by Julie Miller
The chocolate brownie burned like acid in her stomach.
No memory? No damn way she could help him.
Liza withdrew, both literally and figuratively, reaching behind her for the doorknob. “I’d better go in, and get into a hot shower before all these bumps and bruises take hold. I’m sorry I thought that driver was you. I know you’re one of the good guys.”
“Please, Liza.” He stepped forward, she backed away.
Understanding his pain and frustration, she tried to summon an apologetic smile, but failed. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Good night, Kincaid.”
His hands fisted at his sides, and the effort it took to hold himself still and stop pushing the issue emanated from him in waves. “Good night, Parrish.”
She stood there in the open doorway, clutching the knob behind her, wanting to reach out to the sorrow tempered by confusion etched on his face. Wanting to say something, but fairly certain that nothing she could explain about amnesia or her own losses or good intentions would give him comfort.
He must have misread her silence. “I’m not moving until I hear you lock the door on the other side.”
“Oh.” Embarrassed that she couldn’t seem to separate what she should do from what that lonely nugget of need inside her wanted to do, Liza turned and went inside, closing the door behind her and bolting it. There was no sense prolonging their goodbyes or wanting anything besides to be left alone.
Suddenly drained of energy, Liza leaned against the door’s sturdy support. “You are a piece of work, Liza Parrish. Not only do you not help the man, but you probably made him feel even worse.”
Of course, after that encounter with Holden Kincaid, she wasn’t feeling real whippy, either.
For several seconds, she stood there, her palms and forehead pressed against the wood. But then she caught a glimpse of movement through her front window and breathed out a resigned sigh when she saw Holden jogging down the sidewalk and disappearing into the night.
A warm, furry body brushed up against her legs, eliciting a smile and reminding Liza she wasn’t completely alone. When she didn’t immediately respond, Cruiser butted her nose beneath Liza’s hand.
“What is it, girl?” Liza scratched the dog’s ears as she pulled away from the door. The aging greyhound sat in Liza’s path, twisting back one ear and staring up with her soft brown eyes. “No, I am not going to invite him inside for comfort food. And he’s not that hot. We’re like Romeo and Juliet—I’m not allowed to like him.”
Cruiser turned and heeled beside her as Liza went into the kitchen to freshen their water for the night. Liza could almost imagine the dog communicating with her.
“Okay, so maybe he is hot, if you go for that square-jawed, clever, buttinsky type.” Liza set the last dish on the floor and realized Bruiser had joined them—probably to see if there was anything new to eat in his dish. But Liza imagined he was giving her the same knowing look. “So he needs me to rescue him. I can’t.”
The greyhound cocked her head to one side while the terrier trotted forward, both responding to Liza’s voice. “Don’t look at me like that. Dogs, I can help. But Kincaid? His family?” She tapped the side of her head. “I’m kind of useless to them right now.”
Great. Now Yukon appeared at the kitchen archway, checking to see what the discussion was all about. “Not you, too.”
He walked his legs out in front of him and lay down. Like the others, his eyes and ears were attuned to every word. “We do not need a man in our lives—especially that one. I’ll do what I can, but you have to forget that you ever met him.” Liza frowned down at her three canine consciences. “I have to forget him, too.”
MR. SMITH HUNG BACK IN the doorway, one hand tucked casually into the slacks pocket of his Prada suit. He was content to observe and evaluate until summoned. The older woman who’d called him away from his extended stay in the Cayman Islands strutted across the office toward the boss. He’d done work for both of them in the past, and had been paid handsomely for his expertise. He had no loyalty one way or the other, but he intended to end up on the winning side should this reunion not go well.
This was the first time in a long while that both of the big players in Z Group were together in the same room. Mr. Smith waited for the nostalgia to kick in. Once, their team had worked to maintain the status quo between hemispheres during the Cold War. Later, Z Group had infiltrated Communist Europe and helped pave the way for democracy. Those had been important times. It hadn’t been all about the money back then.
