by Pamela Clare
He fought to keep his voice calm. "Who tipped you off to him?"
She lifted her chin, frowned. "I figured it out for myself."
Then she told him how Syko has given her the tip that had led to her investigating the Red Mafia, how another I-Team reporter had hooked her up with the Moscow source, and how she'd gotten this list from him.
"From there, it wasn't that hard. I looked for someone who had ties to Lonnie Zoryo. They're from the same town, are about the same age, and were busted on the same day in Moscow for running a prostitution ring."
Julian stared at her, his anger at war with admiration. "Irving is right. You are too smart for your own good. What exactly were you planning on doing with this information, and when were you planning to tell me?"
"I didn't know I had to keep you apprised of—"
"Damn it, Tessa!" He threw the file down onto the table. "This is not like any other investigation you've done before! Burien is a predator! He hurts women for fun! You just can't publish this without risking lives, starting with your own! At the very least, you owed it to me to tell me what you'd discovered!"
Her face flushed pink, "The same way you owed it to me to tell me who was trying to kill me?"
Julian took a step toward her. "You're missing the point! I can't do my job if—"
"No, you're missing the point!" She poked him in the chest. "If people knew this kind of thing happened around them, don't you think they'd keep their eyes open? Don't you think Maria's neighbors would've called the police if they'd realized what all those male visitors might mean? Light is the only thing that truly burns away the shadows, Julian!"
"It also sends the roaches scurrying for cover."
She threw up her hands, shook her head. Then a look of sadness came over her face, and her gaze dropped to the floor. "I'm not your enemy, you know. I wasn't planning on writing anything—yet. I have an interview today with Chief Irving. You'd have found out."
Feeling like an ass, Julian drew her into his arms and tried to explain. "I can't let Burien get away, Tessa..Not this time."
"I want you to get him, too, Julian, not only for what he did to Maria and the hundreds of other women he's hurt over the years but also because of what he's done to you." Her voice was soft with concern.
He kissed her forehead, then released her and finished clipping into his harness. "Should I pick up anything from the store? Milk? More coffee? Woman stuff?"
From the look in her eyes, he knew she'd seen through him. "I won't know if I'm pregnant till next week at the earliest. And don't worry. I know the last thing you want is a baby. I won't ask anything of you."
As Julian backed his truck into the slushy street a moment later, he tried to figure out why her words—which ought to have been music to his ears—had felt like a smack in the face.
Chief Irving reacted pretty much the way Tessa had expected him to react. "Jesus H. Christ on a frigging crutch! Who gave you his name?"
Tessa explained how she'd identified Alexi Burien as the suspect, at which point Chief Irving began swearing again.
"I hope to God you're not running with this in tomorrow's paper," he said.
"No, sir, I'm not."
Tessa had just endured a long, uncomfortable conversation with Tom on this very subject. Tom had wanted to go page one, above the fold, hammer headline. But Tessa had insisted they wait.
"Who are you working for, Novak? The cops—or me?" he'd shouted. "Your job is to gather facts and present them to the public, not to protect the interests of the goddamned police department!"
Tessa had calmly explained her reasons for wanting to hold the story. No other paper was going to get the story from them, because the rest of Denver's media were still out chasing crack dealers and gangbangers. And while it was her job to print the truth, she wouldn't be doing the community any favors if she enabled a murderous trafficker to escape.
In the end Tom had relented, but he'd been less than pleased with her.
Chief Irving, on the other hand, sounded immensely relieved. "I'm really happy to hear that, Ms. Novak. I promise you, I'll give you access to everything we have on this bastard down to the lint between his toes once he's brought in. For now, I have to say, 'No comment.'"
The two words every journalist hated most.
"Can't I ask the questions first?"
"Just saving us both time."
Tessa hung up, frustrated, and spent the rest of the afternoon trying to dig up information on Alexi Burien. She'd been on the phone with Moscow twice and had managed to get his entire criminal record faxed over, only to discover that she couldn't read a word.
