Wild Child

by A. S. Green

  “Why wouldn’t he come?” I ask, feeling both surprise and a sudden surge of sadness.

  “I’ve got a guess, but it’s not for me to say. Like my job too much. I’m the one who creates his personas when he’s undercover.”

  “You created Charlie Ridgeway, the real estate investor from Toronto?” I ask, while keeping my eyes glued on the monitors. My shoulders sag when Jax steps out of view.

  “Guilty. He uses the name Charlie a lot. Ridgeway, too.”

  “Some of the people in Chicago were talking about how they’d read up on Charlie Ridgeway’s past investment history before the party.”

  “Yep. That was me. I planted a bunch of fake articles, postdated them, and created a history. Voilà!”

  “You can do that?”

  “I double majored in journalism and computer science with a specialty in information engineering. I’m also a certified ethical hacker. So, yeah. I can do that.”

  “Wow.” I didn’t even know those words existed. “But how do you post articles that look like they’re from his past? You can’t turn back time.”

  “True, but you can be a master of SEO so the articles you want people to see go to the top of their Google search. Post a fake date in the body of the article, and most people don’t pay attention to the fine print.”

  Listening to Nisi, I’m once more reminded that I’m way out of my league with these people, and I’m also a little embarrassed about having suggested to Jax that he hire me. No wonder he has me watching the screens.

  Well, I’ll make sure he remembers how good I was on the road. If it’s the last thing I do, that man will know how indispensable I can be.

  My plan on how I might go about doing that is interrupted by a deep, gravelly voice. “You must be Natalie.”

  I look up to find a man standing beside my desk. He appears about forty-five, but like everyone else is in great shape. His short dark hair is clipped tight and graying at the temples. There’s a shaving nick on his chin. His hands are on his hips, and his face is serious.

  “Am I in trouble?” I ask.

  “Should you be?”

  “It’s been known to happen.”

  He smiles, and a dimple pops in the center of one of his cheeks. Then he steps closer and shakes my hand. “I’m Denny Murray. Good to have you here.”

  Denny. Jax’s second in command. The one he talked to while on the road. I want him to like me. “I’ve already signed all my employment forms, and Nisi’s had me—”

  “Listen. I talked to Sparke yesterday.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You need a place to stay temporarily, and I’ve got a place. It’s in Brooklyn with a view of the bridge. Small but nice. Wood floors. Big windows. It’s actually my daughter Mel’s apartment, but she’s in Europe for the next six weeks.”

  Mel? Oh. Melinda. God, Jax was telling the truth. I am such an idiot (and also so relieved). “You sure she won’t mind?”

  “Seeing as I pay her rent…no.”

  “My suitcase?” I ask, suddenly remembering that most of my things are still in Jax’s car, and I don’t know when he’ll be back. I’ll need something awesome for the Foo Fighters concert tonight.

  “They’re in my office. I’ll bring you over to my daughter’s after work.”

  He’ll be bringing me? Jax won’t? I press my lips together to hide my disappointment.

  “Five o’clock, yeah?” Denny says as he checks his phone.

  “And Jax knows where I’ll be?”

  Denny looks up and smiles like he finds me amusing. “Yeah. He knows. And even if he didn’t…he’s a PI. If he wants to find you, he’ll find you. Now,” he adds abruptly, “I have a client crying in the interview room, and the situation needs a woman’s touch. Give me a hand, would you?”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Jackson

  Citi Field

  Backstage is a sterile maze of painted white cinder block with the occasional piece of neon paper taped to the wall. Outside, union workers are hustling to put up the last bit of scaffolding while the band’s road crew finishes assembling the moveable wall and testing the projectors.

  Two of my men, Garcia and Schmidt, come around the corner. When they see me, their faces get these stupid grins. They’ve been looking at me like this all afternoon. Dugan, too. Obviously the overnight crew filled everyone in on my arrival with Natalie last night. I’m sure they’ve all heard by now.

  Christ, they’re probably yammering about it back at the office, too…and doing it over doughnuts! It took Natalie all of a hot second to make herself at home.

