Rowe’s cell buzzed. He checked the number and snapped it open. “Any updates?”
“I’ve got good news and bad,” Stevenski said. “Which do you want to hear first?”
Rowe hated this case. “Bad.”
“Okay, Zapata’s team down in Michoacán has some new info. About eighteen hours ago they recorded a phone call—from a San Antonio pay phone again—informing Saledo his guy had been arrested trying to intercept the money, and his two hundred thou had been seized by the feds.”
“Let me guess,” Rowe said. “Saledo wasn’t happy.”
“No, he was pissed.”
Rowe gritted his teeth. This was precisely why Rowe had been arguing with George Purnell about the need to get Cecelia Wells to a safe house. But the SAC, who suffered from a lack of funds and an even bigger lack of imagination, had said that was unnecessary. Saledo knew his money was gone, right? So why should the FBI waste resources babysitting a civilian who no longer had plans to act as bait in an important sting operation? As a token measure, Purnell had assigned an agent to keep tabs on Cecelia for a few days.
“I’m not hearing any good news,” Rowe said, imagining yet another civilian casualty on his conscience.
“The good news is, Manny Saledo seems to have completely lost interest in Cecelia Wells.”
“I find that difficult to believe.”
The hospital doors parted, and out came Kate in a wheelchair pushed by her father. She was trailed by a hospital staffer laden with overnight bags and a floral bouquet. James Kepler rolled Kate to the curb, where his covertible sat waiting.
“Believe it,” Stevenski said. “Saledo told his informant to get his ass down to Michoacán. Saledo’s convinced there’s a power struggle afoot, and he’s gathering his guys together for a meeting.”
James Kepler opened the car door and helped his daughter in, taking care not to disturb her arm, it looked like. Kate wore sunglasses, a black tank top, and white shorts that showed off her slender legs. Rowe couldn’t take his eyes off her, or the sling, and he wondered once again how bad her pain was.
“What’s that mean, ‘power struggle.’ Is there something going on we don’t know about?”
Stevenski scoffed. “Of course. We don’t know shit. But we do know that there’s an elevated level of chatter among all the major families. And this isn’t the first time we’ve heard this rumor about a power struggle. Saledo’s circling the wagons, it sounds like.”
In an ideal world, it wouldn’t matter. Cecelia Wells would have her safe house, Enrique Ramos would have a mother who gave a shit, and Kate Kepler would have a full-time FBI bodyguard to protect her for the rest of her long life.
“So let me guess,” Rowe said. “Purnell is using this new intelligence as an excuse to nix the safe house idea for Cecelia Wells.”
“You got it. The safe house is officially off the table, but he’s agreed to keep surveillance for the next couple weeks until things settle down with Saledo.”
Kate’s dad loaded her luggage into the Tesla’s minuscule trunk and got behind the wheel. The nurse gave Kate the flowers and waved good-bye as the car eased forward. Rowe watched it pull away from the hospital with a soreness in his chest.
John pushed through The Overlook’s beveled glass doors and mustered a smile for the security guard behind the counter.
“Hey, Terrance, how’s it going?”
This was John’s fifth visit to Celie’s building in two days, and he knew damn well he was making a pest of himself. His boundless knowledge of Houston Rockets trivia was the only thing keeping him in Terrance’s good graces.
“She in?” John asked, as he approached the granite reception counter.
Terrance gave him a suspicious look, which John took for a yes.
“Man, people been stoppin’ by all day,” the guard said. “I’ll tell you what I told everyone else. The girl is not home.”
John smiled slightly. “But she is, right? Come on, Terrance. Her car’s in the garage.”
He frowned. “You supposed to park in the visitors’ lot.”
John leaned on the counter. “I did, but I can still see her car in there. Just buzz me up, okay? I know she wants to talk to me.”
Terrance tipped back his swivel chair, making his navy blue uniform strain across his belly. “She wanna talk to you so bad, how come she don’t pick up the phone?”
