"Go on." He urged. "You're doing fine."
She heaved a breath. "They were shooting at Mitch. I was in the car and I couldn't get the glove box opened, it sticks. I have a permit to carry the weapon. Jack helped me get one."
When she fell silent again, he pressed. "You were saying that you were in the car?"
Jess nodded. "Yes. I got the gun out. I didn't think. I only knew these men came out of nowhere and were shooting at Mitch. I don't know, maybe I figured it was better to have the gun and not need it, y'know?"
Richard nodded.
"I saw the guy, the one on the passenger side fall, and when I looked at the driver, he was…was looking at me like…like he wanted me dead. That's the best way I can explain it. He wasn't shooting at Mitch anymore. His gun was aimed at me. So…so I fired."
She stilled completely, afraid to blink, afraid to exhale. If he didn't believe her, if he thought she could have run away, could have driven off like Mitch told her to, she'd face the consequences. Mitch hadn't earned her loyalty, she'd had no right to get involved. But I couldn't just leave him there.
Richard said, "That pretty much confirms what the witnesses described. Do you know who these men are?"
She shook her head. "I never saw them before. Never."
"Couple of thugs up from Chicago. Real ugly characters. Their arrest record goes back farther then you've been on the planet. This is classic self-defense, a justified shooting."
Relief unknit the knots in her spinal cord. She hung her head for a moment, hands threaded through her hair.
Thank you, God. Thank you. Thank you.
"However," Richard said
She snapped up. This is it, this is the big BUT that puts me in prison.
"There's still a matter of who ordered the hit, and that the LAPD believe they're not going to stop. According to the LAPD, this is the fourth attempt against someone in your family. For what it's worth, I'm sorry about your mother."
"Don't worry about it. I never knew her." Sudden exhaustion came over her. It couldn't be but maybe one or two in the afternoon, though it felt like evening. Her eyes burned. "Do they have any idea who's doing this?"
Richard flipped more pages in the file. "They have a suspect, but the investigation is ongoing. No one firm, yet."
"How close do you think they are?"
"Hard to tell. Your friend Conner might answer that better."
God, she hadn't even thought of him. Was he in another room just like hers? If he was, did his story match hers? Why wouldn't it? Jess–chill out. She blew the bangs off her forehead and crossed her arms. "So, what happens now? We can't go home, can we?"
"Let's just wait and see on that, Jessica. It shouldn't take too long." He stood, file in hand and went to the door. "You just sit tight. I'll be back soon."
"Wait," she said, standing. "Am I free to go? Can I see my father now?"
He frowned. "Not yet. Just be patient a little longer."
Be patient. Not a virtue she could claim. He left, the door snicking closed in such a way she knew it would be locked if she tried to leave. Trapped. She couldn't go anywhere, and the only company she had, was a reflection that resembled the ghost of her mother. Maybe that's what had happened. Maybe when her mother died, she was set free to haunt her daughter and all this…mess was the doings of some vengeful spirit.
"I'm goin' nuts," Jess whispered.
She sat, folding her arms on the table and resting her head on the cooled flesh of her wrist. Eyes closed, she tried to imagine a world where no killers existed, where her mother had remained forgotten.
Instead, she saw Mitch, weapon aimed at her for that flicker in time when she'd startled him on the sidewalk, that moment when she'd thought he'd shoot her down in the middle of the day.
Dangerous.
Chapter Five Mitch leaned against the wall, too anxious to sit. At times like this, he wished he'd never quit smoking. But wealthy Californians spent almost as much money on no-smoking signs as they did on personalized license plates. He'd been forced to quit or turn down the jobs that made his landlord happy.
He cast a glare at the two-way mirror. What was taking them so long? He'd signed his statement over an hour ago– unless the hands on his watch lied. It felt closer to three hours. He listened, but only heard the hum of air-conditioning and the dim rustle of the man-made breeze from the vent.