  I’m such an idiot. Leaving her all comfortable and friendly with Spanos. That guy always zeroes in on the most beautiful woman in the room. There’s a weird tightness in my chest.

  “No signs of any trouble outside,” says Schmidt. “We’ve got cameras mounted near the bus now, and Titus is at the crew entrance. No one’s getting past him.”

  “I want a meeting with the off-duties,” I say, and they both give me a chin lift. “No one gets backstage tonight, even with a pass.”

  My phone pings, and I check the screen. There’s an email coming in from the Ottawa Police Service, but it’s taking a while to load. I walk down the hall, looking for a stronger signal.

  While I wait, my mind returns to Natalie. It’s good Murray’s the one who will be moving her into her new apartment tonight. It makes it easier for me, and she’ll be safe with him. Not like with Spanos.

  I rub my fist over my chest. I’ve never had reason to be jealous before. I don’t like it.

  I make a mental note to review my employee handbook. Hopefully the attorney put something in there about office fraternization. That’ll keep Spanos in check.

  And you, too.

  Shut up, Charlie. I don’t have time for you today.

  The email from Ottawa finally opens, including the attachment. The intel is in. Our stalker is a tall woman with long blond hair.

  I send the photo to Garcia and the rest of the team before I head back to the command center. Something about the vibe I’m getting off the photo tells me I’m going to need more equipment. If the blond woman shows, she’s not going to be satisfied with slashing tires. My men will need to be armed with something more than bar-code scanners.

  When I get back to the office, I wish I’d come sooner. Murray and Natalie are alone in the interview room. His hand is on her shoulder.

  “What’s going on?” I ask. They both turn abruptly toward me as if busted. Natalie’s eyes are wide.

  “Ms. Diedrich came in,” Murray says, wisely stepping away.

  “Denny needed my help with her,” she adds.

  My eyes narrow. “Your job is surveillance. This isn’t Little Bear Island. You can’t be jack-of-all-trades here. Besides, Murray is a seasoned expert.” I give him a hard look. “He doesn’t need your help.”

  Which raises the question, why does he have her alone in a room?

  “Sparke,” Murray says, disapproving, “Ms. Diedrich came in, and I had to give her our findings about her boyfriend and the missing money and…”

  And the fact the mob took him out, and he’s probably somewhere at the bottom of the East River.

  “She was obviously upset,” Murray continues. “Natalie was willing to talk to her, woman to woman, and the client left…well, not happy of course, but…”

  “Consoled,” Natalie chimes in. “Denny was just thanking me for my help when you walked in.”

  I stare at her for a second and let that sink in. I have no doubt she helped the situation immensely. She’s given me no reason to suspect anything less of her, but Murray doesn’t need to thank her by rubbing her shoulder.

  I turn to Murray. “Did you tell Natalie what we talked about?”

  She answers for him. “I’m going to stay at his daughter’s until I figure out what to do next.” She says it plainly, as if it’s as easy as that. Despite my strict office rules, she has to understand how much I’d rather have her in m
y apartment, in my bed.

  Has she already changed her mind about me? My fingers curl into my palms, wanting to touch her.

  “I think I’ll step out,” Denny says. Neither I nor Natalie watch him go; our eyes are locked on each other.

  When the door closes, I’m the first to speak, and I do nothing to suppress my surprise. “You’re good with that arrangement?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Sarcasm? I tip my head slightly and study her face. “Are you being a smart-ass?”

  She jerks her head back in surprise. “Why would you think that?”

  “You liked being a smart-ass on the island.” I miss it—I knew what to do with that Natalie.

  “I was a smart-ass on the island because I didn’t like you then,” she says, lifting her nose and giving a little sniff.

  There it is. I can’t help the twitch at the corners of my mouth. “You liked me.”

  She takes a step toward me, but then voices in the hall make her freeze.

  She exhales in frustration, then picks up our original conversation. “Jax, I don’t want you to be mad at Denny. He asked for my help with your client. I was trying to be a team player.”

  “Yeah, but the thing is, if I could shield you from that kind of ugliness…” I lift my hand, then let it drop. God, I want to touch her so badly… What idiot made up these stupid rules?