“Hell, how should I know? Maybe she thinks I’m one of those reporters coming by to cop an interview.”
“Man, you are a reporter. I seen your name in the paper this morning.”
Damn. Now what? John hadn’t heard from Celie in almost three days. In that block of time she’d been interrogated by police, fired from her job, and hounded by the media. John was getting worried. He’d tried calling Dax to get into the building, or at least get an update, but the man wasn’t home.
John gave Terrance an earnest look. “Tell me one thing. Have you seen her at all today?”
Terrance frowned. “Shoot, I could get in trouble, you know. Ms. Wells told the building manager she didn’t want nobody bother’n her.”
“I won’t get you in trouble.”
Terrance shook his head. “You didn’t hear this from me, but she just left a few minutes ago. Don’t know where she was going.”
“How’d she leave if her car’s here?”
“Someone picked her up out front.”
“Man or woman?”
“I didn’t see.”
“You get a look at the car?”
Terrance heaved a sigh. He probably thought John was whipped.
And he was probably right.
“One a those little hybrid things,” Terrance said finally. “White.”
Who drove a car like that? Not the bodyguard. Maybe one of her girlfriends? It sounded like a woman’s car.
John tapped on the granite with his knuckles. “Thanks, man. Tell her I came by, okay?”
Terrance nodded, and John retraced his steps through the double doors. The instant he got outside, he was hit by a gust of hot air. He squinted up at the sun.
John had planned to spend his Saturday afternoon rappelling with some guys from work, but instead he’d devoted most of it to tracking down Celie. He’d been to the Bluebonnet House, where he now knew she no longer worked. He’d been to campus. He’d even been by the neighborhood Starbucks, but he couldn’t find her.
A red 6 Series BMW rolled by and slid into a visitor’s space next to John’s Jeep. Andrew Stone got out and locked the car with a chirp. Lone Star Monthly probably paid better than the Herald, but John preferred to think Stone was indebted up to his eyeballs.
John scowled at Stone as he crossed the lot.
“What’s up?” Stone tucked a pair of expensive-looking sunglasses into the pocket of his starched white shirt.
“Cecelia’s not home.”
Stone propped a shiny dress shoe on the curb. “That right? I just talked to her on the phone.”
John gritted his teeth. No way had Celie taken a phone call from this dickhead if she was dodging reporters. Stone was full of shit.
“Yeah, well I just talked to her, too, and she was on her way out. Tell me what you want, and I’ll make sure she gets the message.”
The side of Stone’s mouth ticked up. “I imagine I want the same thing you do.”
John crossed his arms.
“You know, you’re pretty smooth, McAllister. I knew I recognized her from somewhere, and then it finally hit me. The Sixth Street Rapist trial. You were sniffing around that one, too, if I remember correctly.”
John didn’t say anything.
Stone lifted his gaze to the upper floors of Celie’s building. “She’s a good little scoop, isn’t she? Got a knack for getting herself in trouble. Pretty, too. Makes for a compelling human-interest story.” He flipped his Beamer keys onto his palm and smirked. “But you already know all that, don’t you?”
Still, John didn’t say anything. Stone was baiting him, and John refuse
d to give him a reaction.
Like smashing his fucking nose in.
“Is that your message?” John asked blandly. “I’ll be sure to give it to her.”
Stone smiled and nodded at the double glass doors. “Thanks, anyway, buddy. I’ll give it to her myself.”
Celie was walking past the Clock Tower on campus when her cell phone rang for the third time since lunch. She checked the caller ID, expecting McAllister’s number to pop up again, but, to her surprise, it was her mom.
Celie answered the phone. “Hi. What’s wrong?”
Her mother never called her mobile. She considered it impolite to use cell phones in public, which pretty much negated the point of having one.
“Cecelia. Do you have any idea what day it is?”
It was Thursday, but her mother’s chilly tone told her she wasn’t asking the day of the week.
“I give up.” Celie sighed. “What’d I forget?”
“Abby’s birthday was yesterday. She said you didn’t even call her.”
