by Sandra Brown
A full minute ticked by. When he turned around to her, his impenetrable mask was firmly fixed. “So, yeah, definitely destructive. I was afraid that if I stayed, I would only cause Marianne more grief, more heartbreak, and from the reproachful way she was looking at me, I knew she was afraid of the same. So I packed my things and left that night. Which is what you should do. Heed The Major’s warning. Leave.”
He went to the closet and got the components of her cell phone from one of his coat pockets. He restored it and checked to make sure it had a signal, then pitched it onto the bed directly in front of her.
“Call a car service,” he said. “Call that woman with the wild hair and orange glasses and ask her to come get you. Or, if you’d rather, take that ugly car Carson borrowed from his brother-in-law. Keys are there on the table. You can let Carson know when and where to reclaim it.”
Kerra searched his eyes for a flicker of the passion and heat that had been in them earlier when he was wooing her. But there was no emotion whatsoever in the implacable eyes that stared back at her now.
She picked up her phone.
Gracie answered on the first ring. “Kerra?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
“Thank God! Are you all right? Do you know how frantic I’ve been? This is about the fourth heart attack you’ve caused me this week. Where are you?”
“I apologize for not calling sooner. I didn’t mean to bring on a heart attack.”
“Just tell me you’re all right.”
“I’m all right.”
In an undertone, Gracie asked, “Are you saying that under duress?”
“Duress? No.”
“It’s been rumored that John Trapper abducted you from the hospital parking lot.”
“That’s ridiculous. I bumped into him at the hospital. It was getting a little claustrophobic. Guards on me. Media clamoring for a sound bite from him. We each felt the need for some space.”
“He had better get used to small spaces. The truck he was driving was stolen.”
“He didn’t know that. There was some confusion.”
“I’ll say. The cops who tried to chase him down were damn sure confused. Where did you go?”
Kerra sighed. “It’s a long story, Gracie, and I’m too weary to tell it. The upshot is that we got waylaid by the storm and wound up at a motel on the interstate. I don’t even know the name of it.”
Gracie realized she was getting a heavily edited version. “I can read between the lines. I hope you had fun with the hunk. In your place, I would have been all over him.”
“It wasn’t much fun, actually. I…He and I parted company. I’m at home.”
“You’re at home? That’s great! I can leave Podunk Town and hurry back. We’ll do tonight’s interview from the studio.”
“I’m not going to do the interview.”
Gracie sputtered, “But the police, or sheriffs, or whatever they are up here, have given their permission.”
“I’m still uncomfortable with it.”
“Not to worry. I’ll call the station. We’ll have plenty of protection for you, a whole lot better than—”
“I’m not concerned for my safety. It’s…it’s everything, Gracie.”
“What’s that mean? Everything such as what?”
Kerra took a deep breath. “That’s all I’m going to say right now except that I won’t be appearing on tonight’s newscast. From the start I had reservations about it.”
“But there’s good news. The Major is off the critical list. He’s improving by the hour.”
“I know. I talked to him earlier today.”
“You did?”
“By phone. Each of us had been worried about the other. Talking alleviated some of our concerns.”
“Fantastic! The sensitivity issue no longer applies.”
“It applies to me. The Major is no longer critical, but he sounds weak. He’s fretful. Worried about my safety because the suspects who tried to kill us are still at large.”
“Regarding that,” Gracie said, “you’re not helping to capture them. You’re impeding the investigation. Or so the sheriff said.”
“He did? When?”
“Little while ago. Came pounding on my motel room door, demanding to know if I’d heard from you. Glowering. Red in the face and using Law and Order jargon about you being a hostile material witness.”
“I cooperated fully and told him everything I know.”
“The FBI will probably want to question you, though.”
“FBI?”
“Addison—is that his name?—said that the feds have taken over center ring, and he’s chalking that up to your disappearing act. He’s pissed, and that’s putting it mildly.”
Kerra said nothing for a moment, then, “If I’m questioned again, I’m going to have a lawyer with me. But for right now, I’m going to unplug. I’ve already emailed the news director telling him that I need to use some sick days.”
“This story is still hot, Kerra. He’ll have a conniption.”
“Too bad.”
“Where is John Trapper?”
“I don’t know. As I said, we parted ways. I’m going to hang up now. I’m exhausted.”
“Kerra, wait! You can take sick days after tonight’s broadcast. Whatever you need to perk you up, I’ll provide. Massage. Martini. A shot of vitamin B-twelve. You name it.”
“That’s generous, but no thank you.”
“For all the reasons we’ve discussed, I implore you to reconsider.”
“Sorry, Gracie. My decision is final.”
Shifting away from her cajoling tone, she said, “Well, your decision doesn’t affect just you, you know. Have you thought of that? It’s my career, too. Think of the crew.”
“Their careers will survive, and so will yours.”
“What about yours?”
“Goodbye.”
The line went dead.
Gracie huffed out a breath and clicked off. “I kept her on for as long as I could.”
Sheriff Glenn Addison was standing over her. “Why would she want to have a lawyer?”
“Because she’s no fool,” Gracie retorted. “You, on the other hand…”
“You could have pressed her harder about Trapper’s whereabouts.”
