by Pamela Clare
"I already own one—a twenty-two."
"Good. Pack it. I've already ordered extra patrols for your street."
Tessa told herself Chief Irving was just being cautious. There was no evidence to suggest her life was in danger. Kara had been getting death threats for a while before they came after her. Tessa hadn't even gotten so much as an impolite e-mail. She had nothing to worry about.
Then why are you carrying a handgun, girl?
Like Chief Irving, she was just being cautious.
Tom had all but gone apoplectic when Chief Irving promised to give her an exclusive when the killers were caught, provided she dropped the story now. He'd launched into the thousandth rendition of his "Watchdogs of Freedom" speech, bringing a look of bored resignation to Chief Irving's face. Obviously, Irving had heard this speech before, too.
"This is outrageous! No journalist at this paper has ever caved to pressure from the city, and I can assure you Novak won't be the first!"
Chief Irving hadn't been pleased. "We'll be as helpful as we can be, Ms. Novak, but we're playing this one close to the vest. And don't go on a charm offensive against my men with that sweet southern accent of yours because I've warned them all not to discuss this case with you. If you want information, you come to me."
Tessa had agreed to that much.
She stopped at the hospital's front desk and asked one of the volunteers for Bruce Simms's room number. She'd spent the morning working on a routine story about the recent keta-mine robberies and had planned to start researching Denver's gang history, as most drive-bys in Denver were gang related. But when she'd learned the gas-station attendant had been moved out of intensive care, she'd known she had to speak with him.
"Room three-thirty-two, miss."
"Thanks."
Tessa found Mr. Simms sitting up in bed, watching a soap opera in a blue-and-white hospital gown. He was pale but alert, an oxygen tube beneath his nose, deep reddish bruises on the backs of his hands from multiple FVs. He glanced over, saw her, and his eyes widened.
Clearly he recognized her.
"Mr. Simms? I'm Tessa Novak. I hope you don't mind my stopping by."
"You like Days of our Lives!"
"I don't watch much television." She took that as an invitation and sat in the chair next to his bed. "I work during the day."
"It's all crap anyway." He clicked off the television. "You're that reporter. You came in for coffee. I read your piece. You come here to interview me? I got nothing to say."
"I'm here for personal reasons, Mr. Simms. You and I watched someone die. I thought—"
"I didn't see nothing." His mouth was clamped shut, but his eyes—hazel eyes more gray than green—told a different story.
"Oh, well, I imagine you were fighting your own battle for survival, weren't you?" She gave his arm a sympathetic squeeze. "I'm terribly sorry that you became ill as a result of the shooting. I must say the whole thing nearly frightened me to death."
Charm offensive? How dare Chief Irving reduce years spent studying deportment and communication to mere manipulation!
Even though Mr. Simms had read the article, Tessa went through the story again, told him what she'd seen. The car. The rims. The blood. The man in the leather jacket.
"She was so young, Mr. Simms. We were the last two people to see her alive. That matters to me."
For a moment there was no sound but hospital noises from out in the hallway.
"She used to come by most every Sunday afternoon with the others." Mr. Simms looked up at the dark television screen. "There were four of them, girls about the same age. They'd come in, buy gum, candy, maybe shampoo or lip gloss, then they'd go again. Never smiled. Never said a word till that night."
It was the first real information Tessa had gotten about the girl. "Did you know her name? Do you think she lived nearby?"
"I told you they never said a word, didn't I?" He glanced sharply at Tessa. "No, I didn't know her name. But, yeah, I think she must have lived nearby. They always walked to the store together. Never saw her by herself. It was always the four of them, and they were always dressed kind of shabby."
Curious, Tessa couldn't resist asking. "Did you ever see her with anyone else—a man, someone who looked like a gang member? A man in a black leather jacket perhaps?"
His eyes narrowed. "You're fishing for an article. I don't want to be in no newspaper."
She met his gaze, held it. "No, sir. I'm trying to find some peace of mind. Besides, I would never quote you without making it clear you were being interviewed."
He seemed to measure her.
