* * *
“Chief?”
His assistant caught sight of him on the phone and winced. Gideon held up a hand. “Just a second—Zeke, now … come on, Zeke. I’ve taken care of two tickets for you. The least you can do is hear me out. Yeah, yeah … just a second, okay?”
He shot Darby a look. “Make it fast.”
“I’m sorry.” She nodded at the phone on his desk. “You’ve got a Kim Wycoff on the phone. She … ah, she says she’s with the DEA. Calling about something regarding Clive.”
“Clive Owings?” Gideon felt his eyebrows shoot straight up into his hairline. He resisted the urge to shove a hand through his hair—and rip a fistful out. “What did … wait. You know what? Unless it’s an emergency, Clive can wait. The asshole probably got himself in trouble again and I’m not dropping what I’m doing for him.”
“And if it’s an emergency?” Darby asked, looking panicked at the idea of telling a DEA agent no.
“Then I’ll talk to her.” He went to hit the mute button on the phone, but paused a moment. “Relax. I know Wycoff. She’s a reasonable sort. Tell her that as long as she keeps Clive watered and he has a toilet and access to meals, he’ll be happy enough. Or at least, he won’t complain too much.”
She nodded and he turned his attention back to Zeke.
He was on a mission, damn it, and he wasn’t about to be denied.
This time, he wouldn’t take no for an answer.
* * *
When he hung up the phone fifteen minutes later, all but blue in the face from talking to a wall, he had to admit defeat.
Zeke wasn’t going to sell him the damn dogs.
Although, to be clear, it wasn’t Gideon Zeke had a problem with.
It was the McKays.
Gideon was pretty damn sure Brannon and Zeke hadn’t ever tangled. He would have heard about it. Brannon and Zeke would either get along or they’d hate each other, but one way or another, he’d know. It wasn’t very likely Zeke would come into contact with Moira, and Neve had been gone.
You’re fixating on this to keep from thinking about her, he told himself.
And it was nothing more than the truth.
But he was also pissed off and irritated and more than a little confused. Zeke was a businessman. Didn’t make sense why he wouldn’t sell some of his dogs, especially to some people who’d pay a damn pretty penny for them.
* * *
The alarm system was problematic, to say the least.
Knowing the McKays as he did—and knowing the brains behind the system, he knew he wouldn’t be able to count on getting inside easily, especially not if he wanted to get in and out without anybody being the wiser.
But there were other ways to get to them. Other ways to weaken and tear at them from the inside out.
He didn’t just want them broken after all. He wanted them to suffer.
Especially the oldest two. Moira for her arrogance, and Brannon … well, there were no words to describe just how many ways he wanted Brannon to suffer and no way to list how many reasons the man should suffer.
Neve … well, if she’d just stayed out of Treasure, he’d have left her alone. Just having her gone from here had been a chink in their armor, an invisible weak link that the other two would never acknowledge.
Pointing William Clyde at the youngest McKay after he’d “accidentally” bumped into her in New York had been a stroke of genius. He’d thought about moving on her himself, but she’d been a bit young for his taste and he’d had no desire to wait for her to mature.
He hadn’t been able to do anything for the longest time. Frozen by the circumstances, and his own lack of resources, he’d had been forced to watch and wait.
When he had finally been able to take action, Neve had been the one he’d come across first and he’d considered it kismet. She’d been young, naïve, and desperate for approval—also, very, very drunk. That should have made it easy to get what he wanted from her, but when he’d pushed and prodded, she’d just giggled about how she used to dig for treasure around the estate.
Then she’d started to cry. Poor little thing—her family didn’t understand her and nobody loved her. Then she’d begun to whine about a rejection from some stupid modeling agency.
If he’d had to spend a few more minutes with her, he might have put a hole in his head.
But he needed her out of the way.
She was … clever.
Sober, she might have been his undoing.
