’d intended to ask anyway.

  “Let me get this straight, Mr. Bartow,” she said. “You’re the one who had Danny arrested, and now you want to find him since he skipped his court date?”

  The resort owner nodded. He flattened his hands on the desk, his pudgy face creasing into an expression of sympathy. “I’m sorry you have to hear the sordid details this way, Miss McGaffigan. I had high hopes for Danny. Thought he would go far. Didn’t I, Mr. Gray?”

  Her tall, dark-haired escort from the airport stood near the closed door of Bartow’s luxurious office and nodded, arms folded in front of him. His smile had disappeared once the door shut behind them, and his sober gaze never shifted from Cara. The tailored suit he wore made him look like the cover of a fashion magazine, but it also emphasized his powerful, athletic build. Though she longed for a shower and change of clothes, he had somehow convinced her with just a few words to go see Bartow immediately rather than continue on to Danny’s apartment.

  Now he stood across the room, looking much less charming. The mantle of danger around him made her think he could move fast as a snake and be just as deadly—though neither of these guys struck her as Eagle Scout candidates, especially since they’d somehow talked her into coming here when she’d had no intention of doing any such thing.

  Why had she allowed him to bring her here? That piece of the puzzle still eluded her.

  She focused on Bartow again—short, chubby, and balding. Her stepbrother’s boss. Or at least he had been before Danny had stupidly borrowed the man’s Lamborghini, been arrested, and then jumped bail. Casinos didn’t keep criminals on the payroll, and Danny had crossed the line. But now he was gone without a trace.

  She knew it had to be bad, whatever he was into. Nothing but death or the threat of it would have kept him away from New Jersey on August nineteenth, the anniversary of their parents’ accident. And she refused to believe he was dead.

  “Miss McGaffigan,” Bartow said, bringing her attention back to the present. “All we want now is for Danny to turn himself in, for this whole terrible ordeal to be over.”

  “That’s what I want, too.”

  “Of course you do.” Bartow spread his hands, grinning with all the congeniality of Marlon Brando playing Santa Claus. “That’s why we’ve offered to have you stay at our beautiful Mesopotamian Resort and Casino, courtesy of the management. Perhaps your stepbrother will contact you, and you can convince him to do the right thing.”

  The right thing? She glanced from one man to the other. Whatever Danny was into had probably started right here, with the manager of the Mesopotamian Resort and his well-dressed watchdog. Her instincts told her they had some sort of ulterior motive for having her stay at the hotel. That there was something else going on here.

  A cold knot gripped her stomach. Was she bait in a trap to catch Danny?

  Bartow apparently took her silence as assent. “Is there anything we can do to make your stay with our hotel more comfortable? Anything you want, on the house.”

  “No, thank you. I won’t be staying. I have other plans.” Her instincts urged her to flee, but Cara calmly got to her feet, fingers clenched around her purse. “It’s been a long day. I appreciate your time, Mr. Bartow.”

  Bartow
stood as well and came around his massive desk. His head reached her chin as he stopped in front of her. “I hope your stepbrother contacts you soon. Not knowing is the worst, in my opinion.”

  Uncertain how to reply, she just nodded, then shook his proffered hand. His fingers tightened around hers with surprising strength as he looked up at her. His eyes were dark and small and all but lost in the plump flesh of his face. For a moment, she felt as if she were looking into the gaze of a reptile. Unnerved, she broke the contact between them; a shower appealed even more now. “Good-bye, Mr. Bartow. Thank you for your time.”

  “Miss McGaffigan,” he said with a nod. “Mr. Gray will see you out.”

  The unsettling Mr. Gray opened the door to the office for her. “Good day, Miss McGaffigan.” He touched her arm as she made to walk through. “You should stay here at the hotel. Why not? It’s free. You can go to Danny’s apartment after you check in.”

  The world tilted as a wave of dizziness hit. His voice seemed to come from a long way away, his suggestion wrapping through her consciousness like smoke. Then everything cleared.