"There was an older woman who sometimes came with them, but she never entered the store. I always figured her for one of their mothers. But…" He paused for a moment. "I always thought it was strange the way she watched them—like a hawk. I figured maybe she wanted to make sure they didn't steal nothing."
"Did they ever try to steal anything?"
"Nope."
"How about the black car? Did you see it or its driver before?"
"Can't recall. The place is a damned gas station—cars coming and going all goddamned day and night." He picked up the remote, clicked the television back on.
Tessa stood, took a business card out of her purse, and scribbled her home phone number on the back, knowing her time with Mr. Simms had ended. "I hope you're feeling better soon, Mr. Simms. If you think of anything else, or even if you just want to talk, you can reach me at this number."
He took the card, glanced at it, then looked up at her. "I'm leaving town as soon as I get out of here. Going to stay with my brother in Omaha, maybe move there."
And Tessa knew he was being cautious, too. "Good luck. And thank you."
She walked out of his room and down the hallway, running what he'd told her through her mind. Four girls about the same age, always together, most of the time under the watchful eye of an older woman. Never spoke. Never smiled. Walked to the store to buy candy dressed in shabby clothes.
Perhaps they were sisters or best friends, and the older woman was someone's mother. It wasn't surprising that they didn't talk to anyone else, given that they probably spoke little or no English, but it was a little odd that they didn't chatter with each other. Teenage girls were not exactly known for being quiet. It was strange, too, that they never smiled. Whoever heard of teenagers on a somber candy binge?
The shabby clothes pointed to a life of poverty. Perhaps the girls were wearing hand-me-downs or Salvation Army castoffs, cobbling together a wardrobe out of bits and pieces no one else wanted, seeing scorn and pity in other people's eyes, feeling ashamed just to be seen. Maybe that's why they kept to themselves.
Tessa knew only too well what that felt like.
¡Porfavor, sehor, ayudeme!
The girl hadn't been wearing shoes—a dangerous thing on city streets. That tended to support Mr. Simms's belief that she lived nearby. So perhaps that's where Tessa should start.
She glanced at her watch, saw that it was nearly three. That gave her a good hour and a half before dark to walk the streets, knock on doors, look around for signs of gang activity. The victim was a teenager and poor, both of which fit a gang theory.
Tessa lifted her gaze and saw him come around the corner. He was wearing a dark blue cable-knit sweater instead of a black leather jacket, but she would have recognized him anywhere. And she could tell from his scowl that he recognized her, too.
The breath left her lungs in a rush. She took one step backward on unsteady legs, then another, her heart slamming in her chest, her lungs too empty to scream. Then beside her, she saw the fire alarm.
She lunged for it, but found herself hauled up against a rock-hard chest, a steel hand clamped over her mouth, her feet lifted off the ground.
Chapter 4
Julian saw she was about to pull the fire alarm and did the only thing he could—clamped a hand over her mouth and pulled her out of the hallway and into the nearest room, a large closet full of linens. He kicked the doo
r shut behind him and worked to subdue 120 pounds of desperate, terrified female that kicked, twisted, and struggled in his arms.
He turned her to face him, held her fast. "I'm not going to hurt you, Tessa."
At the sound of her name, she froze, and Julian found himself looking into the biggest, bluest eyes he'd ever seen. Framed by long, sooty lashes, they stared up at him in unblinking horror. Her face was pale, her skin creamy and translucent apart from a few tiny freckles on her nose. She felt small in his arms, fragile and soft. Holding her this close, he could feel her heart pound, smell her fear, taste her panic.
"If I wanted to kill you, you'd already be dead." He'd said it to calm her, realized when her pupils dilated that his words had somehow had the opposite effect. "I'm going to release you, and you're going to stand here and listen to me, got it?"
She nodded.
He lowered her to her feet, let her go—and found himself staling at the working end of a sweet little .22 revolver. Where the hell had that come from?
Smooth, Darcangelo. What's your day job again? Special agent, you say?
