by Coyle, Matt;
The silence pressed down on me during the remaining drive to my car.
I drove home from Brianne’s in the same silence as I’d left in her car. Music or sports talk radio wouldn’t fill the void sucking inside me today. I knew who I was. I never tried to fool myself. Sometimes other people, but not myself. The FBI’s file on me was accurate and showed who I’d been and still mostly was. And the FBI didn’t know the worst of it. Yet.
Neither did Brianne.
Brianne mattered. I didn’t want her to, or anyone to, but she did. After only six days, she mattered. Maybe it was seeing her onstage, living the songs she sang that spoke to my heart. Maybe it was loneliness. Maybe it was the reality that I might live the rest of my life behind bars that made me want to suddenly make something of the life I was barely living. I couldn’t tell anymore. But Brianne mattered and so did what she thought of me. Five days ago when it didn’t matter, she saw me as a hero. Now that it did, she saw me for who I was.
The found-again feeling of caring for someone had made me want to be better. Maybe I could tell Brianne about it in an email.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I TURNED DOWN my street and spotted a car parked opposite my home, one house down. The black late model Camaro was occupied. Its windows were too small to get a good look at the driver, but I caught a flash of blond hair. Couldn’t tell if it belonged to a man or a woman.
Whoever sat in the car didn’t know much about surveillance. My street was atop an embankment that featured just one row of houses. Similar embankments stair-stepped above and below. The spot afforded the driver an easy view of my house, but the Camaro stood out like a lone beacon next to the incline. No other cars were parked on that side of the street. Of course, there could have been an innocent reason for the car to be parked there with a driver waiting in it. But I didn’t believe in innocent anymore.
I pulled into my driveway and hustled out of the car, leaving the door open, and jogged up to the front door of my house. Whoever was watching would expect me to come back outside to the car in a minute or so. I ran upstairs with Midnight on my heals and changed out of my sweatshirt and jeans into black slacks and a leather bomber jacket, then put on a Padre cap. Hopefully, just enough of an appearance change to give me the couple seconds I’d need if spotted. I pulled my Ruger .357 Magnum from the nightstand and slipped it into the jacket pocket.
I went downstairs and out into the backyard, leaving Midnight inside. I hopped the chain-link fence that partitioned my backyard and shuffled down the lower embankment to the street below. A hundred yards or so west, I climbed back up a cement drainage channel to my street.
The Camaro was still parked on the street, four houses away from my current vantage point, facing me. I hoped the driver was looking back at my house waiting for me to come back out to my car and not looking in my direction.
The neighborhood was quiet and the street was empty except for me and the Camaro. I walked down the sidewalk, ball cap brim low, and eyed the Camaro through my sunglasses. LJPD’s plain wrap detective cars were Crown Vics. The Camaro could have been some-one’s off-duty personal car, but I doubted it belonged to a cop. Even for LJPD, this was bad surveillance. Had to be an amateur. Maybe a professional hard guy, but an amateur tail. Thus the gun in my pocket.
Two houses from the car, I saw that I’d been right. I caught the profile of Miranda, Alan Rankin’s MMA tough girl, looking back at my house. I crossed the street and walked directly at the Camaro on the passenger side. Miranda’s head spun toward me just as I made it to the front headlight. I kept walking to the passenger side door. The window was halfway down. I bent down and peeked in, and Miranda pressed the ignition button.
“Keep it in park and your foot on the brake.” I took a half step back and half pulled the handle of the .357 out of my pocket. “Unlock the door.”
Miranda’s eyes went big, and the color grayed out of her face. She pressed the remote door lock, and I whipped the door open and jumped inside.
“Circle down around the cul-de-sac and park in my driveway next to my car.” I kept my hand on the butt of the gun in my pocket.
“What are you going to do?” Miranda’s voice cracked.
“Nothing more than I have to. Drive.”