Now, a generation of patriots had become movers and shakers in the world. Profiteers. The government had officially closed Z Group’s covert operations when the Cold War had ended. But these two had seen an opportunity. With operatives in place, a market for arms and technology at the ready and secrecy assured, it had been a cakewalk to turn their talents into cash.
Would this East meets West meeting be a joining of forces? Or a clash of titans?
They greeted each other with smiles and traded hugs.
Nothing. But then, Mr. Smith didn’t do misty-eyed and sentimental.
He’d stand back and watch these two take their trip down memory lane, and silently place a bet as to which one of them really had the power these days, and would garner his loyalty.
“How did you get in?”
The older woman, looking as if she were poured into her expensive suit, laughed. “Your assistant believes I’m interviewing for the public relations position you advertised.”
“I can’t believe you’re here.” The boss gestured to a seat across the desk. “Are you sure it’s safe to be in the United States again? What if someone recognizes you?”
“It’s been thirty years since any of my old friends have seen me. Not even my own family would recognize me. No one knows who I am.”
“John Kincaid did.”
She smiled. It was as beautiful and cold as Mr. Smith remembered. “Yes, but who is he going to tell?”
Refusing to be baited, the boss unhooked the top button of his Armani jacket and sat. That one was a cool customer, too. As far as Mr. Smith could tell, this pissing match was dead even.
Instead of taking her seat, the woman leisurely circled the posh office, casually stroking her fingers behind the boss’s crisp collar, then moving on to inspect photos and awards. “This is nice. I see you’ve done very well for yourself.”
“I’ve earned it.”
Mr. Smith pulled back his sleeve and checked the time. His gold Rolex stood out in sharp contrast against his dark skin. He wasn’t worried about the time, or even nervous about the silence. Inspecting his nice things was just something he liked to do.
“Weren’t my communiqués clear?” The boss sitting at the desk broke the quiet first, indicating a defensiveness that tipped the balance of power to the curvy woman’s favor. “I told you I’ve taken care of anyone who could possibly find out that Z Group still exists. James McBride, Laura Zook, Charlie Rogers, Leroy Maynard—”
“That’s a lot of dead bodies in a short period of time.”
“No one can trace the deaths back to me. I handled it like you did things in the old days. I recruited the talent I needed from prison to carry out each mission, and then eliminated them.” The boss’s blue-eyed gaze crossed the room to where Mr. Smith stood. “Or, I used people I can completely trust.”
The woman’s red lips curved with a sardonic laugh. “And who might that be, darling?”
Hands curled into fists, the boss rose behind the desk. “I’ve fooled the FBI and the local constabulary for months now. They have no idea that I’m connected to any of those crimes—or that you even exist.”
“Overconfidence makes you foolish.” Now the claws were coming out. “When John Kincaid’s own son comes to Europe and starts digging up graves and running DNA tests, then that makes me think you’re not getting the job done here.”
“I gave your son, Tony Fierro, the job of finding out exactly what Atticus Kincaid and that mousy woman he now thinks he wants to
marry knew about us. Tony screwed up and became the problem himself. I had to silence him as well.”
If he was given to laughter, Mr. Smith would have guffawed at the irony. He’d been given the task of silencing Fierro. But apparently, Mommie Dearest felt no grief.
“Is there any wonder why I never claimed Tony as my own? He was eager to please, yes, but incompetent. It shows your incompetence to rely on him.” She waved her red-tipped nails toward the door. “That’s why I called in Mr. Smith.”
That was his cue to come all the way into the room. He pulled the manila envelope from beneath his arm and strode to the desk, looking down at both the woman he currently answered to, and the boss who’d paid for his services just a few short months ago.
“For what purpose? You can’t kill Atticus Kincaid or any of his brothers. You’ll have the whole of KCPD breathing down our necks, scrutinizing their every contact, every old girlfriend, every high-school buddy. I’ve had a profitable arrangement with the police department for several years now. I don’t want to jeopardize that.”