“Isn’t that your job, sheriff? You lost track of your key witness, so you hauled me down here and coerced me into sitting all day in this swell office of yours, waiting for her to call, so you could find her.” With scorn, she added, “No wonder the FBI has taken over your investigation.”
“It’s a coordinated effort involving several agencies.”
Gracie harrumphed. “Good sound bite, and, like most sound bites, it’s ass-covering.” She enjoyed watching him turn livid.
“We appreciate your cooperation, Ms. Lambert,” he said stiffly. “You’re free to go.”
She picked up her handbag and walked toward the door. “I hated what I just did. It felt wrong and deceptive, but at least I know that Kerra is safe at home.”
“If she is.” The sheriff turned to address the phone techie sitting at a desk across the room. “Get it?”
“Got it. She’s in downtown Dallas.”
He recited the address that Gracie knew to be Kerra’s condo. She gave Glenn Addison a smug smile as she went out.
When Kerra exited her building, Trapper flashed the car’s headlights so she could see where he was parallel parked a block away. She jogged down the sidewalk and got into the passenger seat. He asked if anybody had seen her leaving her building.
“The concierge—not your concierge, a male one—was on the phone. We didn’t acknowledge each other. If he saw me, it wouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary. I frequently walk to work and back.”
“Go okay?” he asked.
“I told the truth.”
“That rarely gets me anywhere.” He wheeled out onto the street. “Could you tell if anyone was listening in?”
“No.”
“Doesn’t mean
they weren’t. You forwarded your calls to this blocked number?”
“As instructed, and left my phone on the kitchen island.”
“Okay. Tell me everything she said.”
She recounted her conversation with Gracie, and when she finished he looked over at her. “You didn’t tell the truth about knowing where I was.”
“Technically, I did. We did part company when you dropped me off at the entrance, and I didn’t know where you were while I was inside.”
He grinned. “You’re getting better at this. With more practice—”
“I don’t want to get better at it. I didn’t lie in a literal sense, but it was definitely duplicitous.”
Several good comebacks sprang to mind, all relating to Kerra’s moral compass and his lack thereof, but he kept those remarks to himself. He’d been walking on eggshells since she had declined to split after he had all but shoved her out the door.
“Regardless of The Major’s warning and my own misgivings,” she’d said, “I’m going to see this through.”
To which he’d said, “Suit yourself.”
At the time, he’d been mired in the self-loathing always induced by memories of Marianne and the loss of the baby. Nevertheless, he’d been relieved and glad of Kerra’s decision to stay with him. He wasn’t ready to see the last of her. Not by a long shot.
But for once, he’d been prudent enough to keep his mouth shut and not jinx it. He’d curbed his natural impulse to either lash out or make a sarcastic wisecrack. He hadn’t pressed her to explain why she’d decided in his favor. When she’d headed for the bathroom to shower, he withheld an innuendo, and when she complained that Carson had bought her jeans a size too small, he’d refrained from telling her how smokin’ her rear end looked in them.
It had been midafternoon before they left the motel. As they departed it, Kerra told him that she must notify Gracie. “If I don’t, I may not have a job to go back to.”
He’d understood the necessity but prevailed on her to wait until they reached Dallas.
“I thought we’d be going to Fort Worth.”
“Not yet,” he’d told her. “Call Gracie on your phone from your apartment. That way, if Glenn is tracking us via your phone, it’ll place you there.”
Now, as Trapper navigated the streets of downtown Dallas toward the westbound freeway, Kerra asked what he thought about the FBI’s involvement.
“Unsurprising,” he said. “It was a matter of time, and I couldn’t be happier. While they’re poking into the case in Lodal, they might uncover something that would support what I have.”
“What do you have?”
“No proof. Just a preponderance of evidence filed away.”
“Where is it? Your office? We’re going there now?”
“We are, although it requires backtracking.”
The thirty miles between the cities took them an hour to drive because of a multi-car accident. But the delay worked well into Trapper’s plan. He wanted it to be full-on dark when they arrived at his office. He killed even more time by picking up drive-through burgers and eating them in the car.
By the time he drove onto the street where his office was located, nightfall was complete, and in this seedier section on the fringe of downtown, darkness was either sought or avoided, depending on one’s purpose.
One exterior light illuminated the building’s address formed by block tiles above the entrance, but the office windows on every floor were unlit. Trapper took the precaution of driving around the block, then pulled into a parking space on the opposite side of the street.
“Let’s sit tight for a while,” he said as he cut the car’s engine.
“Why?”
“To see what happens. If nothing does, then the coast is clear.”
An occasional car drove past, but none slowed down as though surveilling the area. He watched surrounding buildings for movement behind windows, watched alleyways for signs that someone was lurking in them, but in half an hour, he didn’t see anything to arouse suspicion.
“Okay.”
They got out of the car. He hustled Kerra across the street, bypassed the lighted entrance, and went to one on the side of the building. He punched in the code on the keypad to unlock the heavy metal door. They slipped through. He made certain that it locked behind them.