But I hadn’t quite figured it out yet. Right now I could be arrested for kidnapping. When Miranda punched the ignition, I’d reacted on instinct. Grabbing a gun to get your way isn’t imprinted at birth. You have to learn it. This was where all the decisions I’d made in my life had taken me.
Too late.
Miranda finished the Sunday drive around the cul-de-sac and parked in my driveway.
“Let’s go inside.” I kept my hand in my coat pocket and waited for her to open her door before I opened mine.
Miranda got out of the car and slowly walked to the front door of my house. She wore yoga pants, blue this time, and a pink zip-up sweat top that hugged her athletically feminine frame. Red toenail polish camouflaged her most dangerous weapons propelling her flip-flops. I followed a step behind, swinging closed the door to my Mustang I’d left open when I arrived home a couple minutes ago.
“Open the front door, but don’t go inside yet.”
Miranda opened the door, and Midnight met her with a spiked-haired, dagger-tooth growl. She yelped and jumped backwards, bumping into me.
“Midnight, leave it,” I said in a calm but firm voice. “Go lie down.”
Midnight disappeared from the doorway.
“Let’s go.”
Miranda walked into the small foyer and then the living room. Midnight eyed her from his rectangular bed next to the fireplace. He loved company, especially pretty ladies, but he sensed by my body language that Miranda wasn’t a friend.
“Stay.” I spoke to Midnight, but Miranda stopped walking as if by command. Her body tensed. She pivoted. Her leg swung. I smashed a left hook into her kidney. Her roundhouse kick flailed, and she collapsed to the floor. The momentum sent her flip-flop flying into the foyer.
Midnight lunged from his bed, but my straight-armed open-hand signal stopped him.
“Go lie down.” He did, but kept his head high and ears alert.
Miranda lay below me, fetal and gasping for air.
I could have avoided the kick and not hit her. From behind. I could have avoided the altercation altogether. But a part of me, the part that Brianne had referred to as cruel, had welcomed the action. Miranda had sucker-kicked me in Rankin’s office. It hadn’t been her idea, but a command from her boss. It didn’t matter. It couldn’t stand.
It had been a long time ago and hadn’t ended well, but I’d been a cop once. I’d had a few run-ins with bold drunks and fearless gang-bangers. I’d been bruised and bloodied, but the fights never ended until I threw the last punch. Or kick. You had to be tough to take someone’s best shot, but you earned respect by beating a man down.
Or woman, I guess.
I looked down at Miranda and the part of me that hadn’t been a cop realized I’d just hit a woman. I squatted down and slowly put my arms under Miranda’s armpits. She tensed.
“I just want to get you over to the couch. No more punches. I promise.”
She relaxed a bit and let me help her to her feet. She stepped out of her lone flip-flop, and I eased her over and down onto the couch. I checked the pockets of her sweat top and pulled out a cell phone.
I looked down at her. Her face was still flush with pain and fear clouded her eyes. My gut turned over. I wasn’t a street cop anymore. I didn’t want to be feared. At least, not by a woman.
I went into the kitchen, put my gun and Miranda’s cell phone on top of the refrigerator, and pulled an ice pack from the freezer. Miranda hadn’t moved since I went into the kitchen. Midnight had. He now sat in front of Miranda, leaning his back against her legs. Either he’d seen more good in her than I had or had read my body language in helping her to the couch. Miranda had one hand pressed to her side where I’d hit her and the other scratched Midnight behind
the ear.
Maybe she was more than just a hired thug. I handed her the ice pack and sat in the recliner perpendicular to the couch that Moretti had soiled with his cologne last night. She put the ice pack under her sweat top and pressed it against her side.
“Why does Rankin have you tailing me?”
“I don’t know. I just do what I’m told.” She’d regained her breath, but her face still hued pink.
“Okay. Then tell me exactly what Rankin told you to do.”
“Follow you and call him and tell him wherever you went and whoever you saw.” She moved the ice pack and winced. “I didn’t even know you weren’t home until you pulled up. I thought your car was in the garage.”
“Did you call Rankin when I came home?”
“Yes.”
