No, he would have to be satisfied with watching. And wondering.
Headlights came from around the corner of the building, sweeping across the ground where they lay. He ducked his head so that nothing showed but a dark hump, like all the other dark humps of rocks, and made sure Juliet did the same. As soon as darkness settled again, he eased his head up and watched as the car parked next to the trailer being unloaded and the driver climbed out.
It was Hal Stuart.
He joined Maxwell Brown on the platform, his hands in his pockets, his expression grim, and watched the men work. Where it appeared business as usual for Brown, Hal seemed uneasy, as if he’d rather be anywhere in the world than here. He paced back and forth, gave only brief answers whenever anyone spoke to him and used impatient gestures when he spoke.
When the last crate was unloaded, a driver climbed into the cab and pulled the truck away. A second trailer, painted dark blue and bearing the name of a different shipping company, backed into the same space, and Hal and Brown went inside.
Why a different company? There was nowhere Big Blue Shipping out of Cheyenne, Wyoming, could go that Grand Springs Trucking couldn’t. Maybe there was some odd stipulation in a contract specifying that separate companies handle each leg of the shipment. Or maybe it was simple subterfuge. If a law enforcement agency suspected that Grand Springs Trucking was involved in smuggling, they would pay closer attention to those trucks. They might search a Grand Springs truck or put a dog through it, but not look twice at a Big Blue truck.
Last time, once Brown had gone inside, they had left. Tonight Martin waited. Five minutes stretched into ten. Ten became twenty. He became aware of a rock pressing against his knee and moved to a more comfortable position. Beside him, Juliet did the same, sending a small shower of dirt down the hill to bounce off the rocks below.
The men were loading the second trailer with packing boxes of the sort used to move household goods. They brought them out on dollies, two and three at a time in varying sizes. Martin counted more than thirty before he gave up. Several loads later, they began bringing out furniture. A legitimate shipment?
The need to rub the back of his neck was the only answer Martin required.
Once the truck was loaded, the driver left. For a few moments, the rumble of the engine filled the night, then faded away somewhere toward the interstate. Hal and Brown came out once again and walked to the steps, where Brown extended his hand. Hal clearly didn’t want to take it, but did, switching the briefcase he carried to his left hand, giving Brown a swift handshake. He hurried down the steps, put the briefcase in the trunk, then drove away. Five minutes later Maxwell Brown drove away, and ten minutes after that, the workers shut off all but the perimeter lights and left.
Martin tapped Juliet on the shoulder, then moved down into the ditch. They worked their way back to the car, then drove home in silence. At the house, she went straight into the dining room and sat down in front of the computer. He watched as she clicked her way through a search. After the last futile try, she faced him and shrugged. “It seems funny saying this after seeing that big blue truck, but apparently Big Blue Shipping doesn’t exist.”
Why wasn’t he surprised?
“You think it’s drugs.”
He nodded.
“And Hal’s involved. Do you think he uses?”
“Probably not. Most dealers don’t.”
She looked surprised. He felt it. Granted, he didn’t like Hal Stuart, but that didn’t make it any easier to reconcile the popular image of a drug dealer with the clean-cut, well-dressed, respected lawyer. But major drug dealers were often clean-cut, well-dressed businessmen. They didn’t use their product; they didn’t sell to others to support their own habits; they considered the selling of drugs a business, nothing more.
“He probably got into it for the money,” Juliet said softly. “It must have seemed an easy way to bring in a little extra cash, tax free and—with the right precautions—practically risk free.”
“Until his mother found out.”
“Do you think he killed her?”
Instinct said no. Hal Stuart might be many things, but a murderer wasn’t one of them. He couldn’t arrange his own mother’s death just to protect his sideline, no matter how profitable. “I think Maxwell Brown killed her. Hal probably didn’t know anything about it. He might still be in the dark.”