  You did, you idiot.

  Thanks for the reminder, Charlie. The fact I’ve got a dead man talking to me is just one more reason I can’t have what I want.

  Natalie holds up both hands to stop me from continuing. “I appreciate you wanting to protect me, Jax. I do. But it’s unnecessary.”

  “Natalie.”

  “I’m a big girl. Besides, I’ve seen way worse on TV.”

  I bow my head and mutter a curse. She needs to stop thinking like that. Real life is nothing like TV. Real life doesn’t always get a happy ending.

  She clears her throat. “Now. If we’re done here, I should probably get back to work.”

  My head snaps up. She’s right. “Yeah. I’ve got shit to do. We’ll talk later tonight.”

  “Foo Fighters?” she asks, sounding excited. Someone must have told her about the stalker. This isn’t helping to dispel her of the notion that my life is like the movie of the week.

  “You already heard?”

  “Of course. It’s so exciting!” She gives me a dazzling smile.

  I doubt the band would agree with her assessment, and frankly I’d love to have an excitement-free night.

  “I’ll get myself moved in. Have a glass of wine and wait.”

  I draw my eyebrows together, surprised by her enthusiasm. “Sounds like a good night. I’ll see you later, Natalie.”

  “Can’t wait.” Her hand brushes against mine, sending shock waves through my arm, as she heads back to work. I turn to watch her go. All the time wishing I could follow.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Jackson

  Much Later That Night

  Citi Field

  As soon as the warm-up band is off the stage and the road crew has moved in, I check my phone. I’ve missed several calls from Natalie. Murray got her set up okay, didn’t he? I hope nothing’s wrong with the apartment. I call her, but she doesn’t pick up. Christ, is something wrong?

  I hit Murray’s number on speed dial. He picks up on the second ring. “Sparke.”

  “You get her moved in?”

  “Yep. She’s got a bunch of delivery menus. Fridge is stocked, too. She should be good to go. Left her with instructions for which train to take in the morning. She seemed a little anxious about that.”

  “She’s been calling.”

  There’s a brief stretch of silence before Murray asks, “You been answering?” For some reason he sounds accusatory.

  I put my finger in my opposite ear so I can hear better and start moving toward the backstage. “I’ve been in the wings for the last hour, and it’s louder than fuck. Didn’t feel it vibrate, either. This whole place is vibrating.” I maneuver past some scaffolding and then through a door. “Now she’s not picking up. Did you give her your number?”

  “Yeah, but she hasn’t called me. Want me to go check on her?”

  Yes. “No. She’d know enough to call 911 if something was really wrong, right?” By now I’m backstage and standing around the corner from the dressing rooms. The band is down the hall to my left doing their group bonding session right before they hit the stage. It’s relatively quiet for now.

  “You tell me,” Murray says. “She’s your…friend.” The way he says the word “friend” tells me it wasn’t his first choice.

  I turn to the right and get a sight line down the hallway just as a flash of long yellow hair disappears into one of the unmarked rooms.

  “Gotta go, Murray. We’ve got trouble.” If that’s our stalker, someone dropped a serious ball. It better not have been anyone on my team.

  “Get on it. I’ll try calling her if it gives you some peace of mind.”

  “Appreciated.” I click off, but no peace comes.

  I unsnap the retention on my holster, then position outside the door. There are no screams from inside. No one’s yelling. Either she’s alone in there, or at least everyone’s calm.

  “Garcia,” I say into my handheld.

  “Yeah, boss?”

  “Backup. Room A-112. Two down from wardrobe, toward the corner.” I click off.

  The door handle is cold in my hand. Slowly, I pull it open just enough to get my foot inside. It doesn’t make a sound, but the woman must feel the change of air pressure because she wheels on me with gun drawn.

  I fling the door open and train my Glock 19 on her. “Don’t move.”

  She’s alone. And she’s smart, because she doesn’t come closer. She’s holding her gun one-handed, and it’s shaking like a goddamn tambourine.

