Shadow of Doubt Omnibus

by Lisa Jackson

  Willa quickly read the newspaper articles. The story had been broken by the news media after discovering that the police were involved in an intense but secret manhunt for plainclothes detective Landry Jones of the St. Petersburg Police Department.

  Jones was wanted for the murder of his partner, Zeke Hartung after an eyewitness saw Jones kill Hartung outside a St. Pete Beach art gallery.

  The police commissioner refused to discuss rumors that the two had been working undercover at the time of the murder or had turned on each other after infiltrating a criminal organization.

  An inside source not to be named by the paper said Landry Jones had been working for known crime boss Freddy Delgado and had been hired for the contracted killings of Zeke Hartung and another undercover police officer, Simon Renton. Simon Renton’s mutilated body had been found at a favorite organized-crime dumping site the day after Zeke Hartung’s murder.

  An inside news source said Renton’s body had been identified by a tattoo on the torso because it had been impossible to get prints from the badly mutilated body.

  Willa felt sick. No wonder the police had insisted on putting her in protective custody. Unfortunately they’d failed to tell her anything about Landry Jones. Or what he was involved in. Organized crime. Contract killings of two police officers.

  She looked at Landry Jones’s photo. The caption under it read Dirty Cop? Landry Jones Wanted For Questioning In The Brutal Murders Of Two Other Officers.

  As she turned the page to finish the story, her gaze fell on a third photograph.

  Willa gasped. It was the same man who’d come into her art studio the night before her gallery show.

  The caption under the photograph read Undercover Cop Simon Renton Found Dead.

  Willa was shaking so hard she had to put down the newspaper. Simon Renton was the man who had come into her studio the night she was finishing the last of the framing for her gallery show the next night. Now he was dead? Murdered? She shuddered. His body mutilated.

  She dropped the newspaper. Simon and Landry were both cops, both working undercover on the same case. An icy chill wrapped around her neck. One man had come into her shop saying he needed a painting for his wife for their anniversary. The other had come to her gallery showing saying he was interested in the artist and her work.

  Her pulse jumped. Both had lied. According to the story, Simon wasn’t married. And a man like Landry wasn’t interested in Willa’s art—or her.

  What had Simon Renton being doing in her shop that night? She shivered, remembering how he’d almost pushed his way in. He’d made her uncomfortable although she had the feeling he’d been trying to do just the opposite.

  Something connected her with the two men. But she had no idea what. Both men had supposedly taken an interest in her artwork and now she was running for her life.

  Not just from the police who were apparently doing their best to protect her, but from Landry Jones and organized criminals who it seemed might have a reason also to want her dead. It made no sense.

  According to the paper, the safe house had been attacked by two known organized-crime hit men, the article said. Percy “TNT” Armando and Emilio “Worm” Racini. Both were being sought by the police after appearing on media cameras at the scene.

  Was it possible that no one had seen Landry Jones but her? She’d just assumed he’d killed her two guards. If not, then what was he doing at the safe house?

  Chasing her, she thought with a shudder. Making sure his buddies got the job done.

  She had to get out off the island. She didn’t know where she’d go—just that she had to keep moving. She’d been a fool to think she could hide out—even here—for a few weeks until Landry was caught.

  But she’d run out of highway. Out of luck, as well. Landry could find her here. He was a cop, a renegade cop, but still he was trained for this. He had resources that ordinary people like herself didn’t have. And he had organized crime behind him. She didn’t stand a chance.

  She wanted to curl up in a ball. Hastily she wiped at her tears. She didn’t have the time to break down let alone feel sorry for herself. And giving up wasn’t an option. She would go across the island to where Odell said the old man fished in his boat.

  She’d ask him to take her back to the mainland. If he agreed, she’d come back and pack.

  Now that her picture was in the paper, she wouldn’t feel safe anywhere.

  Just the thought of Landry Jones sent a chill through her. Look how close he’d come to getting to her at the safe house. She could still remember the murderous look in his eyes. She felt another wave of hopelessness. If she had any hope of surviving, she had to be strong. She’d stayed alive this long, hadn’t she?

  At the window, she peeked out. The courtyard was empty. Odell’s door was closed. Willa let the blind fall back into place and opened her door, listening for a moment before she started down the stairs.

  She heard music, this time coming from Blossom’s apartment. Some awful loud band yelling obscenities over the scream of guitar strings.

  Willa took the stairs, stopping partway to check to see if Henri’s door was closed. It was.

  Something told Willa that Henri wasn’t in her apartment—not with that horrible music blasting into her south side wall.

  As Willa hurried out of the courtyard through the back arch, she caught a glimpse of Henri and Odell walking down the beach. They had their heads together as if they’d known each other longer than less than an hour.

  The conversation looked pretty serious for two strangers.

  Willa put the two of them out of her mind. Soon they wouldn’t be a concern. Soon, she would be off the island. She would go to Miami, maybe catch a boat to anywhere it was headed, anywhere far from here.

  She found a narrow path through the thick vegetation, hoping this was the way that the elderly man had gone and that the path would lead her to the boathouse and Carlos Lazarro.