She shook her head. “He must suspect something. He’s not a stupid man. He doesn’t want us looking into her death, and we both think that what everyone else excuses as grief is more likely guilt. Even if he doesn’t know for a fact that Brown had Olivia killed, he must suspect it.”
“I don’t understand him. If I thought that my partner had killed a member of my family, I’d find out the truth, then kill the bastard. But Hal is still doing business with Brown. Maybe…” But he didn’t have any maybes to offer. No excuses. And why would he want to make excuses for Hal Stuart, anyway? He didn’t even like the guy.
“So what do we do now? Go to the police?”
“And tell them what? That Brown’s shipping boxes out of his trucking company warehouses? You think that’s going to make Stone sit up and take notice?” He shook his head. “We do what we’ve been doing. We snoop. We watch. We wait. And when we get proof, then we go to the police.”
* * *
When Juliet arrived at her office Monday morning, Mariellen’s desk was, not surprisingly, empty. She left her purse in her office, then went into the common area for a cup of coffee. Stone stood beside his desk, pulling on a jacket that hid his holster while Jack Stryker waited impatiently. She wondered where they were off to in such a hurry, but didn’t ask.
Back in her office, she settled in front of the computer and wondered how late Mariellen would be today. She wondered what Martin was doing, how he would pass the next few hours until their lunch date at twelve. She wondered about the two bulletins she had sent out, the missing persons report and the request for information on gunshot victims, and when or if she would ever get back a response.
She wondered about everything in the world except work. This was so unlike her. She’d never been one to let her personal life interfere with her work…but then, she’d never really had a personal life. For thirty-four years she’d been so dull and dreary, the human equivalent of a bump on a log. This was the first time she’d ever felt truly alive and vital. It might not do much for her work, but she liked the feeling.
With a sigh, she forced her attention to the computer. Once the new system was completely up and running, she would be spending a good portion of her time offering instruction to the officers who would use it. She had a knack for stripping highly technical applications down to their simple, A-B-C bones. At her last job, one of her co-workers had commented that she’d be great teaching children. The only children she had any interest in teaching were her own, and at the time, she’d thought she would never have any. But maybe she would—tough little blond-haired, blue-eyed boys and sweet little girls. Maybe—
She made a face at the computer screen, then concentrated hard. For all her careless talk last week about losing her job, she couldn’t afford to find herself unemployed.
She was in serious working mode a half hour later when Mariellen came into the office. “Hi,” she greeted, dropping into the chair. “You busy?”
Juliet unclenched her jaw. “You’re late.”
“Hmm? Oh, yeah. Just a little. Hey, did you hear the news? The Denver police arrested Dean Springer this morning. On a routine traffic stop. Can you believe it? The guy’s driving through town just before the sun’s up enough to turn his lights off, and he gets stopped for a broken taillight. He’s got a fake driver’s license, and there’re no wants or warrants, but the cop knows he’s seen the guy before, and boom, just as Springer’s about to drive off, the cop remembers the state-wide notification and pops him. The guy’s evaded arrest on murder charges for months, and a little thing like a broken taillight brings him down. Can you believe it?�
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A shiver of something—anticipation? excitement? fear?—rustled down Juliet’s spine. What she knew—apparently, what anyone knew—about Dean Springer wouldn’t fill the blank space on a postage stamp. Would he prove more closemouthed than his accomplice, Joanna Jackson, or would he readily name his boss? She supposed it depended on one thing: was he more afraid of prison or Maxwell Brown?
She had little doubt that, if Springer named names, Brown’s would come first. She wasn’t sure if she was trusting her own instincts or Martin’s, but she was sure that Maxwell Brown had played a part in Olivia’s death. Maybe he ordered it or maybe he merely arranged it for Hal, but he was responsible.