He chose the fire stairs over the elevator. The stairwell was illuminated only by red exit signs, but they had no difficulty climbing to the third floor. The moment they stepped out into the hallway, he saw the broken glass that had been the upper half of his office door.
He motioned for Kerra to freeze and slipped his pistol from the holster at the small of his back. For a full two minutes they stood motionless, his ears straining to hear the smallest sound.
Eventually he reached for Kerra’s hand, afraid to leave her out of his sight, and pulled her behind him as he approached his office. The door was ajar. Pistol extended, he eased it open with the toe of his boot.
Enough light was coming through the partially open window blinds that he could see that the place had been ransacked. His file drawers had been pulled from the cabinet and emptied, their contents strewn everywhere. The cushions on the couch had been slashed and disemboweled. Chairs and lamps had been overturned.
Only his desk remained as he’d left it. Seated in the chair behind it, holding a nickel-plated revolver, was Thomas Wilcox.
Chapter 19
Trapper recognized Wilcox, although he’d never met him face-to-face. With a casualness that belied the life-threatening situation, he said, “Hey, Wilcox. I think you know Kerra Bailey.”
Wilcox smiled. “You would be John Trapper.”
“I would.”
“Set your gun on the floor and come up slowly.”
“Better idea,” Trapper said. “You drop yours before I kill you.”
Beside him, Kerra whispered, “Please, Trapper.”
Wilcox shifted his gaze from Trapper to her, then back to Trapper. “We’re making the lady nervous. Why don’t we end this ludicrous standoff, conduct ourselves in a civilized manner, and set our weapons down simultaneously?”
“Because I’m barely civilized. Ask anybody. And on behalf of everyone who was injured or died in the Pegasus bombing, I would enjoy nothing better than to blow you straight to hell.”
Wilcox took his measure and must have determined that he’d meant every word. He lowered his revolver to the desk and raised his hands.
Trapper kicked aside the files and paperwork in his path as he walked to the desk. He grabbed Wilcox’s pistol, released the cylinder, and emptied the chambers. One by one the six bullets pinged onto the hardwood floor.
Wilcox looked beyond him and addressed Kerra by name. “Sunday night was a fiasco. Are you well?”
“I’m all right, but I’ve been better.”
During their exchange Trapper had halfway been expecting an attack to come from behind them. He kept his senses attuned to any sound or motion that would have signaled it. But no one sneaked up on them. It appeared that Wilcox was acting alone. Wilcox indicated the mess that had been made of the office and said, “I didn’t do this. It was this way when I got here.”
“Why’d you come?”
“It was imperative that I see you, because I fear you’ll soon be assassinated. It’s assumed by some that I will take the honor upon myself.”
Trapper chuffed. “You’re mulling it over?”
“I believe I have a better idea, yes. Better for both of us. Why don’t you sit? We’ll talk about it.”
Trapper considered telling him to kiss his ass and then shooting the bastard. But Kerra came forward and gave him a cautionary look.
He righted one of the straight chairs that faced his desk and motioned her into it. He remained standing and hefted Wilcox’s pistol in his palm as he studied the pearl-inlaid grip and elaborate scrolling on the barrel.
“During Prohibition, the madam of a whorehouse here in Fort Worth owned a pistol like this. She shot a
nd killed one thieving whore, a cheating blackjack dealer, and three double-crossing bootleggers.”
Wilcox smiled. “I acquired the pistol at her estate auction. Anonymous bid.”
“Ever kill anybody with it?”
Wilcox said, “You would’ve been my first.”
“Wow. I could’ve been tacked on to the legend.”
“As I said, I have a preferable option to killing you.”
“You held us at gunpoint for the hell of it?”
“No, to protect myself from you. You have a reputation for being a hothead, and, so far, you’re living up to it.”
“Well, it tickles me not to disappoint.”
“I had hoped to open a dialogue with you, Mr. Trapper. I’m afraid the rifled office got us off on the wrong foot.”
Trapper cut a glance toward the wall socket just above the baseboard behind his desk chair where Wilcox sat. The outlet plate had been unscrewed and pulled from the wall. Wiring curled from the jagged hole in the Sheetrock.
Wilcox noticed Trapper’s consternation, and his knowing smile made Trapper see red. “Dialogue? You and me?”
Wilcox nodded. “I want to propose a deal.”
Trapper scoffed. “Not likely. Not even remotely. Instead, let’s talk about Sunday night’s fiasco. Did you order the hit on The Major?”
“I wouldn’t be that stupid.”
“It was stupid. A hit botched by two jerk-offs sent by someone a whole lot smarter. I’m guessing”—Trapper aimed his nine-millimeter at the center of the man’s forehead—“you. Just like the Pegasus.”
“You’re getting way ahead of yourself, Mr. Trapper.”
“No, you are. By thinking there’s going to be any dialogue, much less a deal, between us.” Trapper took a cell phone from the front pocket of his jeans and tapped in 911.
The millionaire said, “You’re not going to call the police.”
“You don’t think so?”
“You won’t because you know the legend of the notorious madam.” Looking at Kerra, he explained. “She was never charged for the killings.”
“Why not?”
“Because several judges, the district attorney, the chief of police, and half the force were frequent customers of her establishment.”