by Sylvie Kurtz
He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Could be either.”
“Explain.”
“The less you know about the drug side of the situation, the better off you’ll be.”
He was right; she didn’t really want to know about the drug trafficking. All she wanted was to find her sister. “Would he know where Felicia is?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, if he’s the president, surely he would know what’s going on in his organization.”
He stopped, grabbed her forearm. The quickness and force of his movement made her spin to face him. “Don’t mess with Deacon.”
“Questions aren’t messing.”
“They are in his book. He’s my ticket to whoever’s cooking the meth that’s flowing in the area.”
She twisted her arm and released it from his grip. “I won’t jeopardize your case.”
“You already have.”
Her gaze jerked up to meet his. “What do you mean?”
The light from the lamppost threw half his face into shadows, sharpening the slash of his eyebrow, the cut of his cheekbone, the blade of his nose. He looked hard and unyielding and definitely dangerous. She was glad he was on her side. If she hadn’t known him and had met him walking alone at night, she would have definitely emptied the can of Mace in his face.
“When you sit there and act as if the people you want me to introduce you to are all lepers,” he said, his gaze dark and direct, “they’ve got to wonder what I’m doing with you. If they question my judgment in that department, they’ll question my judgment elsewhere. I’ve been working for six months to get close to Deacon. Don’t blow it for me.”
Swallowing hard, she looked down at her feet. Her objective was not to make life harder for him. “I won’t.”
“Let me find Felicia for you.”
Rory scrunched her shoulders. The last time she’d seen Felicia, they’d had an argument. Rory had said harsh things—things she now wished she could take back. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
She turned from him and started walking again. “Because.”
“Who’s shutting who out now?”
They reached the stairs that led to Felicia’s apartment. “Take me again tomorrow and I’ll do better.”
“It’ll have to wait until the party on Saturday.” His face was grim—as if spending time with her was a hardship.
“Why?”
“I’ve got a run tomorrow night.”
“A run?”
“You don’t—”
“Want to know.” She nodded. “Okay.”
The snarl of a Harley a block away filled the night. The machine peeled around the corner, and Rory recognized the driver as Deacon.
“I have to do this.” Ace took her in his arms. Immediately her breath choked in her throat and her muscles paralyzed as she remembered the branding power of his kiss earlier. “Don’t stiffen up on me, sweetheart. I’m just showing off for Deacon.”
“Okay.” She relaxed as much as she dared. He smelled like stale cigarette smoke and Ivory soap. He tasted like beer. The rough stubble of beard scratched her face. He had no business kissing her as if he meant it—not when it was just playacting, she thought as she struggled to remain still and keep her brain from turning to mush. She had no business enjoying the sharp taste of him in return. Business, she reminded herself. This was business. A quiver shook through her. This bone-melting, brain-scrambling heat meant nothing. An act. That was all. The fever rising up her body as if she were a thermometer was simply nerves. She wasn’t, after all, an actress.
The motorcycle raced by them. As soon as the taillight receded down the main drag, Ace released her. She stumbled back for a step and had to hold herself together.
“Better.” He started toward his apartment.
Better? Better? Who did he think he was? Lips still tingling from the prickle of his beard, body still trying to find its equilibrium, she raced up the stairs and stopped halfway up. “You’re not going to make a habit out of this, are you?”
He grinned at her over his shoulder, that crooked smirk that was so arrogant, yet so enragingly charming. Regret sang through her. Figured that a guy who could kiss her breathless was only faking it.
“I’m just trying to help you fit in, sweetheart.”
Don’t react. He was calling her sweetheart just to get a rise out of her. Distance, distract and strike. “Speaking of fitting in,” she said, saccharine-sweetly, “is there a bookstore around here?”
He doubled back and stood on the other side of the stair rail, squinting up at her. “You’ll have to go into Keene for that. Why?”
The uncertainty in his voice pleased her. “I visited the Summersfield library. No openings, I’m told. I’m not going to find what I need there.”
