“Maybe they’re moving into Vegas territory,” Trace reasoned.
“Maybe, and the sketch of the tat is slightly different than this one.” Langston pointed at the colorful photo of the tattoo on the computer screen. “See this part of the tattoo, where the capital N is dangling from the right side of the triangle?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, it’s the symbol for a neophyte, a gang member still needing to prove himself. The string of bank robberies might be part of the initiation process. The guy’s tat is probably not even completed yet.”
Trace shook his head. “You trying to tell me that this crew would let him get a tattoo before he’s even all the way in?”
Langston shrugged and sat back in his seat. “Crazier things than that happen in gangs, man.”
It felt like Trace’s head was going to explode. Partly because he was exhausted. The other reason was because he feared Connie was now on a gang member’s radar.
“You know, I’m thinking...” Langston said as he swiveled back and forth in his desk chair. “If the bank robberies are a part of some initiation, the One-Seven Crew aren’t going to want any trouble. If one of these neophytes gets caught in the process, the gang bosses might claim no affiliation.”
“Yeah, and...?” Trace wasn’t sure where Langston was going with his thought process.
“And that might be why the bank teller was killed. Those who robbed the bank are probably lying low since authorities know the teller helped them. Now that she’s dead, that’s one loose string tied up.”
A sense of foreboding lodged inside Trace’s chest. “You’re saying that Connie might be a loose end?”
“Maybe, but I’d bet my paycheck that no one in the One-Seven knows Connie exists, except the guy she made eye contact with. This man is probably taking heat for getting the bank teller involved in the first place, which was why he had to off her.
“He’s not going to want his crew to know that some other woman at the bank might’ve saw his tat. Because if his crew found out, they’d kill his ass before authorities could get a hold of him.”
“So for this neophyte, Connie is a loose end,” Trace said again, more to himself than to his brother. “Even if he doesn’t know whether or not she can ID him. He can’t take that risk.”
Langston was tapping his fingers on the desktop. “True, but why was he modeling? Assuming it’s the same guy.”
Trace’s head was spinning. He didn’t know enough about gangs, organized crime or any of that. All he knew was that his woman was in danger.
“Damn, this is messed up,” he said and started pacing the floor in front of the desk, trying to process all that he had learned so far.
Langston brought up a good point, though. If the guy thought Connie or anyone might’ve seen his tat or could identify him in any way, why was he modeling? Nothing was making sense.
Unless the bank robbery has nothing to do with the gray-eyed model.
There were plenty of gray-eyed people in the world. Granted, that guy’s were the most unusual shade of gray that Trace had ever seen. Still...
“Something that still has me stumped is that the model didn’t have a tattoo,” Trace said. “I’m thinking he might just be some chump who had seen Connie at the restaurant before and wanted to get close to her. He didn’t have a tat, so—”
“You might not have seen the tat. That doesn’t mean he didn’t have one,” Langston countered. “There’s all types of makeup or other methods that models and actors use to change their appearance. Hell, for all we know, the gray eyes could be contacts.”
“Aw, hell.” Trace gripped his head and growled as frustration charged through his body. That was not what he wanted to hear. If this guy set Connie’s house on fire and went around camouflaging his looks, they were screwed.
Trace’s cell phone vibrated on the desk, and he reached over and grabbed it. Glancing at the screen, he saw that it was a text from Indie.
His name is Daniel Atkinson.
CHAPTER 20
Connie leaned her back against the headboard and took a careful sip of the steaming hot coffee that she had prepared. Her gaze drifted to where Trace was sleeping beside her. He was lying on his stomach with his face buried in the pillow, and his thick arms were wrapped around it tightly. She had no idea how he could sleep like that, let alone breathe.
She wasn’t sure when he had gotten into bed, but she had awakened around six and he hadn’t been in the room. It was now eight. He couldn’t have been asleep long.
Holding the large mug of coffee between both hands, she took another careful sip and glanced around the room. It was large for a guest bedroom. Even with the king-size bed, there was plenty of space for two large nightstands, a dresser and a large comfortable-looking chair near the walk-in closet.
The only problem with the lovely room was that it reminded her of why she was there in the first place. She still couldn’t wrap her brain around her circumstances. Technically, she was homeless because some jerk thought it would be a good idea to burn her house down—with her inside it.
A cold chill slithered through her veins. Just thinking about how she could’ve died last night, and for what? Connie wasn’t even sure. That made her angry and sad at the same time. She wished she could blink or tap her heels together a few times and make her life go back to what it was before the bank robbery.
If only.
She set the mug on the nightstand and glanced at Trace. Maybe she didn’t want everything to go back to the way it was. If it did, that would mean that the two of them would still be just friends. Connie never wanted to return to that. It was because of him that she had even survived the last week.
She brought her knees up