  I take stock of the room. There’s another entry point to the right. The left wall is one of those accordion-fold dividers, and it’s currently closed.

  “B-b-back off,” she says, but the stutter comes out much deeper than I expected. She shakes her head, and the blond wig falls to the floor. It’s not a woman at all.

  “What’s your name?” I ask, trying to defuse the situation as best I can.

  “Kevin. I don’t mean to hurt anyone. I just really want to talk to the band.”

  “So listen, Kevin.” I keep my gun leveled on him, and he’s doing the same. “I don’t know if tonight is a good time to talk to them.”

  Blood rushes into his face. “I’ve waited long enough! Written. Emailed. I tweet at them all the time. But, dude, they’re not giving me anything in return.”

  His hand is shaking uncontrollably.

  “Easy there, Kevin.”

  “Goddamn it, this time they’re going to give me something in return.” His gun accidentally discharges, hitting the cinder block behind me. Kevin jumps back just as Garcia charges in from the other door, gun drawn.

  Kevin whirls on Garcia, then turns back to me when I take a step closer. Garcia closes in from the other side.

  “Stop!” Kevin yells, seemingly emboldened now that he knows he can pull a trigger. “Both of you. Back off!”

  “You’re going to lay the gun down now,” I tell him, using a slow—hopefully soothing—voice. “Lay it down, and I’ll see if I can set up a meeting for you. After the concert’s over. We can wait in here until then.”

  “You’re lying!”

  The accordion door clicks, and a young woman in a catering uniform pushes it back, unaware of the standoff on this side.

  “Get down!” I yell, and she turns on me with wide eyes.

  That’s when Kevin lunges and grabs her with his free hand. He holds her back to his front with his arm wrapped around her neck and shoulders.

  “You got a clean shot?” I ask Garcia.

  Kevin whips around to face him.

  “Not anymore,” Garcia says. “Jumpy bastard. Take your shot.”
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  Kevin wheels around again.

  I’ve moved in closer; we’re only six feet apart. “Let her go. Drop the gun. You said you didn’t want to hurt anyone.”

  Kevin’s eyes are wild. He puts the gun to the woman’s temple. By the look on his face, I can tell this isn’t going how he planned, and though he now has an exit strategy, he has no idea how to use it. If he panics, we’re all screwed.

  The opening guitar arpeggios of “Run” come over the backstage speakers. The band is now onstage. That’s good. Six fewer people to accidentally wander in here.

  Garcia uses the distraction to close in.

  Kevin whips his head around but otherwise stays facing me with the woman as his shield. Her eyes are huge, and her face has lost all its color. “Please,” she whimpers. “Please, don’t.”

  The drums kick in, beating out a steady eight, and the door behind me opens. I sense Dugan moving into the room and taking another position.

  “You’re surrounded, Kevin. Let the woman go. The band isn’t going to like—”

  Suddenly Kevin shoves the woman away from him, and she staggers a few steps before taking off at a run. Kevin keeps jerking around, though, aiming for Garcia, then Dugan, then me, then back again. He’s going to give himself whiplash if he keeps this up.

  “Do I take my shot, Sparke?” That’s Garcia.

  “Let’s ask Kevin.” I really don’t want this to go down this way. “What do you say? We can figure something out. Look. I’m holstering my gun. Look at me.” I slip my Glock back into the holster at my waist and hold up my hands, palms facing him.

  Kevin’s eyes go wide, and his arm wobbles from fatigue. His forehead is beaded in sweat.

  Out onstage, the guitars are screaming, and the sound floods the backstage speakers. Grohl snarls into the microphone, asking me what I’m gonna do, what I’m gonna do.

  “Sparke,” Dugan warns. He doesn’t trust my play.

  Kevin whirls from me and back toward Dugan, giving me his side, which is exactly the opportunity I need. The drums go crazy, and all my training and muscle memory kicks in.

  I grab the barrel of Kevin’s gun with my left hand and strike his wrist with my right. It breaks his hold and turns his wrist in toward his body. I jerk down on his arms, bringing him to his knees. The gun drops, and I snag it off the floor.