He was no longer smiling, but a glow warmed her belly.
“Rory?” Ace wore his best pirate frown. He meant it as a warning to behave, but she found she was no longer afraid of him.
Let him wonder. Practically purring, she jogged up the rest of the stairs. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. How much trouble can I get into at a bookstore?”
WHILE HANNAH TOOK her morning nap, Rory looked through Felicia’s meager belongings, excavating the pieces of her sister’s recent past like an archeologist. She found nothing in the bedroom, nothing in the messy kitchen drawers, nothing in the pile of bills waiting for payment on the card table that served as a desk. Even the garbage cans in the kitchen and bathroom offered up no secrets.
She rummaged through the small bookshelf and smiled at the number of books devoted to parenting and baby care. Felicia loved Hannah—everything from the full pantry to the toys to the baby care equipment in the apartment said so.
So why had she disappeared and left the baby she adored behind? “Give me a clue, Felicia.”
With a sigh, Rory pulled out the white album decorated with pastel teddy bears, hobby horses and rubber ducks.
Felicia had taken the time to put together a baby album for Hannah. Sitting cross-legged on the rust carpet, Rory chuckled as she read Felicia’s thoughts about Hannah’s first night at home, her first smile, her first messy bite of cereal. She cried at the letter her sister had written to her daughter the day before Hannah was born. And in each of the photos, Rory looked for something, anything, that could explain what had happened to Felicia.
Tucked at the back of the album was a drugstore envelope of photos that weren’t yet mounted in the album. Rory took out the pictures. The album slipped from her knees and as she tried to catch it, she lost her grip on the stack of photos in her hand. They fell in a fan all around her, some right side up, some right side down. And on the back of one of the photos was a series of scribbled numbers.
She flipped the picture over and saw Felicia sitting behind Mike on his monster motorcycle. Her head was covered with a black-and-white bandanna. Her red hair flew freely in the breeze. Mike’s eyes were hidden behind gleaming sunglasses, and his mouth was set in a cruel line. What had Felicia seen in him?
Rory turned the photo over and stared at the number. Seven digits. Phone number? To Mike’s garage? To a friend’s home? There was only one way to find out.
She reached over to the end table by the lime-green armchair, picked up the phone and dialed.
“Glasser,” said a bored voice.
“To whom am I speaking?”
A chair creaked at the other end of the line. “Who did you want to talk to?”
“I’m looking for Felicia Cates.”
There was a silence so dense that the beat of her pulse felt like a roar in her ears.
“I’m her sister,” Rory said into the silence. “Are you a friend of Felicia’s?”
“You could say that.”
Rory frowned at the wariness in the voice. Male. Was Felicia cheating on Mike? Had he found out? Was she afraid of what he’d do to her? “It’s important that I find Felicia. Have you talked to her recently?”
; “I think we should meet.”
A shudder of apprehension rattled down her spine. She suddenly had visions of classic private eyes sporting Bogart faces with dangling cigarettes, skulking around buildings with bad lighting. Of course real-life spies didn’t necessarily wear trench coats and fedoras. No, they could look like your average mother and father and even their own children wouldn’t suspect a thing.
Don’t go there.
She gripped the telephone, got up and scanned the town common out the bay window. Normal. Everything there looked plain normal. There was no Bogart spy leaning against the lamppost.
She didn’t know who this Glasser was or what role he played in Felicia’s life or her disappearance. If she met him, would she disappear, too? But what choice did she have? Here was finally someone who was willing to talk. Take control. She’d pick the place and time. She reached for the phone book and looked at the address for the bookstore Ace had suggested. “How about the food court at the Colony Mill Marketplace in two hours?”
Public. Crowded. Safe.