  She shook her head. Wow, the stress of all this must be worse than she thought. Now what had she been doing? Oh, that’s right. Checking into the hotel. Might as well, since the room was free. Once she’d checked in, she could head over to Danny’s place and see if there were any clues to where he’d gone.

  With a nod at Mr. Gray, she left Bartow’s office and headed for the elevator.

  * * *

  “Do you think she knows anything?” Bartow asked, watching the woman punch the elevator button through the glass wall of his office.

  “I’m not certain.” Adrian Gray turned away from the hallway where Cara McGaffigan had just disappeared. She’d looked younger than he’d expected.

  Bartow paced the room, twisting his fingers together. “I need to get it back, Gray. My numerologist said this is going to be a very unlucky year for me. The Stone is rumored to bring good luck to the possessor.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  “I need the luck to stay in business.”

  “I understand.”

  “Damn that kid! How did he know how to get into the safe? Or even that I had the Stone?” Bartow swiped his hand over his face. “I would never have figured Cangialosi had the smarts or the connections to steal it right out from under me.” He jerked his head up, his expression approaching panic. “We have to get it back! I’ll be ruined if we don’t!”

  “We’ll get it back.” Adrian held Bartow’s gaze, concentrated. “You aren’t going to worry. You’re going to leave this to me.”

  Bartow smiled, tension evaporating from his body like rising steam. “I’m not going to worry. I’m leaving this to you. Security is your job, right?”

  “Yes, security is my job.”

  “So I’m not going to worry,” Bartow repeated. “I’ll leave this to you.” He waved a dismissive hand and returned to his desk chair, hitting a couple of keys on his computer to bring up a screen of financials.

  Adrian waited a beat, but Bartow didn’t look up. He left the office, his boss buried in reports. The Cangialosi thing might have blown up in his face, but at least he still had Bartow under firm control.

  He wouldn’t lose command of the situation again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Rafe sat at the red light, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel of his SUV. The whole deal with Danny Cangialosi was chafing at him like sand in his shorts. Ever since he could remember, he’d always gotten his man. His gift had never failed him before.

  For one moment, he wished he could ask someone about it. But the only people who would understand would be his family, and that wasn’t an option. Nope, he was on his own.

  Better that way anyway.

  The light turned green, and he sailed through it, flicking on his signal to turn into the parking lot of Cangialosi’s apartment. With his superpowers out of the picture on this one, he was going to have to track this guy down the old-fashioned way. It would be good for him. Challenging.

  Ha. Even he didn’t believe it. But he’d do what he could with the tools available. He parked the car and climbed out, then glanced around.

  The complex wasn’t nearly the dump he had expected, but it wasn’t brand new, either. No security to speak of, but not exactly roach central. Cangialosi’s file flagged his place as unit twelve, so he made his way over there and stopped before the weathered front door. He swept a hand over the top of the doorframe. His fingers snagged on something sticky. He fumbled around, got a grip on the edge of what felt like tape, and pulled. A piece of duct tape ripped loose, and stuck to it was a key.

  Don’t have to be psychic for that one. Oldest trick in the book.

  Moments later he was standing in Cangialosi’s living room.

  The place smelled like a Dumpster. According to the file, this guy had been MIA for about three weeks. According to the crusted food on the dishes in the sink, the file was right. The answering machine blinked with fifteen messages.

  Quietly, he closed the door and began looking for clues as to where Mr. Cangialosi might be hiding.

  * * *

  What a weird day.

  Cara stepped out of the apartment manager’s office and walked over to her stepbrother’s unit. The complex wasn’t the best-kept place in the world, a far cry from her sweet little condo in Western New Jersey. The desert sun seemed to weather buildings faster out west, which was probably why the paint was peeling and the shrubs looked dried up and yellow. It really wasn’t that bad; after all, she’d planned to stay here to save money before she ended up in a free room at the Mesopotamian. She still wasn’t sure how that had all happened. Not that she minded the swanky hotel; she just didn’t want to be beholden to Artie Bartow, especially if he had something to do with Danny’s disappearance. Yet for some reason she’d meekly checked into the hotel and hadn’t really come out of whatever fog she’d been in until she’d unpacked her suitcases.

