by Julie Miller
“Happy Holidays, Miss Austin.” The striking brunette wore a toasty-looking black coat with a fur-trimmed collar, and smiled into the camera as if she had no care about the frosty temps or her provocative questions. “How does it feel to know that an innocent woman was killed because of you? Maybe even killed because she was mistaken for you?”
“You’re out of line, Miss Owen.” Spencer tried to push past the reporter and camera, but Bailey was dragging her feet.
The shock and sadness of her neighbor’s death washed over her anew. “Corie Rudolf was a friend of mine. I deeply mourn her passing and send my prayers to her family over their tragic loss.”
But another emotion was growing inside her, too. The same emotion that had motivated her to say yes to the D.A.’s request to have the Rose Red Rapist’s most prominent victim agree to testify, the same emotion that drove her to come here in the first place, the same emotion that made her want to shove Vanessa Owen’s microwave right down the opportunistic brunette’s throat.
Bailey smiled serenely, holding up her hand and interrupting before Vanessa could ask some other sensationalist question that was meant to get beneath her skin. “I am not to blame for Corie’s murder. There’s a woman called The Cleaner who has covered up crimes and destroyed people’s lives and killed them...to help out a rapist. The same rapist who assaulted me.”
“B—”
“They are the ones to blame. Not the victims.” The anger, the helplessness and frustration, the stark, cold fear she hated to feel all rose to the surface and oozed out in succinct, daring words. “I blame The Cleaner for Corie’s murder. And I think she ought to know that killing my friend only makes me more determined than ever to see that justice is done.”
“Brave words for a person who’s received how many threats? And you’re still going to testify?”
“Yes.”
Vanessa’s predatory eyes narrowed. “Aren’t you afraid The Cleaner will come after you again? Aren’t you terrified?” The dark-haired woman leaned in. “Shouldn’t we all be terrified that you’re here with us tonight? Haven’t you put all of us in danger?”
“We’re all safe here,” Spencer announced, even though he hadn’t said those words to Bailey. “This interview is done.”
Vanessa’s phone rang as Spencer pushed Bailey past the last of the cameras. When she glanced back, she saw the look of irritation on the reporter’s face as she read the incoming number.
“Yes?” she answered. “What? I can’t. I’m on a live feed right now. Are you sure? Tonight?” She lifted her gaze to meet Bailey’s at the top of the stairs. And held it. “That would be a fabulous story to tell.” She repeated herself when the caller must have argued. “I’ll take care of it.” Then she disconnected the call and made a cutting gesture across her throat to tell her cameraman to turn off the feed.
“Spencer?” Bailey tugged on his sleeve when the reporter slipped through the cadre of reporters and disappeared from sight. “Where is she going?”
He pulled her inside to the marble foyer before answering. “Way to bait the trap, B. Challenging The Cleaner to come find you here?”
“Are you making a joke?”
“I’m on the job. I don’t joke.” His gray eyes were more probing than Vanessa’s had been. “If she’s not already here, she or her henchmen will be soon.” He tapped the radio in his ear again. “Nick. Tell Zeiss’s men to go on full alert. I think we’re going to have a real party tonight. And somebody find me Vanessa Owen.”
Bailey slipped off her wrap and moved on to the check-in table while Spencer relayed orders to his team. There were so many people here. The estate was huge, and nearly every room on the first floor was being used. Waitstaff moved through the guests, carrying trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. The musicians sat at one end of the open ballroom and dancers waltzed in a circle. There was a giant Christmas tree at the foot of the winding staircase where a professional photographer was snapping souvenir photos of the donors attending.
If The Cleaner was here, finding her wouldn’t be easy. Bailey idly wondered if it would be just as difficult for The Cleaner to find her. She glanced back out at the reporters’ stand. What if she already had? Vanessa Owen had once dated Brian Elliott. Would she still be loyal to him? Was she so hungry for a career-making story that she’d set up the very crimes she wanted to cover?