That would give her time to arrange for Penny to sit for Hannah and to call Sebastian. Should she tell Ace? His tall, muscular presence would surely give anyone with harmful intent second thoughts. No, the longhaired pirate would not approve. She could imagine his dark eyes glowering at her. He already thought she was a troublemaker. If he only knew. None of the troublemaking genes had passed down to her. Felicia inherited them all. Besides she wasn’t meeting Glasser in Summersfield, so it wouldn’t impact his investigation or his cover.
“Two hours. The Colony Mill Marketplace,” the male voice agreed.
“How will I know you, um, what did you say your name was?”
“Ron Glasser. If you’re Felicia’s sister, I’ll know you.”
Wariness again. Maybe this Glasser person was just as skittish of meeting her as she was of meeting him. “I carry a tapestry bag with a rose design.” Should she add the lie that the bag was also home to a handgun?
“See you soon.”
Rory put down the phone and hugged her knees. A love for facts notwithstanding, she wasn’t cut out for the private eye spy business. She’d always much preferred to spend time alone, lost in the imaginary worlds of books. Safe. Secure. Felicia had been the fearless one, seeking speed since she’d worn diapers. Sliding down the playground slide headfirst, spinning on the merry-go-round till she was dizzy, riding tricycles then bicycles as if a rocket booster were attached to them. Then motorcycles, of course. And who knew what else since they’d last seen each other.
Maybe Rory wasn’t into weaving the webs of adrenaline Felicia spun around her, but the one thing she was good at was gathering information. That’s how she had to view this little outing. Wearily, she dialed Sebastian’s number.
Sebastian informed her that there’d been no activity on Felicia’s credit card, ATM card or her bank account. And her plate numbers didn’t show up on any police reports.
“No activity isn’t good.” Rory twirled the phone cord around her index finger. If Felicia had bought a meal or filled up the gas tank of her car, then Rory would know for sure her sister was alive. A sensation of deflation drained her, making her limbs feel oak-dense.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” Sebastian reassured her. “If she’s hiding, she’d use cash so no one could trace her movements.”
And no movement, Sebastian told her daily, meant only that she was staying in one place. Something he assured her was smart. Movement created triggers and that meant anyone with a desire to could find her. “How long before you have enough to put Mike away?”
“It’s more complicated than Mike.”
Mike was just a trout in the pond they were fishing in. A nasty, smelly one, but just a trout. They wanted the freshwater shark above him. And Felicia was just a minnow—important to no one but Rory. She was starting to think that finding Felicia might not be such a good idea after all. If she was hiding from Mike, then she was safe.
But what if she wasn’t? What if she was hurt? What if…?
As if reading her mind, Sebastian said, “You’re doing the best thing you can. Putting in face time around town, letting people know you’re there. Eventually someone will say something that’ll help.”
“I hope so.”
Rory couldn’t get rid of the anxiety crawling like fire ants in her chest, of the memory of Felicia’s hurt-filled eyes the last time Rory had turned her back on her. She couldn’t shake the feeling of dread—the same one she’d had when she’d walked into her own house seven years ago and found her parents’ bodies propped in rattan chairs in the backyard still holding their nightly cocktails in their hands. They’d made such a peaceful tableau, enjoying the sunset—until she’d noticed the red holes at their temples. She gave a quick shake of her head. Concentrate on the facts, Rory. “Do you know anyone named Ron Glasser?”
A heart skip of hesitation hummed across the line. “Ron Glasser is Felicia’s ATF contact.”
Chapter Five
How much trouble could Rory get into at a bookstore? A whole boatload, it turned out.
Ace parked his Indian as close to the bookstore entrance as he could and strode into the mall, looking the crowd over for a redhead in way too deep.
Who did she think she was, playing cloak-and-dagger with Glasser? What if she let slip that Ace was undercover? The whole point of him being there was that no other agency should know about him. No mole was going to get him plugged like his predecessor. That wasn’t part of the plan. Not with Bianca causing waves again at school. She needed time to straighten herself out, and he was going to be around to make sure she got it.