  Must be more tired and stressed out than I thought. Jet-lagged, too.

  She searched out unit twelve. If she knew her stepbrother, there were probably more dishes in the sink than in the cupboard and nothing but old Chinese containers in the fridge. Maybe she would straighten up the place while she searched for clues to what had happened to him.

  Walking toward the door, she dug in her pocket for the key the landlord had given her just now when she’d paid Danny’s overdue rent. She hadn’t counted on spending that much money—this trip was supposed to be on a shoestring budget—but she couldn’t let Danny’s place get rented out from under him, even if he had skipped bail and left her own living space in jeopardy. She’d give him an earful when he came back. She could hear the conversation now; she’d try to scold and he would thank her for helping him, giving her those puppy-dog eyes and that lopsided smile. Probably swear to pay her back, too, though she doubted she would ever see a dime. Still, whenever he said he wanted to pay her back, she knew he meant it. It just never seemed to happen.

  But he was family, and family looked out for one another.

  She started to slide the key in the lock, then paused. The door wasn’t quite closed. It stood open a crack.

  Had Danny come home? She nearly bolted through the door, then paused. What if it was someone else? Someone who was after Danny? As quietly as she could, she reached into her purse and pulled out the pepper spray that she had shoved in the bag before heading over. Fingers trembling, she eased open the door and silently stepped into the living room.

  A man stood by the answering machine listening to Danny’s messages. Half of them were from her, and it was weird hearing her own voice pleading with Danny to pick up the phone, to call. Luckily the intruder was busy listening, fast forwarding, listening again, so the hushed whisper of her approach appeared to escape him. He had his back to her, a tall guy with powerful shoulders in a khaki-colored shirt. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing tanned, solid forearms. His hair was dark brown, and
he wore jeans and black boots. From the trim rear end and the flex of his back muscles beneath the shirt, he looked to be in really great shape. Which meant he might be fast, might be strong. She made a note to stay out of arm’s reach as she lifted the little can and pointed it at him.

  “That’s not necessary,” he said without turning his head.

  She blinked in surprise, then steadied. “Turn around.”

  He obeyed slowly, hands spread at mid-chest. “Cara, right?”

  She didn’t know what surprised her more, that he knew her name or the jolt of stark attraction that nearly knocked her off her feet when she caught sight of his face.

  Piercing cobalt eyes, sharp with intelligence, seemed to look right through her. Strong nose, bladelike cheekbones—Native American in there somewhere, she decided—and a mouth that swept into a wicked grin à la Dennis Quaid. He had a great tan, so he either lived in a tanning salon or was a Vegas native.

  “Who are you?” she demanded. “What are you doing here?”

  “My name is Rafe Montana. I’m looking for Danny. I’m a bail enforcement agent.” At her blank look, he qualified. “A bounty hunter.”

  She frowned. “You don’t look like a bounty hunter.”

  “Maybe if you took those sunglasses off, you would see me better.”

  She’d forgotten she had them on. No wonder it was so darned dark in the house. Then he took a step forward, and she came to attention. “Bounty hunter, huh? Like a guy who chases down bail jumpers? Who’s going to bail you out when I have you arrested for breaking and entering?”

  He halted and reached toward his back jeans pocket. “I can show you my license.”

  “Hey, hey—hold it right there. Hands out of the pockets.” She gestured with the pepper spray and hoped he didn’t notice her trembling. “Maybe I should just call the cops and let them sort this out.”

  “Go ahead.” Dropping his hands to his sides, he took another step. “They know I’m here. It’s all legal.”

  “Hey! Stay right there and I won’t have to use this.”