  Not far into the dense undergrowth the air became thick and humid. Mosquitoes buzzed around her. She swatted at them and tried to keep moving, her bare limbs glistening with perspiration.

  At a turn in the trail, she stopped to wipe the sweat from her eyes and thought she heard a sound behind her on the trail. Quickening her pace, she wound through the trees and brush, the island becoming denser. She felt turned around, no longer able to see the sun, and had no idea which way she was headed. For all she knew she could be going in a circle. The island wasn’t large. She should have reached the other side by now.

  Willa stopped to catch her breath. The trail forked ahead and she wasn’t sure which way to go. This time there was no mistake about it. She heard the brush of fabric against a tree branch. Someone was following her.

  Fear paralyzed her. She looked back but could see nothing through the underbrush. After reading the newspaper articles she now knew that it wasn’t just the cops and Landry Jones after her—but possibly organized crime killers who didn’t want her testifying.

  She started down one path, afraid she was only getting farther and farther away from the villa—and more and more in danger. A twig cracked not far down the trail behind her.

  A soft pop was instantly followed by leaves and bark flying up on a tree trunk next to her. Another soft pop, then a limb next to her exploded.

  Someone was shooting at her!

  Run!

  She took off, running as fast and hard as she could, running blindly as the path twisted and turned. She could hear footfalls behind her, then another pop as a bullet buzzed past her ear and ripped through the leaves of a bush ahead of her.

  She stumbled and just as she thought she might go down was grabbed from behind. An arm came around her, picking her up off her feet as a hand covered her mouth. She was jerked backward into the bushes and trees, her body slamming into the solid form of a man’s chest as he tightened his grip.

  “Don’t make a sound or you’re as good as dead.” Her blood froze as she recognized the male voice that whispered at
her ear as she was dragged backward into the darkness of the dense tropical forest.

  Landry Jones.

  Hadn’t she known it was only a matter of time before he found her?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Landry dragged a struggling Willa St. Clair deep into the trees. She tried to bite his hand, connected several good kicks to his shins and jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. Pain rocketed through him as she hit too close to his bandaged gunshot wound.

  Angrily he tightened his grip on her and pressed his lips close to her ear. “Do that again and I will kill you myself right here.”

  Keeping his hand firmly over her mouth, he dragged her a little deeper into the dense undergrowth and threw her down, pinning her to the ground as he sprawled on top of her and drew his gun with his free hand.

  Her eyes blazed with anger and stark terror. Even against the odds and his threats, she still struggled to free herself. The woman was a scrapper. Under other circumstances he might have admired that.

  He leaned close. “Quiet,” he whispered, and pressed his body down over hers as he listened. He thought he heard someone moving along the path not far from them. He held his breath, knowing how vulnerable he was in this position. All he could hope was that whoever was on the path didn’t spot them. He wasn’t sure he could get in a shot before someone else did.

  Minutes passed. Finally he heard footfalls retreat back down the path. He waited until he was sure the person was gone before he holstered his gun and pulled Willa St. Clair to her feet. Still keeping her mouth covered, he dragged her back through the trees.

  On this side of the island, the surf from the Gulf broke over the rocky shoreline. It was loud enough, it would muffle any sounds that she made. He dragged her to a short stretch of sandy beach where he’d pulled up the borrowed boat he’d hidden in the brush.

  Tossing his weapon onto the duffel bag lying in the bottom of his boat, he dragged her out into the water until they were waist-deep.

  “Now listen to me,” he said next to her ear. “I’m going to remove my hand from your mouth. You’re going to be smart and not scream or fight me. And then we’re going to talk. Got it?”

  Her body was still rigid with stubborn determination. But she nodded and he removed his hand, knowing without a doubt what she would do.

  She took a swing at him and opened her mouth to scream.

  He ducked the swing, grabbed her and hurled her into the deeper water, forcing her head under before she could get out a sound. He held her there, his hand tangled in her short curly dark hair, until some of the fight went out of her, then he dragged her to the surface.

  She came up spitting and sputtering, murder in her eyes.

  “What part of that didn’t you get?” he demanded as he dunked her under again.

  She gulped for air as he brought her up choking on the saltwater, but at the same time glaring at him. He watched her eyes and saw what she planned to do before she tried to scratch his eyes out.

  He shoved her head under water again, holding her down longer this time, half-afraid he’d drown her before she’d give up. He jerked her to the surface and felt some of the fight go out of her.

  “Why don’t you just kill me and get it over with,” she cried, choking and coughing as she came up. “First you shoot at me, then try to drown me?”

  He shook his head. “I hit what I shoot at. If I wanted you dead, you’d already be dead. I saved your puny butt back there on the trail.”

  She gave a chortle of disbelief.

  “Look, sweetheart, I could have broken your neck back there off the trail,” he said, getting angry. “Or I could drown you right now. I’m not trying to kill you. I’m just trying to get you to quit fighting me. The last thing I want is you dead.”