“Miss Austin?” A friendly voice diverted her attention away from the missing newswoman. Max Duncan, the bodyguard who’d nearly gotten arrested and had helped save her life, sat behind the table, wearing a suit and tie, an earbud like Spencer’s, and those same reflective sunglasses he’d worn out in the snowy sunshine wrapped around the back of his neck. “How are you this evening?”
“Good, Max.” She stretched up on tiptoe to look over the edge of the table and saw he was sitting on a stool with his leg out straight in a brace. A metal cane leaned against the table beside him. “How are you feeling?”
“Beat up and embarrassed. Dislocated my kneecap and cracked my shin bone.” He read through the list of guests on his clipboard and checked off her name. “But it’s all hands on deck with a party this big. I figured I could at least watch the door for Mr. Zeiss tonight. I need to get back on his nice list.”
Bailey smiled. “It’s good to see you in one piece.”
“Yes, ma’am. You, too.” Max’s gaze strayed up to greet the red-haired man brushing his hand against Bailey’s back. She startled at the faintly possessive touch, and was disappointed when Spencer pulled away just as quickly. “Detective.” Max picked up his clipboard again and found Spencer’s name. “You carrying?”
“Yes.” Spencer nodded and pulled back his jacket to reveal the gun holstered there before buttoning it shut again. “You’ve got a registration of everyone else here who’s carrying a weapon?”
Max made another check on his list. “Your people. And all the Zeiss personnel. We’re the ones in the gray uniforms.” He patted the brace on his thigh. “I, personally, won’t get there very fast. But we’ll come running if you need us.”
Spencer thanked him. “Good to know.”
“Bailey!”
Bailey groaned as her mother called to her from the photographer’s station and swept across the foyer in a sashay of wine-red taffeta. “Now it’s my turn to say, ‘Brace yourself.’”
Linking her arm through Spencer’s, Bailey crossed to the foot of the staircase to meet Loretta Austin-Mayweather halfway. Her mother hugged her, carefully turning her cheek so as not to smudge either of their makeup. “I’m so glad you came. This color is divine on you. Darling, let me look at you.”
Loretta caught Bailey’s hands and leaned back, zeroing in on the bandage on her cheek. “Oh, dear. I knew you’d been hurt.” She touched her fingers to the bruising cut and frowned. “Will that leave a scar?” Before Bailey could answer, she pulled her over to the photographer, who snapped a candid photo of them both. By the time the afterimage of the flash had cleared Bailey’s retinas, Loretta was already pointing to her injury. “This can be edited out of the pictures, can’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Loretta had her by the hand again, pulling her toward the ballroom. “I want you to come say hello to the mayor.”
“Mother?” Bailey planted her feet. She didn’t care about scars in pictures or scoring points with local politicians. But she did care that her mother acknowledge the danger her daughter was facing, and maybe, just maybe, find the strength to show a little compassion. “You remember my friend Spencer.”
“Your friend?” Loretta’s tone was decidedly less welcoming than her eagerness to see Bailey had been. “Detective Montgomery.”
“Mrs. Mayweather.”
“Mother. I dressed up and came to your party for you. Be nice.”
Something like despair put instant lines on Loretta’s delicat
e features. She reached out to squeeze Spencer’s hand. “Thank you for saving my daughter’s life.” Then the lines vanished and she pointed a stern finger at him. “But if your people do anything to ruin this fund-raiser, you’re not going to be in tonight’s family portrait.”
* * *
SPENCER WOULD BE happy to dance every dance with Bailey for the rest of the evening. While it was pure torture to hold her in his arms and concentrate on something besides the way the color of her dress deepened the blue of her eyes or how the summery scent of her hair followed him with every twirl around the floor, at least she was in his arms. Locked down tight, her location secure.
But he’d spent as many dances standing on the sidelines, watching her chat up the deputy commissioner, a retired real estate developer and a player from the chief’s football team. He’d catch his breath when he lost sight of her behind a taller dancer, breathe easier once those sunny-gold curls reappeared.
