One Wrong Step (Borderline Book 2)

by Laura Griffin

  “It’s been pretty hectic,” Janice reported. “Are you on your way in?”

  A squeal of brakes diverted Celie’s attention outside. A woman jumped out of a tan sedan and rushed across the street. Before she could make it to the sidewalk, a white pickup skidded to a halt in front of her, blocking Celie’s view. A man leapt out of the truck.

  “Oh, God,” Celie muttered, lunging for the door. “Call 911!”

  CHAPTER

  11

  She raced outside and down the sidewalk.

  “Excuse me! Can I help you?” She sounded ridiculously perky, but she’d been trained to deffuse these situations using calm, pleasant tones.

  The man dragging this woman by her long brown hair didn’t look pleasant. His face was red with fury, and he was cursing a blue streak as he towed her toward his truck.

  “Is there a problem here?”

  “Mind your own business!” He jerked the woman closer to him, and she squeaked.

  “Let’s all calm down, okay?”

  “Don’t make trouble, Grady.” The woman’s voice was wobbly, and her face was streaked with mascara. “Just let me go.”

  Celie stepped closer. “The police are on their way, Grady.”

  “Yeah? Well, you tell ’em to fuck off! We’re leaving!”

  Celie stepped between him and the truck. “I don’t think so.”

  “Move it, bitch—”

  There was a sudden whoosh of air, and Grady landed facedown on the pavement. A shiny black combat boot pressed into his back, and T-Bone jerked his arms behind him.

  “This guy bothering you ladies?” T-Bone slipped off the belt from his black cargo pants and made quick work of binding the guy’s wrists. Grady yelled something, but whatever it was got muffled against the asphalt.

  “Thank you,” Celie said, feeling woozy now as she stared at Grady’s big, meaty hands. She glanced around for the woman and spotted her leaning against the wrought-iron fence. Janice was on her way down the sidewalk to open the gate.

  “Hey.” T-Bone gave Celie a sharp look. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  “But he was—”

  “I’m supposed to be on you like glue. That’s my job. And if you won’t let me inside your workplace, I’m going to have to ask you to take some time off.”

  Celie bit her lip. She’d told T-Bone to stay in his SUV in the parking lot because she didn’t want to explain his presence to anyone at the shelter. Now that conversation looked unavoidable. The police would arrive soon, and everything that had just happened would be written up in some report.

  Maybe she could pass T-Bone off as a boyfriend who’d been waiting to give her a lift….

  Grady squirmed and cursed under the boot, and T-Bone jerked him to his feet. A siren sounded in the distance. Police response times were typically slow in this part of town, but the Bluebonnet House got special consideration.

  “Sounds like your ride’s here.” T-Bone shoved the man down the sidewalk and forced him to sit on the curb well away from the gate.

  Celie’s cell phone buzzed, and she yanked it out of her jeans pocket to check the screen. John McAllister. Again. She knew what he wanted, and she’d been ducking his calls all day.

  She opened the phone. “Hi. This is a really bad time. Can we talk tomorrow?”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment, and she could almost hear his teeth grinding.

  “Did you set up the meeting?”

  She sighed. “Yes.”

  “When and where?”

  “You don’t need to worry about it.” She stepped onto the sidewalk as a police cruiser rolled to a stop down the block.

  “It that a siren ?” McAllister demanded.

  “Yes, but it has nothing to do with me.”

  “Where the hell are you?”

  “At the shelter. A guy just—”

  “I thought you were off this week!”

  “I was, but—”

  “Where’s your bodyguard?”

  “He’s right here.” Actually, he was on the corner talking to the cops as Grady sat on his butt arguing. “I can’t talk right now, McAllister.”

  “Just tell me when and where the meeting is, and I’ll let you go.”

  She tipped her head back and blew out a breath. “That’s not necessary, okay? My bodyguard can take me—”

  “Fine. But I want to be with you when you talk to the feds.”