“Don’t be so dramatic.” The older woman finally sat, crossing her long legs and nodding to Mr. Smith to continue. “There’s a simpler solution. Mr. Smith has already uncovered some information that you were unable to. Report.”
Mr. Smith set the dossier of ten names on the desk top and pushed it across to the boss. “I’ve located the last of the Friedman Animal Clinic employees. Their addresses and phone numbers are there, as well as photographs so I can identify them on sight.”
Sitting to peruse the file, the boss thumbed through the pages. “And we’re certain the Friedman clinic is the one that was called to pick up that stray mutt the night we took care of John Kincaid?”
Mr. Smith nodded. His deep, theatrically-trained voice resonated through the office. “They’re a private practice, not a public service unit. Unless there’s a criminal action involved, beyond the initial phone call record and the health evaluation on the dog, they don’t keep detailed reports after six months. So it’s not clear who responded to the call. Only that one of their employees was in the dock area that night.”
“My contacts at KCPD mentioned a possible witness. But if anyone came forward, their information must not have been enough to make an arrest.” The boss closed the file and leaned back. “All three of us were there at that warehouse that night. It’s been six months and the three of us are still here, still free. I haven’t even been questioned. The witness must be unreliable, of no consequence.”
The older woman laughed, but there was no humor. “Do you really want to risk that? According to your reports, Sawyer Kincaid was the first to discover there was a larger conspiracy involved in his father’s murder—that it wasn’t just a crime against a cop. Allowing that was your first mistake.”
“I wanted to kill John outright,” the boss argued. “You’re the one who made it personal.”
Ignoring the accusation, the older woman continued. “The information his brother, Atticus, uncovered could expose our entire operation—if he had a name or face to link it to.”
The boss was no fool. “And this witness of yours might be able to provide that name or face, and give them a case.” Mr. Smith felt the boss’s scrutiny, felt the understanding that he was the final option who would make this entire mess go away. “And how, exactly, do you intend to narrow down the list of clinic employees and find out which one of them saw us that night?”
“Process of elimination. I intend to spice things up a bit. We’ll see who the police work the hardest to protect. And that,” concluded the woman, “will be our witness.”
Mr. Smith nodded. “Within twenty-four hours of identification, that witness will be dead.”
“No trace?” asked the boss.
The question was insulting. “I never leave a trace.”
The boss grinned from ear to ear as though a giant weight had been lifted. “I like dead.”
Chapter Four
“Can you hear my voice, Liza?”
“Yes.” Her voice was a drowsy murmur. The pillow behind her head was soft, the strains of New Age music filtering through her ears even softer.
“Tell me, what do you see?”
Blackness. Liza’s hands fisted in the pillow she clutched over her stomach as a slight panic speared her.
“Shh. Easy, Liza. Don’t be frightened. I’m right here with you.” The scents of lavender and vanilla teased her nose. Some drowsy part of her mind suspected that Dr. Jameson had lit another one of those mood candles that, like the soft music and silk mask blocking the light, were meant to relax her. “Do you remember the eye mask you’re wearing?” She nodded. “That’s the blackness you see. Let it go and look further inside.”
Liza pictured the black mask she wore and then shut it away in an imaginary box, the same way her therapist had instructed her to dismiss the other sensory objects in the room. As her initial panic subsided, she drifted back to that floaty place in her mind where sight and sound, taste and touch had no meaning.
“Now you’re relaxed.” Just when she thought she might actually fall asleep, the scent in the room changed, stinging her nose. The sweet smells became something dank and moldy, and suddenly she was back at the docks along the Missouri River, on one dark, fateful night when her life had changed.
Liza tensed, hearing the lap of the current against the dock pylons and rocky banks. She was moving through shadows, feeling the damp, uneven pavement of the run-down area beneath her running shoes as she searched each alley with her flashlight.
Directed dreaming, according to Dr. Jameson’s research. He was stimulating her senses while in a suggestive state, guiding her mind toward a specific memory.