She’d make a fine wife for any man who wanted to move up the corporate ladder or make chief or commissioner one day. She’d be a finer wife for any man who wanted a true partner—a woman whose strengths and talents complemented his own, whose gentle heart and tenacious spirit could ease a man’s troubled spirit or ignite the fires of passion inside him.
Spencer squeezed his eyes shut as the longing hit him again. He just had to get her through tonight. He had to get her through tomorrow. He had to get her to that trial on Monday, and then maybe he could decide if he could get through a life with Bailey at his side. But as long as she was in danger, as long as The Cleaner was out there, could he really risk...
Spencer opened his eyes and felt his heart skip a beat when he didn’t see her. “B?”
He quickly scanned the dance floor. Couples spun by him in a Viennese waltz. But no dark blue gown. No golden hair.
He was crossing the room to the corner where he’d last seen her. His fingertip was at his ear to call for backup when he spotted her dancing out the door into the foyer with a black-haired man.
Oh, no, no, no, no, no. Spencer crossed straight out the ballroom’s second door to cut off Gabriel Knight before he could corner Bailey and grill her with the same accusatory questions Vanessa Owen had, or throw out another of those poor little rich girl cracks. But as he excused his way through a group of laughing, chatting guests, Spencer saw that Gabe Knight wasn’t questioning Bailey at all.
Knight was introducing Bailey to his date, his boss, Mara Boyd-Elliott. The platinum blonde was sitting behind one of the dozens of Christmas trees decorating the house. Her head was bent toward a sheaf of papers in her lap. She signed her name to one and pushed the documents off to the brunette sitting beside her, standing as Bailey approached. “Miss Austin.”
Seriously? That was one screwed-up ex-family dynamic. What was Regina Hollister doing here? Judging by the business jacket and slacks she wore, she hadn’t received an invitation.
But she did seem eager to reclaim Mara’s attention. “Ms. Boyd, if you could finishing signing—”
“Regina, please,” the blonde woman snapped. “This isn’t my office. This is a social event. We’re celebrating the holidays.”
Regina exhaled a weary sigh that puffed the dark bangs off her forehead. “I understand that, ma’am, and I’m sorry to intrude. But I’m trying to help Brian take care of things before the...” Her gaze darted to Bailey and she rephrased her explanation with a bit of a sneer. “Before Monday.” She held out the pen and documents one more time. “He needs your signature on these shared asset forms so we can get the property liquidated before the end of the year. Please.”
“Oh, very well.” With a flourish that was more style than business, Mara grabbed the papers and signed each copy before dropping them back in Regina’s hands.
“Thank you, Ms. Boyd. I know he’ll appreciate it.” She included Bailey and Knight, as well, as she picked up her coat and briefcase and hurried toward the front door. “Enjoy your evening.”
So what did Mara have to say to Bailey? Apologize for ever helping her scumbag of an ex get out of jail? Ask if she’d do an interview for her newspaper?
Or maybe this meeting was Bailey’s idea. “Do you still do business with your ex-husband?”
“It was an amicable divorce, Miss Austin. We’ve continued a mutually beneficial working relationship ever since.”
“I said to leave the detective work to me,” Spencer grumbled. But as long as he had eyes on Bailey...and the suspect was talking.
Spencer hung back at the fringe of the other group and listened to the snippets of hushed, urgent conversation he could hear.
Good girl. Bailey hugged her arms around her middle, keeping her distance from both Knight and Mrs. Elliott. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked.
Mara Boyd was pleading her case with Bailey, it sounded like. “Because you don’t know Brian the way I do.”
“I’m certain we don’t.” Bailey shook her head. “How could you ever help someone like that?”