“Stone and Jack have gone to Denver to pick him up and bring him back here. This is the first break they’ve had in months, so they must be pretty excited. It’s really bothered everyone, you know, that they’re able to solve all their other cases but not the most important one. I mean, everyone wants to see Olivia’s killers punished. Especially Hal and Eve. I wonder if they know—”
“If they don’t, it’s not your place to tell them.” Judging by Mariellen’s wounded look, Juliet’s tone was sharper than she’d intended, but she didn’t apologize. If Hal was as guilty as they believed, the last thing she wanted was for him to have advance warning that the police were about to close in on him. He was liable to flee, and they would never find him again.
Mariellen got to her feet. “I would never take it on myself to break such news to anyone. I told you only because you’re part of the department. You’d hear it, anyway. I’d better get to work.”
Now Juliet did feel as if she should apologize. But she didn’t leave her desk. Instead, she thought about Martin. He should know, but she couldn’t just leave work and tell him. She couldn’t call him, either, since he had no phone at his apartment. He might not be home, anyway. He might have had things to do before lunch.
Her gaze strayed to the clock. And strayed. And strayed. By the time the hands read eleven-forty-five, she was too antsy to wait any longer. She grabbed her purse, clocked out and headed outside. It was a warm day, and the restaurant was only four blocks away, so she bypassed her car and headed down the street.
She was crossing the street to the last block when two men came out of a building a few short yards ahead: Hal Stuart and Maxwell Brown. Hal was carrying a black nylon bag, the sort used for a laptop computer, and he looked agitated. Brown looked the same as always. His suit was impeccably tailored, his smile practiced, friendlier than the look in his eyes. Neither man noticed her right away, but her steps slowed, anyway. The sidewalk wasn’t broad enough to leave her a comfort zone to pass them. She could cross the street, but it would seem odd if anyone noticed, and the last thing she wanted was to make either man think something was odd. Drawing a deep breath, she cast her gaze to the ground and forged ahead as if deep in thought and unaware that she shared the sidewalk with anyone.
It wasn’t a smart move. She drew close enough to hear Hal murmur, “Not going anywhere with you!” then his hand closed around her arm and shoved her hard toward Brown. As she stumbled backward, he broke into a run, darting into the street and bringing traffic to a screeching halt, all the while shouting, “Help! Help! He’s got a gun!”
Pedestrians stopped on the sidewalk, drivers climbed out of their cars, and, from down the block, two police officers came running.
Juliet staggered to a stop against the brick wall, banging her head hard enough to make her eyes sting. Before she could think, before she could make sense of what was happening, the two officers were crouched behind a car in the street, their guns drawn.
“Put the gun down, Mr. Brown.”
Gun? Gun? Juliet swung around to look at the man beside her. He held a nasty-looking pistol in one hand and was muttering to himself. “Stupid bastard. I should have killed him when I took care of—” Abruptly he looked at her, and an unholy light came into his eyes. Too late she tried to move, tried to push away from the wall and flee, but her body was heavy, her brain too muddled to send the proper commands.
The same officer spoke again. “Mr. Brown, whatever the problem is, we can talk it out. Just put—”
He jerked her away from the wall, holding her as a shield with his arm tight across her shoulders. A murmur of shock went up from the bystanders when he pressed the cold, dark barrel of the gun beneath her chin. “You put too much faith in talk,” he said, his voice loud in Juliet’s ear. “I’ll talk, all right. With someone who can guarantee me safe passage out of here. Get the chief over here. Oh, and tell him I’ve got a hostage.”
Chapter Eleven
Martin was waiting outside the restaurant when a commotion arose down the street. From the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street, a man ran into the road, traffic skidded to a stop, and horns blared. The guy was yelling something, but Martin was too far away to hear the words. He saw great dramatic gestures, though, and, even from this distance, recognized fear.