"Russians keep their records in Russian?" she teased herself. "Imagine that."
She couldn't call her source again; it was three in the morning where he was. She sent an e-mail to him instead, asking him if he would be willing to translate the documents for her over the phone tomorrow.
Fighting a latent feeling of sadness, she ran a mile on the treadmill, then did a bit of housework and took a long shower. She slid soap over her skin, her hands resting for a moment on the naked curve of her belly. How ironic it would be if she were accidentally pregnant. Wasn't that the one thing she swore would never happen to her? Wasn't motherhood a part of her life that she'd intended to plan carefully? Hadn't she spent her life feeling ashamed because there was no father listed on her birth certificate?
And here she was, waiting and wondering, much as her mother must have done.
She'd told Julian she wouldn't expect anything from him, half hoping he would object or express concern. Instead, he'd listened, glanced down at the floor for a moment, and then walked off without a word.
Did you expect him to propose, girl?
His apparent indifference had left her feeling far more desolate than she would have imagined. She'd spent the afternoon trying not to think about it, focusing on her job. But here in the steam with only her own thoughts to distract her, she couldn't avoid a growing sense of loneliness and even grief.
Get used to it, Novak.
This investigation couldn't go on forever. When this Burien bastard was behind bars, Julian would be free—free to move on with his life, free to put the past behind him, free to forgive himself. And she desperately wanted that for him, even though she knew it would also leave him free to forget her.
She had just dried her hair and was in the middle of zipping her jeans when someone knocked on the door.
Her heart shot into her throat. She stood rooted to the floor, aware only that something was terribly wrong. And then she knew.
The alarm. It hadn't gone off.
Had Julian forgotten to arm it? Surely not. He never forgot things like that.
The knock came again.
Mind racing, she grabbed a T-shirt, slipped it on, then looked frantically about for her secured cell phone. She would call Julian, dial 911. Then she remembered that she'd left the phone out on the table by her computer.
"Damn! Damn! Damn!"
The .22.
She dashed around the bed, grabbed it out of the top drawer of Julian's nightstand. Taking a few seconds to make sure it was loaded, she clicked the cylinder back into place and walked slowly down the hallway, pointing it at the floor, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her palms sticky with sweat.
More knocking—or was that her heart?
Then someone shouted her name.
Tessa peeked around the corner.
It was Margaux. She stood before the front window, holding up a shining silver CD, a sheepish smile on her face.
"Sorry!" she mouthed.
Tessa let out a relieved sigh, her heart still hammering. She slipped the .22 surreptitiously into the waistband of her jeans and covered it with her T-shirt, hoping Margaux hadn't seen it. The hag would probably laugh at her for overreacting.
She walked to the front door, then hesitated, tempted to let Margaux wait until Julian had come home. She had no desire for a rematch of yesterday's verbal battle, no desire
to even speak with Margaux. Then again, Margaux was trying to help.
Tessa unlocked the door.
"Not in a hurry to let me in, were you?" Margaux said, brushing past her in a tight pair of black jeans and the same red leather jacket.
"I was in the shower and had to get dressed." Tessa had just started to shut the door when she heard the unmistakable tromp of heavy feet running on the porch. "Oh, God!"
Fueled by adrenaline, she threw herself into the door, tried to slam it, but they were faster and much stronger. She found herself hurled backward as two men forced their way inside. She hit the wall, felt the bite of steel against her hip.
The gun.
It all happened in a heartbeat.
The pistol in her hand. The squeeze of the trigger. The recoil.
Pop! Pop!
A grunt. A spray of blood. A man down.
Then pain exploded against her stomach, doubling her over, driving the breath from her lungs. She clutched at her belly, the little revolver falling to the floor. For a moment she thought she'd been shot. Then with a sense of astonishment, she realized Margaux had kicked her.
And the pieces slid into place. Margaux had led the men here. Margaux had betrayed her. Margaux had betrayed Julian.
Margaux was the leak.
