by Sylvie Kurtz
Glasser rearranged his long legs under the table. “Well not behind her behind her, but close enough to park up the street and keep an eye on her. Our cars weren’t marked.”
Rory huffed as she slapped the cap back on her cup. “Even I could spot a government car.”
“Yeah, well, I was trying to make her feel safe.”
Rory shook her head. “So what happened?”
“Fifteen minutes later, Mike walks toward the trooper’s car and stares right at him.”
“And?”
Glasser shrugged. “And nothing. We were made, so we got out of there.”
“And left Felicia behind?”
Glasser treated another fry to a ketchup bath before he ripped into it. “She called later. She said Mike had patted her down for a wire.”
“Did he find it?” The pitch of Rory’s voice went up an octave.
“No, she’d chickened out and stashed it in the saddlebag on her bike.”
“I don’t believe this. Knowing the kind of person Mike is, how could you leave her?”
“She wouldn’t have come with us. She couldn’t. Don’t you see?”
“No, I don’t see.” Her hands, bent like claws, had crossed over into Glasser’s side of the table as if she could gouge the information she so desperately wanted out of him. But Glasser didn’t know the answer. If he did, Seekers, Inc., would’ve had it.
“Excuse me,” a woman said—a student by the looks of her. “Do you have the time?” Ace smiled and pretended he had nothing better to do than flirt with her, but his attention homed in on Rory’s voice, clear and cool, in the buzz of noise all around them.
“Sorry, doll, I’m not wearing a watch.” The student left, flashing him a coy smile over her shoulder.
“What else did Felicia say?” The flatness in Rory’s eyes worried him. Was she finally realizing how the odds were stacked against her sister?
“That he saw us. And that he told her that if she helped us, he’d kill her.”
Rory gulped. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. “And you just couldn’t leave it at that, could you?”
“You don’t understand. Without evidence, we can’t put Mike away.”
“What about Felicia?” Rory’s voice trembled.
“I got her to meet me one more time—”
“And convinced her to wear the wire.”
“She told me to, well, you know…” Red flooded the agent’s face.
Ace had heard Felicia’s language when someone crossed her. He bet it was colorful.
“Obviously she changed her mind somewhere along the line.”
Glasser nodded and popped another ketchup-soaked fry into his mouth. “She called me a few days later and agreed to try one more time. She said she couldn’t take the pressure anymore and was getting out of town.”
“Pressure from Mike or from you?”
Glasser had the decency to look sheepish. “Both, I think. Mike wanted her to deal from work again. She didn’t want to.”
Because of the baby. Rory was right. Having Hannah had changed Felicia.
“Did she say where she was going?” Hope. It sparked gold light in Rory’s eyes.
Glasser shook his head. “No.”
“Did you get your wire back?”
“I never heard from her again.”
Rory twirled her coffee cup round and round. “She missed work. That’s something she hasn’t done since her daughter was born.” The sadness in her eyes tore a piece right out of his heart. “She never made it to my place. She would never have left Hannah behind. Never. Are you even trying to find her?”
Glasser gave an apologetic shrug. “There’s not much I can do. Not with the investigation still in process.”
“Yeah, don’t remind me.” She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “Finding your drugs is more important than finding a human being.”
Glasser jabbed a finger into the table’s surface. “Those drugs are killing other human beings every day.”
She lifted her cup to her lips even though it was empty. “None of them are my sister.”
“They’re other people’s sisters and brothers. I am worried about Felicia, if that makes a difference. That’s why I agreed to meet you.” Glasser leaned back in his chair. “You can help…”
What an arrogant jerk! He’d already sent one woman into the jaws of danger and lost her. Now he wanted to sic her sister into the same poisonous mess. Ace’s hands clamped around his biceps to keep himself from marching over there and blowing his cover.
Rory snapped her coffee cup against the table. “I’ve seen the results of your work. I don’t think so.”
Ace could’ve cheered. The firecracker was back.
Glasser wiped the last smear of ketchup from the paper plate with his last fry. “We just need some information—”
“If I hear anything I think you can use, I’ll make sure to get it to you.”
“You—”
“Thank you, Mr. Glasser,” Rory said in her best librarian voice. Weren’t too many people he knew who’d defy such an almighty tone. She rose, grabbed her tote bag and hooked it over her shoulder. “I appreciate your candor about my sister.”
The agent scrambled up and reached into his back pocket. “Here’s my card.”
Rory glanced at it, but didn’t reach for it. “Keep it.”
“But—”
“If I need you, I have your number.”
“Right.”
She strode away. Her steps were short and quick and determined. And she was heading right at him.
Ace could tell the instant Rory spotted him. Her body stiffened as if she’d run through a cold shower. Her gaze became as sharp as a laser and twice as hot. It hit him eye-straight, ran gut-deep and wouldn’t let go. Without a word, she breezed by him, leaving behind a trail of her cinnamon scent.
Did she realize she might have just saved his butt? If she’d stopped, if she’d talked to him, Glasser would’ve noticed. And who knew exactly which side of the fence the agent sat on?