In between sobs and sniffles, she’d peered at him, blinking those big, green eyes. “You…” She’d pointed a finger at him. “Your face. It reminds me of … somefin … something. Somebody. Yeah. Somebody.”
He hadn’t had to wonder who.
One of the few things that hadn’t been sold off or destroyed was locked away, and he had seen the resemblance himself. He wondered how she’d known, but he knew he needed her gone.
Later, he’d learn just how much it made them all suffer, and that was just a bonus. He’d pointed William Clyde her way, knowing the man had always loved a pretty girl and a pretty, naïve, and needy girl was even better for the miserable prick.
The stupid prat would have been drawn to Neve no matter what, but once he knew the pretty, naïve girl had a connection to a man he’d hated, William had been done for and it was just a matter of sitting back and watching them collide.
Really, he’d outdone himself there.
He hadn’t expected what came later, though.
Personally, he’d found it distasteful but he knew it was yet one more thing that would make them suffer. They should suffer.
He wanted them to suffer until they broke, and then he’d make his move.
The next step on his plan was subtle. Brilliant, but subtle. Brannon had provided the financing for the old goat who bought the bookstore and he was part owner—a silent owner, perhaps, but his name was on the deed too, and that meant only one thing.
The bookstore, and anybody associated with it, was fair game.
He’d waited until she left, watched from a window in the back as she stroked a hand down a stack of books, a smile on her creased face.
Once the old woman who ran the place had left, locking the front door and walking purposefully down the sidewalk, he went in through the window he’d unlocked when he went into the store earlier.
He’d gone in during the midday rush. McKay’s Treasure was a town full of readers, and he knew just how very busy it was on a Tuesday. He’d bided his time and waited until the bathroom in the back wasn’t busy and then he’d slipped in.
Nobody had noticed him move quietly to the back window, just as nobody had noticed him flipping the latch open.
Nobody had noticed him checking for cameras, either.
He’d mentally thanked the old lady who owned the store for wanting to keep the all money given for the renovations focused on the merchandise and design. She hadn’t invested anything in security and Brannon, being a clueless sod, hadn’t paid any attention at all to her plans.
He’d pay attention now.
Nothing burned quite like paper.
And no paper burned as well as old paper.
Treasure New & Old carried all the latest in bestsellers and regional and genre fiction, but they also did a bustling business in used books. Those used books filled the backroom like miniature paper columns, reaching up into the sky.
He worked in utter silence, the wind drifting in from the window he’d left partially open, bringing with it the scent of more rain.
He was good at rigging up fires.
He’d done it before, after all.
That was when they’d thrown him out of university. He disagreed on the why, of course. The fire he’d started hadn’t been a big deal. They’d thrown him out because the bastards had been fools, incapable of seeing the light of reason, and they’d decided they didn’t like some young upstart who was smarter than themselves.
He’d dealt with their lot before.
Actually, he’d dealt with them after, too. And that was the most fun.
He checked the time before looking up to study his chain, carefully constructed from old bits of cloth and paper, soaked with a light accelerant that wouldn’t leave a heavy smell. It could be detected, of course, but only if they brought in an arson investigator.
The pièce de résistance … he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket and lit one, puffing on it enough to make it look like it had been hurriedly smoked and then disposed of.
Everybody knew Mrs. Stafford, daughter of the original owner, was a closet smoker and everybody knew she’d been trying desperately to quit ever since her son-in-law had been diagnosed with lung cancer a few months ago.
He smashed it out and then dumped it into the trash can before checking the setup. Everything looked good. As long as his luck held …
He lit the chain of fabric and paper, dropped it as it went up in a whoosh, and bolted, flying through the window he’d used as an entrance just as the room went up in a whoosh.
He took his chosen exit route and was coming down the street just as people started to notice the flames. Feigning shock, he rushed down the alley, shouting out for Mrs. Stafford, using just the right amount of fear in his voice.
He timed it perfectly.