He glanced at his watch and quickened his pace. He didn’t have time for this. Not today. Rory was going to get an earful about him having to chase her down instead of putting in an appearance at the Cheshire Academy to soothe an irate principal—as he’d told Mike he was doing.
Falconer had told Rory to stay put. Of course, she’d listened to him about as well as a teenager with headphones on. So Ace was sent like an errand boy to eavesdrop on her conversation and make sure she didn’t get herself—or anyone else—into trouble. Ace scoured the stacks at the bookstore and didn’t spot the red frizz of the nosy librarian anywhere.
She was here somewhere. Her rental car was parked outside. His pace hitched for one stride. Unless she was foolish enough to climb into a car with a stranger, ATF or not. He shook his head. No, she was a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. She wouldn’t spend the time shopping, either. She had too much on her mind for such a frivolous activity. No, she was either walking the brick corridors with Glasser or she was sitting with him at the food court.
Ace felt her before he saw her. Like a heat-seeking missile, his gaze zeroed in on her table smack dab in the middle of the food court. She was sitting finishing-school starched, but a restless discharge of energy lashed from her and snared around him like spider silk around a fly.
The lunchtime crowd filled nearly every table and stirred enough noise to create a resonant din. A janitor meandered through the tables, sweeping discarded bits of food, straw wrappers and paper napkins off the floor and into a long-handled dustpan. The co-mingled smells of gourmet coffee, chili and tempura hung in a cloud over the area and reminded him breakfast was long gone. Rory owed him lunch as well as thanks for being there to save her hide. Not that he’d get either.
He lounged against a brick column like a guy waiting for his girl, and popped the audio booster gadget Kingsley had given him into his ears. The blue device looked like a pager at his belt and had earbuds like a portable player. Senses sharpened, on edge, he moved around a bit until Rory’s voice boomed into his ear.
“When was the last time you saw her?” Rory asked. How far into the conversation was she? Without looking directly at her, he tried to read her. She bent toward Glasser as if she wanted to pluck out whatever information was trapped in the agent’s mind. Her hands were wrapped around a tall cup of take-out coffee, her f
ingertips red from her tight grip. Her forehead rippled with worry and frizz escaped from every part of her tight bun. Why did she even bother with it?
Glasser didn’t look any more relaxed. In his khakis, purple polo shirt and navy windbreaker, he could’ve just come off the golf course after a losing round. At twenty-six he barely looked a day over sixteen with his thin blond hair and baby features. He’d made a mess of the Felicia Cates situation, but Ace didn’t put all the blame on Glasser. He was doing the best he could, considering he was fresh out of the academy. His supervisors should’ve kept a tighter leash on him.
Glasser shuffled in his seat and spun a French fry through a splat of ketchup. “Felicia met me in a parking lot on 101 just before the Vermont border about a month ago. We talked, and she agreed to help. I handed her a microcassette recorder and showed her how it worked. She left on her motorcycle—”
“Motorcycle? Are you sure it was on a motorcycle?”
“A bright-red thing with a sweet throaty engine that could just about wake the dead.” Ace recognized a man in love. Motorcycles had a way of doing that—even to guys who’d never do more than dream of riding one.
Rory sipped her coffee, and Ace could almost see her mind processing the bits of information—compare, contrast, box. “Her motorcycle is back where it should be.”
“She was riding it.” Glasser chomped on the French fry as if it were steak. “She was afraid to wear the wire, so I told her I’d follow her in case she needed help. She wasn’t sure about that, either.”
“She was afraid and you made her go anyway?” Ace recognized the telltale signs of rising anger in Rory. Her fine, white skin flushed. Her amber eyes darkened and narrowed. Her delicate nostrils flared. If Glasser wasn’t careful, he’d end up cut to pieces from the lash of her tongue.
“Anyway,” Glasser pressed on, drowning another hapless fry in ketchup, “me and a trooper pulled up behind her when she got to Mike’s house.”
“You pulled up behind her!” The top popped right off Rory’s cup of coffee.