Ace made sure Glasser had left before he followed Rory up to the second floor. He found her in the reference section of the bookstore, studying titles with admirable efficiency. The quiet hush bathing the store seemed the wrong place for a confrontation, but this one couldn’t wait. He still had a high-school principal and a boss to appease.
“Why are you following me?” Rory rammed a book back into its place on the shelf. A cloud of new-book scent wafted between them.
Ace positioned himself to take in the front door as well as Rory. “I promised Falconer I’d take care of you.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Since when?”
“Since…” She shrugged. A careless shrug that was heavy with hurt. “Forever.”
“I don’t buy that.” Prim and proper was bred in. That kind of home usually reeked of money and came with servants and a heavy cushion of protection. She didn’t have an ounce of street smarts.
Rory snorted in a very unladylike way. “Try growing up in a home with parents forever gone on ‘business’ trips. You learn to take care of yourself fast.”
Yeah, he could relate. Too much. Carlotta hadn’t done business trips, but she was sure good at the disappearing act. “And took care of your sister, too.” He’d bet a week’s salary on that. Maybe not so protected after all. “That’s why you feel responsible.”
“I—” She pulled another book from the shelf, turned to the index and skimmed a finger down the page. “No.”
“So explain why you’re putting yourself and this whole investigation in danger.”
“I’m sorry. That wasn’t my goal. I don’t want to be involved. Truly. But Mr. Glasser was one of the last people to see Felicia alive. I had to know—”
“What he knew.” Ace took the book from her hands—a text on private investigation, now that was asking for trouble—and crammed it back onto the shelf. “By chasing answers, you’re involving yourself.”
She snagged the book back and held it to her chest in a crossed-arm, two-handed hold that would require, at the very least, a pry bar to loosen. “I need to understand.”
“I get that.” He ran a hand through his hair and kneaded the back of his neck. “Listen, we’re going to have to work something out. I can’t go chasing after you like this at all hours of the day. Mike’s watching me, and this sort of activity’ll make him suspicious.”
“Yes, we do need to come to some sort of compromise.” She headed for the cash register and dug through her tote bag for her wallet. When she handed the clerk her credit card, Ace snagged it and handed it back to her. He reached into his pocket and handed her a twenty. “Pay cash.”
“Why?”
He jerked his chin toward the fedora-wearing, magnifying-lens-carrying private eye on the cover. “Some things you don’t want others to know.”
He could see the slight swim of fear in her eyes. Not knowing where her sister was, why she was missing, what had happened to her was hard. And Glasser had led her to believe something bad had happened to Felicia. Now Ace was telling her she wasn’t safe anywhere, not even her comfort places. Looking for answers was her way of coping with all life was throwing at her right now, and he was plucking away her safety net one thread at a time.
She tucked the paper-bag-wrapped book into her tote bag and headed toward the exit.
“You’re not dealing with people who play by the rules,” Ace said, unwilling to let his point slide.
“You’ve made that clear enough.”
“Obviously I didn’t paint a vivid enough picture because you’re still trying to put everything in a box.”
“That’s not—”
He put a hand up. “For once, let me say my piece. These people kill whoever they think is getting in their way. They killed Steven Ramstead.”
She slanted him a questioning look, but didn’t slow her pace down the stairs.
“He was the guy in my spot six months ago. They killed Penny’s husband.”
Rory opened her mouth in a soft O.
“They killed a prosecutor who was pushing an assault case against a friend of Mike’s. He was in his kid’s room. The bullets blasted into the wall above the kid’s bed. His father fell on him and bled out.”
She stopped and stared at him, her face a moving panorama of fear and anger and sadness that dragged him along like a tide over rocks. He zipped his jacket.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked.
“To make a point. If they killed Felicia, they’re not going to want you to find the body. They’ll stop you, whatever it takes.
“She’s not dead.” She plowed once again into the moving sea of people.
Ace stuck to her side, two of her strides fitting into one of his. “If she’s not dead, then you’re leading them right to her.”
Her frown was painful. The way her shoulders rounded like a turtle shell over the soft core had him stuffing his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t reach for her.
She shook her head. “I have to know.”
“Then do it the right way.”
“And what way is that?” she scoffed. “Your way?”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“I know how to find—”
“Trouble.”
She practically growled at him. “You’re not even trying to find common ground.”
“I’m trying to keep you alive.” He got in her face, stopping her, and let her see all the hard living that had tempered him. He had to hand it to her. She stood her ground, eye-to-eye—even if she was almost a foot shorter. “I’m the good guy here. I’m trying to put away the bad guys.” All he needed was solid evidence that would stand up in court. No problem.
“I’ll grant you that you know more about the situation.”
He threw his head back. “Saints be praised!”
Crossing her arms under her breasts, she slanted him a narrowed gaze. The movement spread her jacket open and reeled his attention to her well-rounded chest. That T-shirt would look good wet.
“And I’m willing to learn—”
“Another miracle.” He slapped a hand to his heart, mostly to jar his attention back where it belonged—above the neck.