"S-stay away from me!" She was trembling—not a good thing when her finger rested on the trigger of a gun pointed at his chest. It hurt to get shot, even wearing Kevlar. "I-I saw you that night! I know you were there!"
"Put it down, Ms. Novak. I told you—I'm not going to hurt you."
"Why should I believe that? I know you're carrying a gun. I felt it beneath your sweater!" Her voice quavered, hovering somewhere between rage and terror. She gripped the handle of the gun with two hands, steadied it.
He weighed his options. He could tell her he was a federal agent—except that she was a reporter. How could he be sure she wouldn't splash his name all over the damned paper? He could disarm her, but there was a chance he'd hurt her or she'd pull the trigger either accidentally or on purpose. Neither option was ideal.
He took one slow step toward her. "Put down the gun."
"Not a chance! You came here to kill him, didn't you? You came here to kill Mr. Simms so he couldn't talk to the police!"
He'd come to question the old guy, but he didn't want to tell her that. "If that's what you think, shoot me. Here, I'll even make it easy for you." He took another step forward, stretched his arms out to his sides. "Aim just to the left of my breastbone. A little twenty-two round will ricochet inside my rib cage, shred my lungs and heart, and I'll be dead before I hit the floor."
She gaped at him in surprise, and her gaze dropped to his chest.
It was the break Julian needed.
He pivoted out of the line of fire, grabbed her wrist, wrenched the .22 from her grasp. It took less force than he'd imagined, and he heard her gasp—whether in surprise or pain, he couldn't tell. He turned to face her, found her rubbing her wrist and watching him fearfully through those blue eyes.
"I told you to put it down. You should have listened." He popped out the cylinder, tapped the bullets into his hand, and pocketed the rounds. Then he snapped the cylinder into place and handed the gun back to her.
The damned thing had been fully loaded and ready to fire.
She dropped the little pistol into her purse, her wary gaze never leaving him. "H-how do you know my name?"
"I know almost everything about you." He recited what he'd learned after doing a little digging on her this morning. "Born in Rosebud, Texas, on March 9, 1979, to Linda Lou Bates, age fourteen. Father unknown. Grew up on welfare and food stamps with your mother and maternal grandfather. Graduated Rosebud-Lott High School in 1997 with a GPA of three-nine-eight and left Rosebud behind the next day."
No longer pale, her cheeks had flushed red with what Julian supposed was anger or embarrassment. He continued.
"You earned an associate's degree in English from Austin Community College in 1999—the year you changed your last name to Novak. Moved to Athens to study journalism at the University of Georgia and graduated Phi Beta Kappa. Then you took your first reporting job at the Savannah Morning News. You moved to Denver three years ago to take a seat on—"
"I-I don't know who you are, but I'm getting security!" Quick on her dressy little feet, she darted past him toward the door.
He caught her easily, turned her about, and hauled her against him—just as the door opened and two middle-aged women wearing blue cleaning uniforms walked in. Unsure what she might say and wanting to avoid a scene and get rid of the women, Julian ducked down and silenced her with his mouth.
Tessa heard the door open behind her, felt the hot shock of his lips on hers, and in dazed disbelief realized what he was doing. He was trying to shush her, trying to control her. It was nothing less than assault, and it both stunned and enraged her. She pushed against his chest to no avail, tried to scream, but when she opened her mouth, his tongue invaded, turning her scream to a stifled squeak.
A bolt of heat, unexpected and unwanted, shot through her, and her insides seemed to melt as he attacked her senses, his tongue teasing hers with stolen strokes, his lips pressing hot and unyielding against hers. She couldn't stop herself from noticing how hard his body felt, couldn't stop the minty taste of his toothpaste from flooding her mouth, couldn't help taking in the scent of him—spice with just a hint of leather.
He's a stranger, Tess—maybe even a murderer.
Tessa's mind knew it, but her body didn't seem to care. The adrenaline in her blood warmed to pheromone, icy rage to steam. And before she realized it, she had quit fighting him, quit fearing him, quit breathing. Worse, she'd begun to kiss him back, her tongue curling with his, her bones going liquid as his hand slid slowly up her spine.