Celie sat down on the low concrete wall near the student union building. “I’m sorry, Mom, I’ve been so busy—”
“I swear, Cecelia, sometimes you act like you’re the very center of the universe! Is it too much to ask for you to give your sister a few minutes of your time? Or are you too busy partying up in Austin?”
Partying. Yeah, right. Then abruptly Celie realized what this was really about.
“Did Abby get anything special this year?” she asked, even though she knew she hadn’t. If her sister’s long-term boyfriend had finally gotten around to proposing, Celie would already have been summoned home to shop for bridesmaids’ dresses.
“Don’t be spiteful, Cecelia. You know how sensitive Abby is about this birthday.”
“I know, Mom.”
Actually, Abby wasn’t sensitive about this birthday, but her mother was. There was an unwritten rule in her mom’s bridge club that all daughters must be married off by the time they turned thirty, or it reflected poorly on the family.
“Cecelia?”
“I’m sorry, Mom. I’ll give her a call.” She glanced up to see Andrew Stone standing in front of her. He flashed her a smile and tucked his hands into the pockets of his tailored slacks.
“Mom? Sorry, but I’ve really got to get to class.”
Celie clicked off, and Andrew took a seat beside her on the wall.
“Thought I’d find you here,” he said.
“Why’s that?”
“I knew you were a student, so…” He shrugged. “I figured you’d be around somewhere.”
Sure. UT had only about fifty thousand students, so obviously if he just showed up on campus, they’d bump into each other.
He’d accessed her schedule somehow. He’d probably followed her straight out of the social work building when her last class let out.
“What can I do for you?” she asked.
“I just wanted to say hi.” He smiled, and she understood why McAllister hated this guy. He seemed completely incapable of a sincere facial expression.
She stood up. “Well. Hi. I hate to rush off, but I have a seminar in five minutes, so—”
“Wait.” He took her hand, and Celie felt a spurt of irritation. She didn’t like men touching her without her permission.
Except McAllister.
She pulled her hand away, and he pretended not to mind.
“I’ve got a project I’m thinking about, and I thought I’d run it by you,” he said smoothly.
“Let me guess.” She zipped her cell phone into her backpack. “‘Married to the Mob,’ but with a Texas flair? Or wait, how about ‘Fugitive from Love’?”
“I beg your pardon?” He acted confused.
“I’ve heard half a dozen this week. Mostly from local TV producers, though. I guess, if you interview me, I’ll be a statewide celebrity. That’s something to look forward to.”
He frowned. “It wouldn’t be like that. I don’t work for a tabloid—”
“No offense, but they’re all the same to me. My private life is private, and I’d rather not discuss it with the news media.”
Andrew’s eyebrow tipped up. “Last I checked, the Herald was a media organization.”
She waited for him to finish his point. If he so much as suggested that she’d given McAllister some kind of special treatment…
“Just give it some thought, okay? I know you’ve been through a lot.” He stood up and gave her his “sympathetic friend” look, complete with reassuring arm squeeze and furrowed brow. “You might find it cathartic to share some of your experiences. It might help bring closure to this chapter in your life.”
She brushed her hair out of her face and looked at him. “I think what would bring me closure would be for you and everyone else in your profession to just leave me be.”
She turned and walked away, cutting across the grass to get to the student union, where she could lose herself in the mob of students seeking snacks and coffee. She wove through clusters of people and headed down a stairwell to hide out by the vending machines. The basement of the building was a place she knew well—it provided refuge when bright light and noise threatened to bring on a headache, like the one worming its way into her skull right this minute.
Closure. What a load of bull. At least when McAllister asked a question, he was up front about it.
Celie stared at the vending machine and felt an overwhelming craving for a Snickers bar. Sometimes a quick burst of chocolate actually helped her migraines, probably because of the caffeine. On the other hand, she didn’t need the calories, and she wasn’t even hungry, really, so….
As her thoughts turned inward, she realized a headache wasn’t the only thing bothering her. A familiar cramping sensation rippled through her lower abdomen.