“Did you mention that I’d run inside and left the car door open?”
“Yes.”
Shit. Rankin would be expecting a call about where I’d driven off to when I came back out of the house. I could have Miranda make a dummy call to him right now, but it wouldn’t get me much. When she left today, she’d go right back to Rankin and tell him what really happened. That’s if she didn’t go to the police first. I needed a better plan.
“How long have you worked for Rankin?”
“About a year.”
“After you kicked me in the face, twice, why did you tell me it wasn’t personal?”
“Because I felt bad about it.” She dropped her brown eyes. “I didn’t want to hurt you, but I get paid to do what Alan says. I am sorry I had to do that. Is your nose broken?”
“I don’t know.”
“You haven’t gone to a doctor?”
“No.” Probably should, though. Still couldn’t breath through it.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, dammit. I just kidney punched you from behind. You’ll probably piss blood for days.”
“It’s okay. I know you were just trying to protect yourself. It wasn’t personal.” She smiled and I couldn’t help but laugh.
“How did you get caught up with Rankin, Miranda? You can do much better.”
“I owe him.” She shifted position and winced again. A pang of guilt ran down my spine. “Are you going to keep me here against my will or am I free to go?”
“Of course you’re free to go.” Now I was more worried about her going to the cops than back to Alan Rankin. “Where are you going?”
“You don’t have to worry about the police.” She scooted forward on the couch and gasped. “They’re not an option. Besides, this makes us even.”
“Maybe I should take you to a doctor. You’re still obviously in a lot of pain. Sorry.” I really was.
“I don’t need a doctor. I’ve been kicked in the kidneys before in the ring.” She stood up, groaned, and then sat down hard like she’d been punched again.
“Either stay there or I’m taking you to a doctor.” What if I’d really hurt her? I punched a woman and put her in the hospital. Something to put on my agency’s webpage.
“No doctors.”
“Then lie down.” I gently lifted Miranda’s legs onto the couch as she shifted to horizontal.
“I’m supposed to call Alan.”
I went into the kitchen and pulled Miranda’s cell phone from the top of the refrigerator. Seeing the Ruger .357 I’d put up there reminded me of what a stupid idea it had been to confront Miranda, force her into my house at gunpoint, and then punch her. No, the FBI file Special Agent Richmond had didn’t contain everything stupid or illegal I’d done. Or had yet to do.
I walked over to the couch and handed Miranda her phone.
“What do you want me to say?” Miranda asked.
“Say whatever you want.” I wouldn’t feel guilty about hurting whoever Rankin sent next.
Miranda tapped the phone’s screen and put it up to her ear. “It’s me. He went to the grocery store. I don’t know. Do you want me to follow him home? Okay.”
“You didn’t have to do that on my account.”
“I didn’t. It was on my own account.” She looked worried. That made me worried.
I pulled a blanket out of a closet in the hallway and draped it over Miranda.
“Thanks.”
I went into the kitchen and grabbed a couple waters from the fridge, returned, and gave one to Miranda.
“It’s been a while since a man took care of me.” Miranda smiled. This one a dazzler with a lot of teeth.
“How long since a man personally put you in the situation that required care?”
“About the same amount of time.”
“Oh.” The fact that I wasn’t her first abuser made me feel worse, not better. “Rankin?”
“No.” She looked at me and tilted her head like she was deciding if she wanted to say more. “He actually got me out of an abusive relationship and into MMA.”
“So Rankin got you into MMA and you kicked your boyfriend’s ass and moved on?”
“No, I just moved on. From a lot of things.” She pulled her hair up and turned to show me the back of her neck. “Ever heard of them?”
A tattoo of a sunglassed Velociraptor in a leather jacket grinned at me from the back of Miranda’s neck. A chill spiraled down my spine.
“Yeah. I’ve heard of them.” And had felt their wrath.
“I figured you would since you know Alan.”
“I don’t know either that well and don’t want to.”