"Fucking stupid bitch!" Margaux kicked her again, her boot connecting painfully with Tessa's ribs, splaying Tessa across the floor.
"Oh, Eddie!" a man's voice shouted. "She popped Eddie!"
"Forget about him, and worry about your own ass!" Margaux snapped. "Make it quick!"
And Tessa knew she was dead.
She heard the unmistakable click-click of someone sliding the rack of a semiautomatic, felt rough hands grab her by the hair, felt the hard kiss of steel against her temple. "Stupid whore! You killed Eddie!"
Tessa coughed, drew in a shaky breath, expecting it to be her last.
But it wasn't fear she felt. It was regret.
Regret for the years she'd lost with her mother. Regret that she would never see Julian again. Regret for the grief her death would cause them both.
Tears pricked her eyes, and she sent her thoughts skyward.
Find happiness, Mama. And please, Julian, don't blame yourself for this!
"Quit fucking around!" Margaux bent down, picked up Tessa's pistol, slipped it into her pocket. "She's already made enough noise to draw in the neighbors."
Tessa coughed again, croaked out the words, "Julian… will kill…!"
Margaux laughed. "No, Julian will die."
Tessa expected a bullet, but instead she found herself being held down, the man's knee in her back, his iron grip around her arm. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a syringe.
They were going to drug her.
"N-no!" She tried to pull her arm away, twisted, arched, kicked.
But he was too heavy. With his dead weight thrown over her, she couldn't budge. She felt a sharp poke and a rush of warmth in her vein.
"Not too much!" Margaux hurried across the room, unplugged Tessa's laptop and grabbed her files. "If she dies before she gets to Burien, he'll make you eat your balls."
They were taking her to Alexi Burien.
How could she have been so stupid? How could she have opened the door? If only she'd waited for Julian.
Julian!
Tessa wanted to fight back, wanted to leave some kind of clever clue for Julian. She wanted to warn him about Margaux. But a strange euphoria had muddled her mind, dulling her pain and fear, leaving her to drift in confusion.
Chapter 25
Julian sat at the bar at Pasha's, locked in the personality of Tony Corelli, while one of the three teenagers he'd pretended to screw this past week danced onstage. "She's really something! Ain't she something?"
Chet nodded, grinned, poured him another shot. "Great ass."
Julian smacked a ten onto the counter, saw Irena watching him from a nearby table where she sat topless on Sergei's lap, the misery in her eyes an indictment. He'd seen the bruises on her face, seen through the heavy layer of makeup to the signs of violence beneath. And although the bruises were proof of Sergei's brutality, Julian knew it was the emotional wounds that hurt Irena most.
Staying in character, he winked, blew her a kiss, smiled.
It was almost seven p.m., early in the evening for a place like this. The room reeked of booze and testosterone, alcohol putting a disorderly edge on the pervasive horniness. Up front, a group of college kids had just gotten started celebrating some guy's twenty-first birthday by doing body shots off one of the girls. The sullen forty-something in the southeast corner had been warned not to jerk off by the bouncer. Two guys who looked like they hadn't had a hard-on in twenty years watched the stage longingly.
Julian felt itchy. He wanted to get out of this hellhole and go home to Tessa. He wanted to try to clean up the mess he'd made with her. What did she mean she didn't expect anything from him? Did she really think he'd leave her to face an unplanned pregnancy alone? Did she think he cared so little for her that he'd knock her up and run?
Have you ever given her reason to think anything else, Darcangelo?
No, he hadn't. Well, that was going to change. He might not be able to marry her, but if she was pregnant he'd make damn good and sure she had everything she needed.
But he couldn't go home to her—not yet. His night here was only beginning. He'd made good use of his time behind the guarded doors this week to scope out cameras, alarms, exits. He knew there was a stairway near the rear exit that led down to a basement and that the stairway was always guarded. He knew eight men were usually on guard duty, armed discreetly with high-caliber pistols. Before he left tonight, he wanted to get another crack at that basement.