Firefighters had to drag him outside after he’d successfully busted down the door.
“You’re a fucking wreck, man.” One of the firefighters handed him a bottle of water, shaking his head.
He managed what he hoped was a convincingly strained smile. “I guess I should haven’t been so hasty. I just saw the store and panicked.”
In the crowd gathered around him, he saw more than a few sets of admiring eyes linger on him before they slid away. Mrs. Stafford, the woman he’d supposedly been trying to save, was standing nearby and sobbing into a handkerchief.
She smelled, faintly, of cigarette smoke.
The ruse had worked.
The bookstore was ruined.
And nobody suspected him.
* * *
It was well after five—as a matter of fact, it was almost eight. If Gideon hadn’t known Agent Kim Wycoff, he would have held off calling until tomorrow, but he did know her well enough to know she was going to try to peel a piece of his hide for taking so long to call back as it was. Since he was already missing a few layers of his hide, he figured it would be best to get it over with.
“About damn time,” she said in lieu of greeting.
“Nice talking to you, Kim. Yeah, it has been a miserable, wet winter … nah, I doubt I’ll do much for Christmas. What about you?”
Her laugh was soft and husky. For a few short weeks, they’d been lovers.
Kim would have been happy to make it longer, but Gideon had been reeling from Moira’s marriage to Hurst and the last thing he’d wanted was a relationship. Now talking to her left him more than a little uncomfortable, just because whenever they did talk, she managed to bring up subtle hints of those few hot, torrid weeks together.
“You always were one for small talk, weren’t you, lover?” she asked.
He didn’t respond.
“Or maybe not.” Her tone changed—a subtle shift, but Gideon could practically hear the wheels spinning in her head. “How is life, Gideon?”
“It’s fine. I don’t imagine that’s what we’ve got to discuss though, is it, Agent?”
“I’ve always got time for old friends.”
He braced himself for the barrage of questions, but to his surprise, she let it go. “I need your take on a man who says he’s from down your way, Gideon. Goes by the name Clive Owings.”
“I got your message earlier.” Gideon rubbed the back of his neck, lifting his head to stare up at the sky. Sucking in a deep breath, he caught the acrid tinge of smoke and frowned. “Owings is a pain in the ass—a stupid one. More of a nuisance than anything else.”
“Nuisance, as in small and annoying?”
Gideon snorted and sampled the air again. That smell of smoke was definitely there. Thicker now, too. Walking down the sidewalk, he looked north up Main, then south. “Kim, I’ve got to be honest … Owings doesn’t possess the brain cells or the energy to be much more than small and annoying. He’d have to work to be anything more than a lazy bastard and that goes against his most deeply held beliefs.”
“Well, shit.” She drew the second word out into two syllables.
“Problem?”
“We picked him up at a pawn shop after the owner’s new wife got suspicious about some stuff he was trying to sell. Turns out we’d been waiting for it—DEA we. It had been earmarked for possible drug trafficking, but disappeared out from under the noses of the boys on the border. Thought maybe we had a line in.”
“With Clive?” Now Gideon laughed. It was a sardonic sound, but it felt good to laugh all the same. “Trust me, he couldn’t think up a way to hide a pimple on his ass. No way would he think to hide something as important as drugs.”
“Okay.” Kim blew out a sigh, sounding disgusted. “Thanks, Marshall. We might be releasing your boy soon.”
“Can’t wait.”
He disconnected, still doing a slow sweep of Main. An odd flicker in the bookstore caught his eye. He stared, waiting to see it again.
Then … Oh, fuck.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was silly the way her heart lurched when she saw him.
It was foolish the way her breath caught.
She didn’t care.
Silly and foolish, she’d welcome them both, and she wouldn’t even let herself feel bad as she moved into closer to Gideon through the mass of bodies gathered in clusters on the street.
One group of bodies, decidedly smaller than the rest, caught her attention and she lifted a hand in greeting. Brannon and Hannah, Neve and Ian, already here. She’d go speak to them in a minute.
