her waitressing skills, she figured turnabout was fair play.
She huffed a humorless laugh as she plucked out a coffee filter and dropped it into the brewing basket. The man had left the diner unlocked, for crying out loud! Compared to exposing the restaurant to theft, her forgetting to refill the saltshakers was nothing.
Problem was, neglecting the saltshakers wasn’t her worst mistake. Her gut clenching, she poured a carafe of water into the coffeemaker. She’d made her biggest blunder ever just a few nights before—a royal screwup that Hardin claimed had cost him two hundred thousand dollars. The amount seemed preposterous to her, but her boss insisted that was how much she’d lost him.
Annie’s hands shook as she measured out the coffee grinds. She could never make up for losing Mr. Hardin so much money. She guessed she was lucky she still had her job, lucky he hadn’t beaten her senseless the way Walt would have.
Thoughts of her violent ex-husband sent another shiver down her back. She rubbed the goose bumps on her arms and squared her shoulders. Never again.
If she had to work this dead-end waitress job the rest of her life, barely making ends meet for herself and her two young children, the price was worth her freedom from her abusive marriage. No man would ever hurt her or her children again.
Annie jabbed the power switch, and with a hiss and a waft of rich aroma, the morning java began dripping into the pot.
A glance around the diner showed numerous cleaning jobs that had been ignored at closing last night. She pressed her lips in a taut line of frustration. Perhaps this was part of her boss’s plan to punish her for her colossal and costly mistake three nights earlier. Perhaps she deserved as much.
Two hundred thousand dollars. Acid bit her gut. How could she ever make up for that mistake?
Sighing her resignation, she took a clean rag from the cabinet and headed to the kitchen for a bucket of soapy water to start cleaning tables.
She noticed the foul odor as soon as she stepped through the swinging door from the dining room. Wrinkling her nose, she flipped the lights on and checked for some food item that might have been left out to spoil. But not even rotten milk smelled this bad.
Coupled with the unlocked front door, the putrid scent gave her pause. Too many things seemed off-kilter at the diner this morning.
A ripple of apprehension shimmied through her. Annie hesitated by the main grill, which still sported last night’s grease.
“Mr. Hardin, are you there?” She heard the quiver of fear in her tone and pressed a hand to her swirling stomach. “Hello?”
She took a few baby steps forward, scanning the dirty kitchen. Rounding the industrial-size freezer, she crept into the back hall.
On the floor, a pair of feet jutted through the open door to the manager’s office.
Annie gasped. Dear heavens! Had he fallen? Had a heart attack?
“Mr. Hardin!” she cried, rushing forward.
When she reached the office door, Annie drew up short.
Her breath froze in her lungs. Bile surged to her throat. Black spots danced at the edge of her vision.
Peter Hardin lay in a puddle of blood, his eyes fixed in a blank, sightless stare. Two bullet holes pocked his chest, and a third marred his forehead.
Annie stumbled backward, horror clogging her throat.
Numb, shaking, light-headed, she edged away from her grisly discovery.
Shock and denial finally yielded to terror. A scream wrenched from her throat and echoed in the empty kitchen.
Her boss was dead. Murdered.
And though she hadn’t pulled the trigger, Annie was certain Hardin’s murder was her fault.
Three days earlier
He’d stalked his prey long enough. Time to move in for the kill.
Over the rim of his coffee cup, Jonah Devereaux eyed the rotund, balding man across the Formica table from him.
Martin Farrout.
Everything Jonah had learned to date in his investigation told him Farrout was the muscle of the gambling operation, the gatekeeper. Getting past Farrout, rooting out the players up the chain of command was what the past six months had been about.
“Mark my words. Kansas will go all the way,” Ted Pulliam, one of Farrout’s lackeys, said, jabbing the diner’s table with his finger for emphasis.
Jonah grunted and lowered his coffee. “North Carolina. They’re a powerhouse with a winning legacy to uphold.”
Pulliam scoffed. “All right, Devereaux, put your money where your mouth is.” The wiry man with faded tattoos slapped a Jackson on the table. “Twenty bucks. And I’ll give you five points.”
Jonah schooled his face and divided a bland look between Pulliam and Farrout, sizing them up. Weighing his decision to push his investigation to the next level.
He drained the cold dregs of his coffee and shoved the mug to the end of the table. In seconds, their waitress had snagged the coffeepot and stepped over to refill his cup.
Lifting a hand, Jonah waved her off. “Naw, I’m done, Annie. Thanks anyway.”
“Gentlemen, we close in ten minutes. Can I get you anything else?” the attractive brunette asked as she cleared away the dirty mug.
Sure. I’ll take an order of inside information about the local gambling ring with a side of details on the money-laundering operation I suspect your boss is running. Hold the onions.
If only it were that easy.
Instead, he’d spent months investigating the illegal activities he’d traced to Pop’s Diner, and he still didn’t have the evidence he needed to resolve the case and turn his information over to the local police.
The evidence he needed to give Michael justice.
Pushing aside thoughts of his mentor, Jonah flashed Annie a quick smile. “Just my bill.”
While posing as a paper-mill worker who’d recently moved to the area, Jonah had eaten enough greasy meals at the small diner to send his cholesterol count into the stratosphere—a lesser-known hazard of undercover work that’d take countless hours in the gym to rectify. At least the coffee was good. God knew he’d guzzled enough of the brew at Pop’s to last a lifetime.
But over the weeks, his regular meals at Pop’s had gained him the level of familiarity with the locals he needed to loosen a few tongues and open a door or two. Things were finally beginning to fall into place.
He shifted his gaze to Farrout and pitched his voice low. “I want the real action. Five grand on UNC to win it all.”
Pulliam fell silent and sat back in the booth.
Farrout lifted a thick black eyebrow. One taut second ticked