“Are you there, Liza?” Jameson asked quietly. “Do you see the warehouse?”
She nodded. “I hear him. Just a soft whimper. He doesn’t come when I whistle. He doesn’t bark.” There. Two small orbs reflecting her light from beneath a Dumpster. “I see him. He’s skin and bones. He’s not getting up. He must be so afraid. Here, boy.” She made a kissing sound twice with her lips. “Come here.”
“Never mind the dog. The dog is fine. He’s safe with you now.” Yes. Bruiser recovered. He was fit and sassy and ruling the roost at her house. The doctor paused to let her shuffle the information in her mind and settle back into that relaxed, suggestive state. “After you found the dog that night, what happened?”
“I heard the explosion. Two explosions. Bruiser was so starved and dehydrated that he didn’t even jump at the sound.”
“Forget the damn dog.” The slight edge in Dr. Jameson’s voice crept into her consciousness. “Those were gunshots, Liza. What did you do when you heard the gunshots?”
“I hid.” She flattened her back against the rough brick wall, crouching down behind a pile of stinky garbage bags. “I’m hugging the dog close and muzzling him with my hand so he doesn’t make any noise. The pavement is wet.”
“Are you afraid?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you afraid?”
“I don’t want them to see me.”
“Who are you hiding from?”
“The men in the car.” Where had the car come from? When did the men drive up? Her head was working in funny ways, skipping over chunks of time. Or maybe these were the only fragments she could remember.
“Can you see the car?”
“It’s black. Big.”
“I want you to move closer, Liza. Slide along the wall and get a better look. Be very quiet.”
Obeying the command, she peeked through the narrow gaps between the plastic garbage bags.
“Do you see the car more clearly now?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of car is it?”
“Big.”
“Look closer. Do you see a logo? A word that tells you what kind of car it is?”
She squinted and leaned in. “There’s a logo on the front grill. A circle with three flags or shields…Wait. It’s a black Buick.”
>
A shiver shook Liza on the couch as a black SUV very like the one that had nearly squished her on the road last night took shape in her mind. So powerful. So fast. So deadly.
“You’re all right, Liza. No one can see you.” Jameson wanted her to relax. “What does the license plate read?”
With the mix of memories, doors were slamming shut in her mind. “I can’t see it.”
“Take a deep breath and look again.”
She shoved against one of the doors that was trying to close. “It’s white. No, blue. It’s white with a blue design on it.”
“What do the letters say? The numbers? Look carefully.”
Her knees felt scraped and wet as she scooted closer to the garbage. She lowered her gaze to the license plate. But a blinding pain flashed behind her eyes, as though she were looking straight into a pair of headlights. “I can’t. I can’t.”
“Breathe deeply. In through your nose, out through your mouth.” By the time she pulled back from the lights, that door in her memory had locked shut. But the questions were still coming. “Is anyone inside the car?”
“Two men.”
“A white man and a black man?”
She’d been to this place before. Seen these men. Told this story. Why did she have to go back? “Yes.”
“Is anyone else in the car with them?”
“Someone’s getting in.”
“Who?”
There was another flash of pain, another roadblock. “I don’t know.”
“What does he look like?”
“I can’t see.”
“Move closer. Take your time. Look harder.”
“No. They’ll hurt me if they see me. They’ll hurt the dog if they find us.” Fear, not clarity, snuck into her memories. Her head throbbed as she grew more agitated. The shadowy docks became an empty, bloodstained living room. She flashed back to the speeding SUV and diving for the curb. “The dog will try to protect me. They’ll shoot him. I have to hide.”
“They can’t see you. Or the dog. Tell me about the man getting into the car.”
“No.” She was fidgeting, afraid, trapped in a blend of nightmares. Someone climbing into the back of the vehicle at the docks. A police officer in her parents’ home, asking her to identify her slain parents and dog. Speeding cars. Seeing ghosts. Holden Kincaid on her front step, looking so like his father, demanding her help. “No!”