Back in L.A., he'd have already been on his way to the hospital to question the hired thugs. Here, he might as well begin applying for Social Security. He would be ancient before they got around to releasing him. He grunted and turned a chair, straddling it as he sat. The lack of cooperation wasn't the worst, though. The worst was not having any control.
With the authorities involved here, his last tenuous bit of clout had slipped away. He stood again and went to the mirror, cupping his hands around his eyes to check for movement beyond. Nothing but his own reflection, of course. He wanted to get out of this glorified holding cell, grab Jess, and dash for the exit.
What would they do then? If he stayed in Milwaukee, the locals called the shots. But if he could get her back to L.A., Larson would let Mitch do his job, the way it was meant to be done, not filtered through second-hand law enforcement.
Would Jess go?
That was the hundred and fifty million dollar question, wasn't it? Jess and Dirty Dan. Without the work of a surgeon familiar with Siamese twins, they were inseparable. Two days with the pair and anyone could see how devoted they were to each other. Which in this instance, really stank.
He leaned his back against the mirror and stared at a stained section of ceiling tile. He remembered Jess standing, legs braced apart, hands double-fisted around the grip of the Magnum. She had surprised him. Though he shouldn't have been. Expecting her to run, to drive off and leave him, he'd never considered she might arm herself and stand with him. Jess had loyalty in spades, but did he deserve that?
What will she think when she finds out I let Beth get shot? His eyes closed and he saw Beth gasping for air, begging for him to understand that she had a daughter who needed his protection. He snapped his eyes open. The image lingered, than faded into the grey-painted concrete wall.
This ran deeper than any protection policy. He'd vowed to watch over Jess. No way would he break that promise. Beth deserved as much, and Jess had earned his respect by stepping up instead of ducking for cover.
The hands on his watch showed only three minutes had passed since the last he had looked. He faced his reflection. Some tough guy he was, sitting like a ninny, waiting for others to get their act together. His patience fled and he hammered on the mirror. The glass vibrated.
"Hey!" He hollered, thumping. "Either arrest me, or let me go, but get someone the hell in here. Now!"
He pummeled the glass with both fists, boxing the mirror like he would a speed bag back at the gym. Not hard enough to shatter the glass, but hard enough to annoy the crap out of anyone lingering on the other side. Good, he thought, give them a taste of their own medicine.
The door opened and Jack strode inside. "You break it, you pay for it."
The warning came a little late as Mitch had already stopped. "It's about damned time. I'm out of here."
Mitch pushed past him and the officer grabbed his arm. "Where do you think you're goin'?"
He glared at Jack's hand on his arm and the cop released him with a scowl. Mitch didn't much care. "Time's up. Those two at the hospital will be discharged before you guys figure out which way is up."
"You can't leave yet." Jack side-stepped and blocked the doorway, arms crossed. "They've got more questions for you."
"They can call me." He stepped forward until he could smell the lingering aroma of garlic from Jack's lunch, but he didn't step back and Mitch was forced to halt just inside the door.
"It doesn't work that way."
"It does this time." Mitch leaned closer, intent on intimidating the smaller man out of his way. The tactic was one he hadn't used since New York, but he was
far from rusty and far past being polite.
A flicker of indecision passed over the officer's face and he shook his head. "Take a seat, Conner. Like I said, they're not done with you yet."
"And like I said, I'm done with them."
"Not so fast." Jack pushed Mitch away from the door.
Mitch fought the instinct to clobber the grunt and walk out of the station. Thinking of Jess, his vow to her, how all this was more than just him, helped, but not by much. He lowered his voice. "You wanna be careful, Jack."
The cop stepped forward. "What're you gonna do about it?"
Mitch wondered if he wanted to square off against Jack because he'd dated Jess, or if he just plain didn't like this man. His head said turn around, and give in, but Jack would think he'd won, that he'd pulled rank and Mitch decided he couldn't live with that. "Step back, Jack."
"Try me."