He'd passed all of this on to Irving, whose most trusted men were gradually infiltrating the neighborhood around Pasha's. One had gotten a job at the gas station. A team was always on watch in the upstairs hotel room, where tape was still rolling. Plainclothes officers now watched the parking lot twenty-four-seven, prepared to tag the white minivan with a GPS monitor the next time it showed up. Hopefully the device would give them the most important bit of information— where Burien was hiding.
The pieces were sliding into place.
"So you think she'll be free for a bit of nookie after her number?" Julian pointed to the dancer with a jerk of his head.
"Could be." Chet gave him a knowing grin. "Want me to check?"
Julian grinned, licked his lower lip. "Oh, yeah."
He hated doing this, hated himself for doing it, but she was his backstage pass. Unless he was a paying customer, the only way to get behind the guarded door was to start shooting, and it wasn't yet time for that. He'd just raised the shot glass to his lips when his cell rang. He pulled it from his pocket, glanced at the number.
It was Irving.
Julian answered with Tony Corelli's accent. "Yeah, I'm kinda tied up now."
"Get home now, Darcangelo."
Julian felt a hitch of fear in his stomach. 'Tessa?"
"Go now! I'll meet you there." Irving hung up.
Phone still in hand, Julian pushed blindly through the tables, past the bouncers, and toward the front door.
"Hey, Tony, what about—?"
"I gotta go!" he shouted back, forcing his way out the door.
Then he was running, oblivious to surprised stares, to oncoming traffic, to the slamming of his own heart. Through the parking lot. Down the street. Around the block. Up to his truck.
If Burien had her… If he'd killed her…
Oh, Christ!
Fear, cold and sharp, twisted in his gut.
He unlocked his truck, jumped behind the wheel, and tore off down the street, swerving to avoid a car backing out of its parking spot, just making the yellow light.
If Burien had hurt Tessa… If he had her…
His police scanner spat static—and a request for crime-scene cleanup at his address.
Jesus God, no!
He g
unned the engine, his blood slick with adrenaline, the seconds measured in heartbeats as he burned through the streets, the chaos in his mind fusing into a semblance of a prayer. "God, let her be alive! Let her be safe!"
Left onto Eleventh. Left onto Mariposa.
Squad cars. Red-blue-red-blue-red. An ambulance.
Let her be alive!
He burned rubber into the driveway and had just leapt from the driver's seat when he saw the EMTs step outside guiding a gurney. On it lay a body zipped in thick black plastic.
Dead?
Julian's heart burst inside his chest, knocked the air from his lungs, his throat constricting as if squeezed by invisible claws. Somehow he stayed on his feet, carried forward on wooden legs. 'Tessa?" he whispered.
His hand reached out of its own accord, tugged at the zipper.
The plastic fell open to reveal a man's face.
Not Tessa. Not Tessa. Not Tessa.
Breath filled his lungs, and his thoughts coalesced into a single burning question.
Where was she?
He shoved his way through his own front door, shouted for her. 'Tessa!"
"She's not here." Irving stood beside a pool of blood, talking with a detective.
And Julian knew.
Burien had her.
"Goddamn it!" Julian slammed his fist into the wall. "When?"
"Neighbors heard a couple shots, called it in. I'd say it's been about thirty minutes."
More than enough time for rape, for brutality, for torture. More than enough time to put her on a private plane headed for Mexico, Turkey, Serbia, or any one of a thousand places where men would be willing to pay for a pretty young blonde. More than enough time to pull a trigger.
Julian fought to control his regret, his rage, his fear. He needed to think clearly if he was going to find her.
You're a special agent, Darcangelo. Act like one.
He took in the scene at a glance, forced his mind to focus on the details—the intact door and lock, the disarmed alarm, the single pool of blood on the floor, Tessa's missing computer and files.
"Looks like an inside job to me," Irving said, echoing Julian's thoughts. "No sign of a break-in. The alarm didn't sound."