  God, she did not have time for this discussion. And she knew a quick way to end it.

  “I don’t want you there, okay? This isn’t a press conference.”

  Celie cast a desperate look at T-Bone, who motioned her over with the jerk of his head.

  “I can’t believe you just said that.” McAllister’s voice was icy. “I told you, I’m not covering this—”

  “And I told you, I can’t talk right now! I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Celie snapped shut her phone, and set off to handle damage control.

  Rowe paced the cramped reading room, practically wearing a hole in the 1970s-era gold carpet. Cecelia Wells was late, and if he hadn’t been so sure she was going to turn up with something important to the investigation, he would have left fifteen minutes ago. Rowe didn’t like waiting on other people to do things, but oftentimes it was the nature of the job.

  Finally, a tap sounded at the door, and it swung open. A man swaggered into the room, leading with his enormous chest. His spikey hair was white-blond, and he looked like he had enough steroids in his system to supply a cattle ranch. This would be the bodyguard.

  Cecelia trailed behind him, glancing around apprehensively as the guy assessed the room. She mumbled something to him, and he stepped out, closing the door behind him.

  “Thanks for meeting me here,” she said, dropping her purse on the table. She wore a short-sleeved white shirt today and a skirt made of thin cotton fabric with an intricate blue-and-green pattern on it that made Rowe think of India.

  “No problem,” Rowe said, although it had been. He’d spent an hour and a half driving up from San Antonio to meet this woman—at her request—in a stuffy, windowless room on the fourth floor of UT’s main library, and she’d been half an hour late. If this meeting didn’t produce a good lead, he’d wasted his first day off in a month.

  Cecelia took a seat at the scarred wooden table, and Rowe followed suit. Not for the first time, he observed that she was attractive. It didn’t really factor into his investigation—it was simply a fact.

  “Thanks for coming alone, too,” she said.

  Rowe nodded. He’d been surprised by the request because women typically developed more of a rapport with Stevenski.

  She chewed her lip and looked at the table, as if uncertain where to begin.

  “What prompted you to call me?” Rowe asked, guessing by the welt on her cheek that something had happened.

  “I was contacted by some people who work for Saledo. I think they may be the men who killed Robert.” She sounded matter-of-fact, but Rowe wasn’t buying it.

  “How’d they contact you, exactly?”

  She took a deep breath and told him about being carjacked by a couple of thugs who had later left a threatening message on her answering machine. Rowe listened, trying to conceal his frustration. A pair of agents on Rowe’s team had been assigned to keep an eye on Cecelia, but obviously they were stretched too thin. They also were supposed to keep tabs on Kate Kepler, a waitress, and a convenience-store clerk. The task was next to impossible, but Rowe’s SAC wasn’t supplying enough local manpower for the team to do this job right.

  Cecelia continued talking, providing an impressively thorough description of her assailants. He wondered if her previous encounter with the court system had given her an eye for details, such as the body art preferences of scumbags.

  “…and so on Thursday,” she was saying, “they want me to show up with two hundred thousand dollars. Which I don’t have. That’s why I need you to help me.”

  Rowe noticed her stiff post
ure, the tight set of her mouth.

  “You’re sure you don’t have it?”

  She blinked at him. “I’m sure.”

  He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. She wanted his help. She needed it. In exchange, she was offering to bait some high-level drug traffickers into coming out of hiding to pick up the money. Whether they worked for Saledo or a rival like the Barriolo family, as Rowe now had reason to believe, it would be a substantive collar. Neither cartel would send street punks to pick up that kind of cash. It would have to be someone highly trusted in the organization.

  Rowe watched Cecelia, letting her stew for a few moments while he picked his tactic. There were a number of things Rowe liked about this woman, but she had a propensity for lying, and she didn’t do it very well.

  “How do you like working at the Bluebonnet House?” he asked.

  She seemed startled by this abrupt shift. “I like it fine.”