“I understand why with the Raptors. I used to be a member until Alan got me out of the life.” She looked at the floor. “I owe him.”
“How are you paying off that debt?” I grimaced when I pictured Rankin, over twice Miranda’s age, pawing at her.
“Not that way.” Miranda read my face. “He’s gay.”
“Then what’s it take to pay off the debt?” I leaned toward her and waited for her to look at me. “How much longer do you have to do Rankin’s dirty work before you can walk away? There are a lot of other things you could do, Miranda.”
“You think you know me, but you don’t.” Tears welled in Miranda’s smoky brown eyes. “I shouldn’t have told you any of this. I don’t even know you.”
“You’re right. And I can’t help you unless you want me to.”
“Why do you want to?”
A good question.
“Maybe I think I can redeem myself for past sins if I help you. Maybe I know what happens when you keep stacking bad decisions on top of one another. Or, maybe you’re beautiful and I think I’ll get something out of helping you.”
“Probably that last one.” She gave me the big smile again.
“Probably.” I smiled back. “I’m only in it for myself. So maybe you can help me figure out why all of a sudden Rankin cares about where I go and who I see.”
“I don’t know. He called me at home this morning and told me to follow you and report back to him. That’s all I know.”
“How long are you supposed to be on me?”
“Until six tonight.”
“Who’s the night watch?”
“I don’t know if there is one.”
I studied her. No facial tics or body movements. She may have been telling the truth. Didn’t matter. Rankin had to be sending a tail. If he wanted me followed during the day, he’d want the same at night. And it probably wouldn’t be someone as bad at it as Miranda.
I’d be ready.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
MIRANDA SPENT THE next hour on my couch. I warmed up some stir-fry Orange Chicken for lunch that I’d made last night. Miranda was able to walk to the butcher block island and sit down without my help. Progress. She ate like a fighter in training. Fast. But she seemed to enjoy the food and looked disappointed that there wasn’t any left over for seconds.
As much as I enjoyed spending time with an attractive woman who liked my cooking, I still owed Brianne the rest of the day and all of tomorrow to work her husband’s case. Even if I had to send her the results via email.
“How
are you doing?”
“Better. You do pack a powerful punch, though.” Miranda smiled like it was a compliment from one fighter to another.
“Yeah, I’m pretty dangerous when your back’s to me.” I got off the barstool and backed away from the butcher block island. “Miranda, I’m working a case that has nothing to do with Rankin. I promise. Whatever he wants to learn about me, it has nothing to do with this case. I need to get back to work, but I can’t have you shadowing me.”
“Are you asking me to leave?”
“Yes. If you’re up to it. If you’re not, then I have to take you to a doctor or the emergency room.”
“I don’t need a doctor.”
“Then it’s time to go. I need to get back to work on a case that has nothing to do with Rankin or you.”
“I understand.” A micro-frown. “I’ll leave your house, but I can’t promise I won’t still spy on you.”
“Look, Miranda—”
The house phone rang, interrupting me. I walked over to the kitchen counter and checked the incoming number. Unknown. Good, at least it wasn’t the bank. Unless the loan officer had suddenly gotten smart and called me from his cell phone. I took the risk and answered.
“Rick Cahill?” Male voice that I didn’t recognize.
“Yes.”
“This is Special Agent Mallon from the FBI. I understand you wanted to talk to me.”
“What’s your badge number, Agent Mallon?” I’d gotten regulations runaround and veiled threats from the Special Agent in Charge of the San Diego field office earlier today. Now a voice over the phone wanted to volunteer what I needed. How did I get so lucky all of a sudden?
The voice gave me a badge number, easy like he knew it by heart. Didn’t mean he hadn’t made it up, but I had no way of checking. I didn’t have connections with any law enforcement agency that could verify the number. I’d left a wildfire of burned bridges behind me over the years. I’d asked for the badge number to try to get a read on the man’s voice. Seventy-five percent he was telling the truth. I owed it to Brianne to go with the odds.
“Who told you I wanted to talk to you?”