Heat rose above the collar of her shirt at an alarming pace. That was better. He liked her angry. It heightened her freckles and gave her face a sour-lemon look. Nothing attractive about that. So why was his blood stirring?
“Will you at least grant me there are some questions I can ask without the risk of blowing a cover?” She clasped her tote bag close to her side and started toward the mall exit. Hands in his pockets, he followed.
One point for the firecracker. “Being Felicia’s sister, you not asking certain questions would appear suspicious.”
“Okay, then. Let’s both play up our strengths instead of being at odds. Why don’t you come over tonight and we’ll talk strategy?”
Alone together would not be a good idea. She was getting under his skin. Worse, he couldn’t even think of why. Short, skinny, red hair. These weren’t his usual turn-ons. And she had more knots in her than a camp full of Boy Scouts. He didn’t do complicated very well. “I can’t.”
“I forgot.” She nodded. “The run.”
So had he. “Change of plans.”
She frowned in question.
He pushed open the glass door and let her through. “I’m running a booth for Mike at the swap meet at Gable’s Orchard.” He needed to get back and finish putting the inventory together. He dug a key out of his pocket, straddled his bike and raised the kickstand.
“Is it a safe place?”
He didn’t like the sound of that. “Safe enough. It’s a meet organized for RUBbers.”
“Rubbers?”
He turned the ignition switch and the kill switch to On. “Rich Urban Bikers. Accessories, parts, clothes and all that jazz. Mike has a parts booth.”
“Now that you mention it, I saw some fliers for the event around town. There was mention of music, too.”
“There’s a stage.” He put the transmission in neutral, adjusted the choke and throttle. The engine turned over, caught and began to fire. The smell of exhaust swirled around them.
“I could use a nice outing.”
“Rory.”
“You said it was safe.”
“And you agreed to work together.”
Upper teeth tugging at her lower lip, she gave him a pensive look. “Well, I don’t know much about motorcycle parts, but I can keep you company.”
It was a losing battle. He might as well give in. If she was next to him, then she couldn’t get into trouble.
“Bring dinner. You’ve already cost me lunch.”
Her smile dazzled, and he found his heart revving in time to the Indian’s engine. “You’re on.”
“YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND,” Ace’s sister said as she poked a piece of dead branch into the carefully manicured lawn. They sat on a stone bench near a fountain in the formal garden behind the principal’s office at the Cheshire Academy. Bianca’s hair hung like a sheet of brown moss, hiding her face. In her uniform of navy twill pants, red sweatshirt bearing the school crest and white button-down Oxford shirt, she looked like the little girl he’d once sent off to kindergarten. Except she’d been full of smiles then, and all he could get out of her now were frowns full of sadness. He tried to think back to the last time he’d seen her happy and couldn’t conjure up the day. Where had he gone so wrong?
“Of course I don’t understand.” He choked the leather gloves in his hands to hang on to what was left of his calm. First Rory, now Bianca. Women, it seemed, were doomed to be the bane of his existence. How much patience was a mere man supposed to hold? “Don’t you get that this is your last chance? One more strike and you’re out.”
“I don’t like it here. I don’t belong here. Why can’t I just come home with you?”
“Because I’m not home right now.” His rented apartment wasn’t home, and he certainly didn’
t want her anywhere around people like Mike.
She threw the stick into the bushes, barely missing the floor-to-ceiling windows of the principal’s office. “You never are.”
“Bee—”
She waved her arms dramatically. “I know, I know. You have a big, important job.”
“You’re important.” He’d been fifteen when his mother had brought home the bundle that looked more like a bald, prune-faced old lady than a sweet Gerber baby. Carlotta had handed Bianca to him and taken to her bed—this child’s arrival as much a disappointment to her as the first one had been. It had failed to do the one thing she’d expected it to—keep a man tied to her. And he’d promised himself his sister would never have to sit alone in the dark with no one to answer her cries while their mother was out looking for the thing she would never find.
“What was it you used to tell me?” Bianca said, her brown eyes full of puppy dejection. “Actions say more than words.”
He could tell her what she wanted to hear, or he could tell her the truth. Why did doing right so often hurt? “Until I can trust that you won’t go back to drugs, I can’t leave you alone.”
“You don’t trust me!” Hurt carved deep lines around her eyes and mouth.
“You didn’t have to run away to get my attention.”
She shrugged and stood, hugging herself. “How else was I supposed to get you to spare five minutes from your precious job?”
“A phone call works. You have my number. I always carry that phone.”
She dipped one hand in the fountain’s water, causing waves. “They don’t like me.”
They, he knew, meant everyone—students and faculty alike. Bianca wanted things her way, right away. That tended to rub people the wrong way. His fault for spoiling her so much? “Have you given them a chance?”
He’d never had the luxury of being himself and it was something he’d wanted to give her. Even when he hung up the role he wore for the duration of an operation, he found he couldn’t completely relax. Part of him was always on guard, waiting for the phone to ring, the next cry for help, wondering who he’d have to be next—hunter, savior, protector. Sometimes he was so tired he wondered if he had anything left to give to anyone or anything.