  “Not a great part of town, though, eh?”

  She eyed him warily.

  “I was over there the other day looking around. The parking lot’s full of potholes, the kids’ trikes are all beat up. The whole place is kind of a dump, if you ask me.”

  “They’re not running a day spa.”

  He leaned forward on his elbows. “No, I guess not. Looks like they’re spiffing up the place, though. New rec room, new landscaping. A new dormitory to sleep some more of those kids whose dads like to slap them around.”

  Cecelia bit her lip.

  “The director over there. Chantal? We talked briefly. She told me everything’s on the up and up. They ran a big capital campaign to raise all the money they’re using.”

  She sat perfectly still.

  “Things were pretty sluggish for a while,” he continued, “but back last October everything started to turn around. Local churches began donating money, thousands of dollars—all earmarked for the Bluebonnet House—that just dropped into their collection plates every Sunday for about two months.”

  Cecelia watched him, her knuckles white as she clasped her hands together.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

  She swallowed but remained silent. A full minute ticked by.

  “I didn’t think so.” Rowe leaned back finally. “Just thought I’d ask.”

  Her shoulders seemed to relax fractionally. She stared down at her hands for a moment, then back up at him. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t really need your help.”

  “I believe that.”

  “You get a chance to apprehend two well-connected criminals. But I can’t go out there empty-handed. And if I don’t go…” She looked down, shook her head, looked back up at him. “It’s not an option. I have to go. Will you help me?”

  T-Bone turned onto Rosedale Avenue and drove past a park where children were busy sliding and climbing. Celie watched them, feeling wistful and thinking how nice it would be to trade lives with one of those women sitting on the benches. She’d give anything to spend a leisurely Saturday afternoon chatting with girlfriends and watching her toddler play.

  Then the park was behind them and the Expedition rolled to a stop in front of a small yellow house with pale blue shutters.

  “We’re here,” he announced.

  Celie glanced around. This was it? The house looked all wrong. Not only was the color scheme too feminine, the quaint little postwar bungalow actually had a wreath on the door and flower boxes beneath the windows.

  “Are you sure you got the address right?” Celie asked. She’d asked T-Bone to track down McAllister’s home address while she was meeting with Rowe.

  “It’s six seventy-two,” T-Bone said, nodding at the plain white house across the street.

  Celie checked the numbers on the curb. The house had a simple, well-manicured lawn. No flowers. No decorations. That made more sense.

  Just then McAllister appeared in the side yard, pushing a lawn mower. He wore only gym shorts, a faded black baseball cap, and Tevas. He’d just finished emptying a load of grass clippings into a black garbage bag when he spotted the Expedition. Keeping an eye on it, he knotted the plastic yellow ties and heaved the bag over his shoulder.

  Celie got out of the SUV, and he stopped.

  “I shouldn’t be too long,” she told T-Bone. “Maybe half an hour? You can go do whatever, and I’ll call you when I need a ride home.”

  T-Bone glanced up and down the street. “I’ll wait here,” he said, cutting the engine.

  “Suit yourself.”

  Celie slammed shut the door and made her way across the thick, green lawn. McAllister watched her, his face unreadable. His biceps bulged from the weight of the Hefty bag, but he didn’t seem to notice. Celie approached him, trying not to gape at the broad expanse of his chest. His muscles were slick and shiny, and her stomach tightened.

  “I hope you don’t mind my stopping by,” she said. “I wanted to give you an update.”

  He looked over her shoulder, and his eyes narrowed. “Who’s that?”

  “My bodyguard. He took me to the meeting this afternoon.”

  His gaze veered back to her face. “Give me a minute,” he said gruffly.