Why'd he have to be such a prick? Mitch jerked forward in a feint and Jack bought it. The cop raised a balled fist and Mitch braced himself for the punch. Let the cop hit him first, then all hell could break loose.
"Officer," a man shouted in the hall. "What do you think you're doing?"
Jack immediately dropped his fist and Mitch rolled his shoulders, dislodging tension as a pair of men, dressed in suits, stepped into view. They were nearly the same height and stood shoulder to shoulder.
If they try to come through the door like that, they'll get stuck.
The darker one wore a pained expression, as if constipated, and the other, with light brown hair was the sort you'd forget the moment he passed out of sight. They stank of government.
Jack, obviously pissed that he'd have to leave now, jabbed a finger toward Mitch. "Remember, I got your number."
Mitch grinned. He couldn't help it. "Call me anytime."
The officer turned his glare on the waiting men. "He's yours."
Jack left. Mitch faced Huey and Duey. They stepped forward, one at a time, both holding up identification. He caught their department location. They were from L.A. Mr. Constipation spoke first. "I'm Special Agent Mordstrom of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and this is Special Agent Davis. We'd like to ask you some questions."
"Join the club." Mitch returned to the table. The faster they got at it, the sooner he could leave. He gestured to the two chairs opposite him and sat in the one he'd flipped. "Have a seat. Let's get this over with. I've got things to do."
"And what is that, Mr. Conner?" Mordstrom offered a bland smile as he and his partner occupied the chairs.
"I've got men to question. A job to do, same as you." He nodded to the file Mordstrom set on the table. While he'd gone stir crazy and thought baiting a cop a good distraction, they'd been brought up to speed by the looks of it. "The men at St. Mary's have information we both need."
The agents gave each other a look and Mitch knew what they would say. His gripped the back of the chair, level with his chest, and squeezed. Damn it, damn it, damn it.
It was Davis who said what he'd already guessed. "You'll not be able to do that, Mr. Conner. Both men died–one on the way, the other on the operating table."
Mitch uttered a curse and ran a hand over his head. Could his luck get any worse?
* * *
Jess followed the uniformed officer off the elevator and down one corridor after another. She shivered in her shorts and tank top, the air-conditioning too cold after the hours she'd spent holed up in the tiny room. Gooseflesh broke out over her bare legs, and she glanced at their mottled color with a grimace. That's attractive.
She lifted her gaze to watch where she was going. The cop had said he was supposed to take her 'up', nothing else, no explanation. When she'd asked why, he'd only shrugged. She could be going before a judge for all she knew. Or maybe it was some hot-shot district attorney who didn't agree with the cops that she'd shot in self-defense. Maybe she was about to be handed over to some frightening, muscular woman with a German accent and traipsed off to Taycheeda–the women's prison, where she'd wait years for a trial that would send her away for life.
And I'm worried about what my legs looked like.
She should be finalizing her plan of action. While she had waited, she had decided the worst thing about all of this was that others were making decisions for her. Decisions she didn't like.
Watching some talk show, she had learned the term proactive. That's what she needed to do here. If she wanted some say in her future, she couldn't continue to sit back and let others trample all over her. After much consideration, she had decided that no fortune, large or small, was worth the lives of those she loved.
She would simply give the money to charity and everyone could go home.
To be honest with herself, she admitted the glamour of living the rest of her life being catered to and waited on was a real temptation. Especially since she and her dad worked so hard. They never took a vacation or closed the shop, except for Mondays. Even then, they worked in the garage–mostly out of habit from the days when they wanted to build a good reputation, but how much luxury could they enjoy if they were dead?
The officer stopped at a nondescript door. No hint at what might lay beyond. She forced herself to breathe as the young cop rapped his middle knuckle on the door twice and opened it without waiting for an answer. "Here you go."
"Thanks," she muttered and stepped inside.
The door swung closed slowly, revealing first Mitch, then her father. She smiled in relief and in greeting. Then she noticed the looks on their faces and the two rigid men at the head of the long conference table. Her smile dissolved. Whoever these strangers were, judging by Mitch's and her father's matching unibrows of worry, they didn't bring good news.