Of course. What else could go wrong today? As the reality of her body’s message sunk in, she felt her eyes fill with tears. Where was this coming from? She had no idea she’d gotten her hopes up this month. She’d told herself how unlikely it was, and yet here she was with this hole in her heart.
What a day this had turned out to be, and it wasn’t even over yet. No, the worst was still to come. Now she had to talk to McAllister.
John was cranky and tired when he got home from work Wednesday night. He’d put in a fourteen-hour day running between City Hall and the newsroom, and he hadn’t stopped once to eat. After flinging his keys on the counter and loosening his tie, he yanked open the fridge and searched for some dinner.
“Shit,” he muttered, staring at near-empty shelves. He suddenly recalled finishing off the leftover pizza last night while watching Conan O’Brien, so he settled for a Shiner.
He rolled up his sleeves as he listened to his voice-mail messages. A woman had called, but it wasn’t the one he’d been hoping for. She was a grad student he’d met at the Dog & Duck Pub several months ago. Before they’d gotten too inebriated for conversation, they’d talked about their mutual interest in climbing, and she was calling to invite him to do Enchanted Rock with her this weekend. By the tone of her voice, she was inviting him to do her, too.
John erased the message.
Six days had passed since he’d received a brief phone message from Celie: You’ll be happy to know I’m not pregnant. Please respect my privacy now and leave me alone.
It was pretty clear she didn’t want to talk to him, and he’d had no luck tracking her down. She wasn’t answering his calls and was doing an excellent job dodging him at her apartment building. She was so good, in fact, John had to wonder if she’d left the place at all this week. She was either pissed off and fuming or depressed as hell.
John took his liquid dinner outside and sank down on the back stoop. It was hot and humid tonight, and he instantly started to sweat. He tipped back his beer and listened to the cicadas, remembering the last time he’d sat here after dark, the night Celie had slept over. He didn’t usually invite women to spend the night at his house, but then nothing with Celie had been usual.
He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and flipped it open. He didn’t want to make the call. He knew how Feenie felt about him; he knew she’d give him crap. But he pictured Celie holed up in her apartment, and his fingers started dialing the numbers.
She picked up right after the first ring.
“Feenie, it’s John McAllister. Sorry to call so late.”
“That’s all right. I’m up with Olivia.”
He’d forgotten about that. He checked his watch. It was after ten. “Damn, I’m sorry.”
“Forget it. What’s up?”
He heard the curiosity in her voice. They hadn’t talked in months, since he’d called to say good-bye before his move to Austin.
“Have you talked to Celie lately?” John asked now.
The baby whimpered on the other end of the phone.
“No. Why?”
“Fuck,” he muttered. He rubbed his hand over his face.
“What’s going on?” Feenie sounded alarmed. “Is she okay?”
He blew out a breath. “No, she’s not. There was an incident two weeks ago. She had a run-in with some rivals of Manny Saledo. It turned out okay, but the FBI and the police got involved and, shit, it’s a long story, but—”
“Is she hurt ?”
“No, nothing like that. But she ended up getting fired from her job.”
Feenie gasped. “No way!”
“Yep.”
“How could they fire her?”
“I don’t know, exactly—”
“Those ungrateful jerks! They should be building her a statue!”
John wasn’t sure what to make of that, but he filed it away for later.
“Since all this happened,” he continued, “I’ve called her about twenty times. She won’t return my messages. She won’t see me. I’m not sure if she’s left her apartment in a while, but I’m pretty sure she’s in some kind of funk.”
He could sense Feenie getting the picture. That’s right, babe. She slept with me. Just like you told her not to.
“Y’all…are involved?”
Involved. An interesting way to phrase it.
“I think she was hoping I could get her pregnant. But that didn’t happen, and now I think she’s pretty disappointed.” He cleared his throat. “She left me a message about it, and she sounded, I don’t know, flat. Not herself.”
One Wrong Step (Borderline Book 2) Page 20