Pushing away from the wall, he rubbed the back of his neck as he took a few steps in that direction. The rub didn’t ease the sudden discomfort there. Neither did the distant wail of sirens. He glanced down the street in each direction. People were gathering, making their way toward the end of the block, talking excitedly among themselves. He should see Juliet among those people. It was nearly noon, time for her to meet him here. If she’d driven, her car should be among those stopped in the street. If she’d walked…
He began running, dodging people, pushing into the street where there were fewer obstacles. Just as he neared the cars where two cops had taken cover, a gunshot sounded, its noise muffled by all the surrounding sound but shattering just the same. Bystanders screamed, dropped to the ground or ran away. Martin ran even faster toward the commotion.
“Smith!” One of the cops grabbed him, yanked him down behind a car. “He’s not going to hurt her. She’ll be all right.”
Twisting around to face the office building, he saw what the fear had already known, what the ache in his neck had meant. Maxwell Brown was struggling with the door of the building. The gunshot had been a warning to the officers not to try anything while he forced his hostage inside.
His hostage. Juliet.
Finally Brown succeeded, dragging Juliet inside and out of sight. The last thing Martin saw before the door was kicked shut again was her face. Her eyes. Her terrified, pleading blue eyes.
He sank to the pavement, sick inside. He’d known better than to involve her in this mess. He’d worried about her safety, but he hadn’t stopped. He hadn’t backed off and done whatever was necessary to keep her out of danger. Now, thanks to him, she was in more danger than either of them had ever imagined. Now, thanks to him, she might die. Then he surely would.
How had Brown known? They had never come face-to-face with him. They had never done a thing to attract his attention. Sure, he’d seen her car parked out in front of his house one night, but people parked on the streets, even in his neighborhood, and he hadn’t seen them. What in hell had made him suspicious of her?
Just then his gaze connected with someone in the crowd, and he knew he had his answer. There was such distress on Hal Stuart’s face. Such guilt.
Martin surged to his feet and shoved through the crowd. At the same time, Hal began walking away, excusing himself politely at first, then shoving people out of his way. He was near the intersection when Martin caught him, grabbing handfuls of his suit coat, pushing him against the wall. “What the hell have you done?”
“I— I haven’t— I didn’t—” Hal drew a breath, then pulled his indignation around him like a cloak. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. The man is obviously crazy. Your little friend apparently angered him, and he—”
“Yeah, right.”
Still holding Hal, Martin turned to see a boy of about twelve leaning against the wall nearby. “You see what happened?”
“They came out of the building together—him and that other guy. The woman was just walking by, and
he—” he jerked his head toward Hal “—grabbed her and shoved her at the other guy, then ran away.” The boy’s voice turned scornful. “He used her to get away.”
For a moment Hal tried to bluster his way through. Then his shoulders sagged. “He had a gun. He would have killed me.”
Martin could kill him. It would be so easy to wrap his hands around the bastard’s neck and squeeze the life out of him one precious breath at a time. He could snap his neck, or he could just beat him to a bloody, lifeless pulp right here on the street. So easy.
But he didn’t. He leaned forward, closer than he’d ever been to anyone but Juliet, close enough to make Hal flinch and try to press himself right into the stone at his back. “Big mistake, pal,” he whispered. “Because if he kills her, if he hurts her in any way, I’ll kill you, and it won’t be as quick and easy as a bullet to the head. I’ll make you suffer, you worthless son of a bitch. I’ll make you beg to die. Do you understand?”
His expression one of pure terror, Hal managed a nod.
Martin backed off a step or two, released his hold on the coat, smoothed the wrinkles, then clamped his fingers around Hal’s arm. “Get over here. The police will need your help.”
Other officers had arrived and were blocking off the area, moving spectators back. One tried to block Martin’s way, but took one look at his face and stepped aside.
“What the hell’s going on here?” Chief Sanderson demanded.
“We have a hostage situation, sir,” one of the first two cops on the scene volunteered.
“You told me that on the radio. What hostage? What situation? Where are they?”
“They’re in Stuart’s office building,” Martin replied. “Seems Maxwell Brown got a little ticked off with Hal.”
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