  Willa stared at him, hating him. He’d turned her life upside down. How had she ever thought he was handsome? He was cruel and horrible. She glared at him, wanting to hit him but he held her at arm’s length, his fingers tangled in her hair, and she knew if she tried, he would just dunk her again. Her eyes burned from the saltwater—and anger.

  “If I let go of you, are you going to attack me again? Scream? Try to get away?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Would it do me any good?”

  “None. All you’d accomplish is making sure whoever was shooting at you knows where we are and get us both killed.”

  He let go of her hair and stepped toward the beach, extending his hand as if to help her ashore.

  She took a step back, the water up to her breasts now.

  “Look, I’m not going to hurt you, okay?”

  “Isn’t that what all killers say? You probably told your partner that before you shot him.”

  A flicker of pain crossed Landry Jones’s face and she thought for a moment he would drown her. He looked like he wanted to. Instead, he turned and waded through the water up to the beach. Stopping, he turned to look at her.

  “See?” he said, holding out his hands. “And for the record, Zeke tried to kill me. It was self-defense.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “If that were true, then why are the police looking for you?”

  He sighed heavily. “It’s my word against yours. All you saw was me shoot him. You obviously didn’t see him try to kill me.”

  “Right. That’s probably why the police didn’t find a gun on him.”

  Landry made a low animal-like sound. “I saw you panic and take off. I came after you. Obviously someone took Zeke’s gun to make me look guilty.”

  “Obviously.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t care what you believe, all right? Now come out of the water. I already told you I’m not going to hurt you.”

  A wave slapped her in the back, throwing her forward. She took a few steps toward him and stopped. He retreated even farther up the beach to give her space.

  Don’t trust this guy. Do not—repeat—trust this guy.

  “You still think I was the one shooting at you back there?” He walked over to where he’d tossed his weapon before dragging her into the Gulf, picked it up and held the gun out for her to look at it. “You see a silencer on here?”

  She stared at the revolver in his hand. No silencer. The person shooting at her on the path had a silencer on his gun. She felt her body go limp with the realization that more than one person on this island wanted her dead.

  “You are smart enough to know the sound a gun makes without one, aren’t you?” he asked sarcastically.

  “How do I know you didn’t take off the silencer before you grabbed me?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Why would I do that?”

  She didn’t know. In fact, all she knew about this man was that she’d seen him shoot his partner, that apparently before that he’d been a police officer, and that he was now wanted by the law. The fact that she was the only witness to that shooting put her in a precarious position to say the least.

  “I have no reason to trust anything you say.”

  He stared at her as if she’d just said something astounding, then he groaned, pulled off the cap he’d been wearing and raked a hand through his full head of dark hair. “What am I going to do with you?”

  “I was wondering the same thing.”

  “Sweetheart, do you have any idea how many people want you dead? There are people waiting in line to kill you.”

  “Don’t call me sweetheart,” she snapped back.

  “What I’m trying to tell you is that there is a massive manhunt going on for you right now.”

  She lifted a brow. “For you, as well, it seems.”

  He smiled. And for just an instant she forgot that she didn’t find him handsome. “Point taken.”

  He reached into the shorts pocket, drew out a wet crumpled photograph and held it out. Reluctantly she stepped close and took it, recognizing the man in the picture at once.

  “You remember him.” It wasn’t a question. He’d seen her reaction to Simon Renton’s photograph. “He came into your art studio the night befor
e your gallery showing. He left something there. I need it back.”

  So that was why she was still alive. He needed something from her. “And you think I have it?”

  “I know you have it. Or at least can help me find it and end all of this.”

  And she had a pretty good idea just how it would end.

  She glanced down the beach. The tide was coming in. The surf pounded at the rocks off to her left. To her right the short sandy beach ended in a throng of mangroves. Her only chance was getting past Landry and making a run for it back up the trail.

  But even if she managed to get past him, she knew she wouldn’t get far back in the brush and trees. And taking off swimming would be suicide even if he didn’t come after her and drown her. Not to mention, the person who’d been shooting at her could be waiting in the trees.

  “Look, I know what you’re thinking,” he said, his voice softening. “But you’re out of places to run. There’s already someone on the island taking potshots at you. It’s just a matter of time before they kill you.”

  This, at least, sounded true. She said nothing, just looked at him, wondering what it was he thought she had and what possible chance she had of surviving this.

  “You have a problem?” he asked.

  She glared at him, realizing she was beyond caring right now if he shot her or drowned her or broke her neck. “Kind of the same one. I don’t believe anything you tell me.”

  “You have quite the mouth on you, Ms. Willa St. Clair.” He took a step toward her, backing her to the edge of the water, his gaze locked on her lips. “Quite a nice mouth, actually.”

  She felt herself squirm under the heat of those dark eyes. She was at his mercy, completely alone with a man she knew was a killer. But she also sensed that backing down would only make her more vulnerable—if that were possible. She stood her ground as he stepped so close that she could see tiny gold flecks in that dark gaze and feel heat radiating from his body.

  “If you expect me to help you, then I suggest you stop threatening me,” she said, surprised her voice could sound so calm with her pulse thundering in her ears. “All you’re doing is convincing me you’re exactly the man I think you are and certainly not one to be trusted.”