Gideon hadn’t seen her yet.
But before she could reach him, somebody crashed into her. She managed to hold back her instinctive sneer when she found herself looking into Joe Fletcher’s gaze. His ever-present sneer was there, and she put a few more inches between them as he looked from her over toward the bookstore.
“Damn shame about your brother’s place,” he said.
“Yes. Excuse me, Joe.”
“I mean, they just finished fixing it up. Guess it’s a good thing he has insurance and all, but that poor old lady … that place is her life.” Joe heaved out a dramatic sigh. “Seems like everything you all touch lately is bound to get fucked up. That girl at your brother’s winery dies. This place catches fire.”
The edges of her temper fraying, Moira leaned in. “Joe … get out of my way, otherwise you’re going to have another McKay woman put you on the ground.”
His face went red but when she pushed around him, Joe didn’t say anything. She made her way to Gideon without anybody else getting in her way. Once she reached him, Moira smoothed a hand down his arm and waited as he finished speaking to one of the firefighters.
Her heart ached as she gazed at the hollowed-out guts of the once-thriving bookstore. She felt Gideon’s eyes skim over at her, although he didn’t stop speaking in a low voice to Dirk Hutton, the fire chief.
The fireman slid her a look and on some unspoken cue, he and Gideon both stopped speaking. Dirk beat Gideon to the punch as he tipped an imaginary hat toward her. “Ma’am. We don’t have much information for you or your brother just yet.”
“I wasn’t here to ask for any,” she said mildly. Then she glanced over her shoulder at Brannon. He was with Hannah, one arm around her shoulders, while he had his other hand folded over Neve’s.
Neve was crying silently, staring at the ruin of the building while tears ran unchecked down her face. One of the last places Neve had gone with their parents had been the bookstore.
Damn it all to hell.
“Brannon will be ready to push for something, though,” she warned. “And soon.”
At that very moment, her brot
her looked up and met her gaze over their sister’s head. She had no doubt he was remembering the very same night she was remembering.
“As soon as we know something.” Hutton nodded at her and then turned to stride back toward the still-smoking building.
Moira reached up instinctively.
Gideon tensed.
She almost pulled away, but didn’t let herself. She’d done that for too long. So long, she’d just about destroyed them both. When she wiped a smudge away from his cheek, his lids flickered. “I get the feeling you’re going to be pretty tied up tonight.”
“Looks like.”
She smiled weakly. “I guess it would be a bad time to pout.”
His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Pout away.” Gideon’s eyes, always watchful, slid around.
She wasn’t sure why he bothered. They were standing in front of probably thirty or forty people. They had no privacy, not standing out on the street in Treasure. She didn’t care, though.
“I got to admit, Mac, I half-expected you to call me and tell me something had come up.”
She opened her mouth, an ache in her chest, but before she could figure out what to say to him, he looked away. “Your voice is better.”
“I rested it,” she said lamely. She hadn’t let herself talk at all until nearly five, and she’d sipped on lemonade and tea most of the day. Her throat was still sore, but it was amazing the difference from last night to today.
Somebody called his name, and she blew out a tired sigh. “You’re going to be busy for a while.”
“Yeah.”
“I should go then.” She moved away, but he caught her hand.
She looked back at him.
His mouth was on hers in the next second.
It was a short, quick, rough kiss, one that left her panting.
When he lifted his head, he paused momentarily to murmur, “Rain check.”
Then he was gone, lost in the rush of emergency personnel and other cops.
* * *
“You kissed my sister.”
Gideon had been expecting Brannon to show up.
He’d even been expecting something along these lines. Since the question didn’t really catch him off guard, he took his time lifting his head. He nodded slowly, pretending to think the comment through and then he said, “Well, yes. I believe I did. Quite often, in fact.”
The Right Kind of Trouble Page 11