She grasped the back of the only empty chair and exhaled. Time to be proactive. "Okay, guys, this is what I've come up with. I want to give my inheritance to charity. I don't want the money if it means that my family and I will be threatened for the rest of our lives. So, we'll give it away and everyone can go home."
There, she had said it. She looked at her audience and her heart sank. Mitch was already shaking his head, her father refused to meet her eyes, and the two men at the head of the table glanced at each other with brows raised.
The one on the right, who looked like he'd eaten too much cheese, said, "I'm Special Agent Mordstrom and this is Special Agent Davis of the FBI. Please have a seat, Ms. Owen."
The FBI? What next? The CIA? Might as well call in the Marines while they were at it.
Nonplused, Jess sat down. She couldn't compete with the experts. They hadn't even responded, at least vocally, to her plan. "I'm sitting. Now tell me what you have against my idea. I don't see any reason it won't work."
"Ma'am," Mordstrom said. "I'm afraid it's impossible."
"Mitch said I was next in line to inherit. That doesn't mean I have to accept, does it?" She glanced at her father for support, but he still refused to look at her. Mitch shook his head again. She wanted to ask him why he disagreed, but Davis spoke first.
"You are next in line to inherit, but until you do, you can't decide anything regarding your family's estate."
Her family. How odd that he should refer to her mother as part of her family. The woman had given up the title of mother when she'd taken off and never returned. "So, what do I need to do to get control? Sign a paper, something else?"
"No, Jess," Mitch said. "It's not like that. I think you misunderstood."
"Misunderstood what?" Angry, Jess wanted them to know what it meant to lie to her, how much got all screwed up simply because they wanted to treat her like a kid who couldn't hear the truth. "What part of 'my mother's dead' do you think I didn't get?"
Mitch winced. "I never said your mother was dead. I said you were next in line."
Jess sat back in her chair and tried to keep her jaw from dropping. Could he mean what she thought he did?
"Jess," her father said from down the table. When she didn't turn away from Mitch, he cleared his throat and said her name louder. "Je
ss."
She looked at him, prepared for anything now.
"Your mother's not dead, hon. She's in a coma, but she ain't dead." He had the decency to look ashamed of himself. "I didn't know you thought she was dead. I woulda put you at ease sooner."
"At ease? You think anything in my life has ever been at ease? The only thing I could ever count on was that you'd be honest with me." Jess felt the agents and Mitch grow uncomfortable as they tried to look somewhere other than the father and daughter fighting long distance over the table.
"I'm sorry, darlin." He tugged on the ends of his beard and shifted his gaze to the agents, to Mitch, and then back on her. "But this ain't the time or place."
"At this point, I don't think it matters much. They all know my family history better than I do." She stopped, realizing it was true. Tears cut into the corners of her eyes and she pressed the heels of her hands over her lids to contain them. One of the agents cleared his throat. Lowering her hands, she blinked at Davis's sympathetic look.
"I'm sorry to interrupt ma'am. I understand this must be very hard for you." He opened a file before him. "But I think I might be able to clear up some things rather quickly."
Jess nodded, unable to trust her voice and utterly exhausted from trying to make sense of her life and the lies. Right now, she would be glad to hear something factual. Get a little of that family history everyone else knew. Proactive sucks.
Davis touched his first finger. "One, your grandfather died of a lethal dose of potassium. Two." He pointed at his second finger and Jess had the irrational thought that it was apt, this was where her life got screwed–on the middle finger. "Then, your mother was targeted and although she escaped the first attempt, she went under house protection."
"And hired me." Mitch added. "As a bodyguard."
"That's right," Davis said, a bit impatient at having been interrupted. He lifted a third finger. "Next, your mother was shot by a sniper last week and now she's under guard at a private hospital. We believe the man behind the murders-forhire decided to focus on you now. As the easier target."
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