  He was still angry, Celie realized as he turned his back on her and hauled the bag to the curb. She was fairly sure it was the press conference comment, but she didn’t regret making it. He’d wanted to be at the meeting today, but no matter what he’d said, Celie hadn’t trusted him not to be there as a reporter. Plus, even if he’d left his reporter’s notebook behind, she valued her privacy too much to let him in on all the messy details of her life. The less he knew about what she’d done and what she planned to do, the more she could control the situation. The more she could control him.

  Or so she hoped. Clearly, he was still ticked off, which made him difficult to predict.

  She followed him as he steered the mower up the drive. He stowed it in a rickety structure that at some point probably had been a one-car garage but now served as a storage shed. Celie waited beside his Jeep, her loose cotton skirt billowing around her calves, as she watched him lock the door with a padlock. Then he turned to face her and planted his hands on his hips.

  “You should have let me come with you,” he said.

  She couldn’t see his eyes well beneath the brim of the baseball cap, but his tone told her he was seething.

  God, he had an amazing build. She stood in front of him, trying to breathe normally while she struggled not to stare. But merely averting her eyes didn’t help because the rest of her senses were on high alert. He smelled like fresh-cut grass and male sweat, and even the hostile timbre of his voice was seductive. Everything she’d come over to tell him flew straight out of her head, and she had to fight the urge to reach out and run her fingertips over his washboard stomach.

  “Come inside,” he said. “I need a drink.”

  He led her up a few concrete steps to the back door. The screen squeaked as he pulled it back, and then he pushed the wooden door open and held it for her.

  She stepped into the house and paused a moment to let her eyes adjust to the shade. The kitchen was surprisingly spacious, but not fancy. Stand-alone appliances, linoleum floor, white walls, mint green tile counters. Very 1950s Leave It to Beaver. An old-fashioned telephone shelf was built into the far wall, but, instead of a phone, the nook was occupied by a pile of unopened mail.

  “You really live here?” she couldn’t help asking. Even without the flower boxes, it seemed so domestic.

  “I’m renting.” He abandoned his dirt-caked sandals on the back stoop and went straight to the fridge.

  Celie had expected more of a bachelor pad, something along the lines of his red speedboat. A bachelor pad would have been easy to hate. She would have pictured him bringing other women home and been completely turned off. But this place actually felt lived in, not like some chic apartment designed to impress girls. She walked across the kitchen and peeked at the living room. Black leather couch. Matching
armchair. Expensive-looking flat-screen TV. On the floor near the front door sat a milk crate filled with brightly colored, neatly coiled ropes, probably something he used for rappelling or rock climbing.

  This room was more what she’d envisioned.

  But then there were the glossy wood floors, which matched the floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases. The shelves were crammed with hardbacks, paperbacks, and yellow-spined National Geographics. Celie was dying to step closer and read some of the book titles. She was curious to know what he liked.

  “Thirsty?”

  She whirled around. He was standing there in the light of the open refrigerator, resting a tanned forearm on the door as he leaned down and rooted around inside. The muscles in his back rippled, and Celie promptly forgot whatever he’d just asked her.

  He straightened and looked at her. “I’m having water. Want some?”

  Suddenly she couldn’t breathe, let alone talk. What had she been thinking, avoiding him for so long? She’d never, ever had a chance to be with a man like him. He was perfect. Beautiful. Give the guy a slingshot and he could pass for Michelangelo’s David. Just the thought of his putting his hands on her made her dizzy.

  He closed the fridge with his elbow as he unscrewed the top to his water. By the time he got the bottle to his lips, she was nearly panting. He stopped, midswig, and lowered the bottle. “You okay?”

  She needed to leave. Now. If she stayed here so much as a minute longer, she was going to throw herself at him.

  A dull roaring filled her ears, and her feet refused to move. She experienced a déjà vu taking her back to that day in the storage unit when she’d discovered the cash. She’d heard roaring then, too, as she’d stared at all that money, knowing she should stay far away from it. It didn’t belong to her. She had no business taking it, and yet she couldn’t resist. It was the answer to one of her problems, unexpectedly sitting right there under her nose.