Behind her, the women gasped, giggled.
Tessa had forgotten all about them.
"/Perdonenos!" Pardon us!
The door closed, and Tessa realized dimly that the women had gone.
But he didn't quit kissing her, not all at once. He nipped her tongue, drew her lower lip into his mouth, sucked it. Then, abruptly, he grasped her shoulders and held her out before him.
"I hope you listen closely, Ms. Novak, because I'd hate to see you on an autopsy slab." His eyes were darkest blue. His dark brows were bent together in a frown, his square jaw clean shaven, his lips unusually full for a man's. "I know you get paid to sensationalize other people's suffering, but this is one crime you'd better leave to the cops. You've already stirred up enough trouble with today's article. It would be best for both of us if you don't write another."
"Sensationalize—? You—! Oh!" She was so furious she could barely speak. "I watched that girl die! She begged me to help her, and I couldn't! But I'm going to do my best to help her now. I'm going to find out who killed—"
He gave her a little shake. "What you're going to do is get yourself killed! Let the cops do their job. Go chase an ambulance or something."
"Let go of me!" She jerked away from him, wiped a hand across her mouth, tried to erase the lingering evidence of his kiss. "You drag me in here, assault me, insult me, and then try to tell me how to do my job? Who are you?"
"Are we on or off the record?"
"On."
"You don't need to know who I am."
"Off the record, then."
He seemed to hesitate. "I'm Julian Darcangelo, and I'm one of the good guys."
"That's a scary thought." Tessa thought he looked like one of the bad guys—a shadowy, criminal type. She didn't realize she'd spoken those last words aloud until the corner of his mouth turned up in a sardonic grin.
"You know better than to judge people by appearances, Ms. Bates. Oh, I'm sorry—it's Novak, isn't it? And next time you hold a gun on someone, don't let him get so close. Never take your eyes off his."
Then he brushed past her, opened the door, and strode out into the hallway.
By the time her legs were steady enough for her to follow him, he was gone.
Tessa sat in the cooling water of her bath, sipping a glass of pinot grigio and trying to soak the day's tension away. She'd intended to leave the hospital and canvas th
e neighborhood around the gas station to see if anyone else remembered seeing the four girls or knew where they lived, but she'd been too shaken, too angry, too confused for that.
Instead, she'd sat in her car in the hospital parking lot and called Chief Irving, demanding to speak with him immediately.
"Who is Julian Darcangelo?" Chief Irving had repeated her question, as if he couldn't believe it. "Why the hell are you asking me that?"
"I just ran into a man claiming to be Julian Darcangelo at University Hospital," she'd explained. "He says he's one of the good guys. I thought you might know if that's true."
"Damn it! Tell me what happened."
And so she'd told him, weil aware Chief Irving hadn't yet answered her questions.
"Let me get this straight. You tried to pull the fire alarm. He grabbed you and dragged you into a closet, where you pointed a loaded gun at him. He disarmed you, and then"—-Chief Irving had coughed or choked—"and then he kissed you?"
"Assaulted me."
"Christ! That's just great." Even through the spotty cellular connection she'd been able to hear Chief Irving swearing. "What I'm about to tell you is not to be repeated, recorded, or reported in any way, do you understand, Ms. Novak?"
"Yes, sir."
"I'm only telling you this because I really see no other choice. But if I read his name in your paper, you're going to become a persona non fucking grata at the station. You'll get a parking ticket every day of your life—and two on Christmas!"
"Is that a threat?"
"You bet it is."
"Okay, then. Glad we got that cleared up."
"Julian Darcangelo is one of the good guys, and that little description of him you ran in your article might put his life at risk. That's all you're getting." And with that, Chief Irving had hung up on her.
She'd put Julian Darcangelo's life at risk?
You've already stirred up enough trouble with today's article. It would be best for both of us if you don't write another.
She'd realized that could mean only one thing: Mr. Darcangelo was some kind of undercover cop. That's why he'd known so much about her. He'd done a background check, digging into her private past. Then he'd thrown her secrets in her face.