“He’s not well. That’s one reason we still own properties jointly—” she gestured toward the front door “—one reason Regina is working weekends to take care of his paperwork. We’re trying to protect his best interests.” The older woman reached for Bailey’s hand, but she cringed away. Rebuffed, Mara tucked her arm through Gabe Knight’s and leaned against him, instead. “When I inherited the paper and my father’s fortune, something changed with Brian. He was a self-made man. Suddenly, I eclipsed him. I wasn’t the helpmate he wanted any longer. I think he saw me as competition. I know he resented my success.”
“That’s a sad story,” Bailey said. “But it doesn’t change what he did to me.”
“No, but...” Mara sat back down and Spencer inched up to the tree to hear what she had to say. “I’m a smart woman, Miss Austin. I can do the math. The rapes started right after I divorced Brian. I’m the reason he hates women. Everything that he’s done is my fault.”
What she was sharing with Bailey was merely circumstantial, not any kind of conclusive evidence. Spencer had heard enough. The woman was trying to assuage her own guilt. And she didn’t need to be dumping that on Bailey. “Then that makes you another victim, Mrs. Elliott.” He circled around Knight and slid his arm behind Bailey’s waist. “Or an accomplice. Is there some information about your ex that you’ve been withholding from the police throughout this whole investigation? For example, did he ever display any of those violent rages when he was with you? Did he hurt you?”
“My ex-husband is a sick man,” she reiterated. “I’m trying to protect him. I owe him that.” She stood and linked her arm through Knight’s. “Gabriel, I think I’d like to leave now.”
Once they’d gone, Spencer released Bailey and turned to face her. “What part of don’t go off by yourself don’t you understand? Let me talk to Mara Elliott, Regina Hollister and Gabe Knight. You don’t need to get that close to those people.”
“I thought she could be The Cleaner. You heard her. She wants to protect her ex. She’s probably paying his attorney’s fees for him, too. I bet that’s why she’s liquidating those properties.”
“You need to stop finding suspects for me. I’ve already got a team trying to track down where Vanessa Owen disappeared to.” Spencer exhaled a deep breath and rubbed his hands up and down her arms, trying to keep the fear of her getting hurt pushed down deep where it couldn’t distract him. It was one job he was discovering he wasn’t very good at. “Look, B—it’s one thing to try to lure this woman out. It’s something else when you purposely go looking for trouble.”
Bailey’s hands settled at his chest and played with his tie. He recognized the little caresses as an attempt to soothe his concern. “I wasn’t looking for trouble. I just want answers. Besides, I wasn’t alone. The guard was right over there.” She turned to prove her point, but the table in the foyer was empty. “Max?”
“Behind you.” He limped across the marble tiles, leaning heavily on his cane. “Detective Montgomery, we’ve got a situation.”
“Not again,” Bailey whispered beside him.
Spencer reached for her hand as the bodyguard pulled a green envelope from inside his jacket and handed it over. It had already been placed inside a clear plastic bag, preserving any trace for evidence. But the card was familiar and the message was all too clear.
I warned you.
Now you’ve ruined your mother’s Christmas.
“When? How?” Bailey’s fingers convulsed around his.
“We found it in the donation basket under the ballroom Christmas tree,” Max reported. “We’ve been changing the basket out every hour so we can put the checks and cash in the safe. That means your suspect has been here in the past twenty minutes or so.”
Spencer surveyed the number of guests and staff in the house. Maybe fifty in the foyer. Another two hundred in the ballroom. There were people in the dining room and game room. Staff in the kitchen and throughout the rest of the house. “She’s probably still here. Any sign of a bomb?”
“Not yet. I talked to Mr. Zeiss and our people have begun a low-key evacuation. We’re stationed at all the exits. We’re telling guests in small groups that we’ve detected a gas leak and that a repair crew is on its way.” Max unbuttoned his suit jacket at the same time Spencer did. Both men wanted quick access to their firearm if needed. “I’m on my way to inform Mr. Mayweather now.”
“Have him make an announcement in the ballroom. We need to clear the estate in an orderly manner without anyone getting hurt.” And without such a rush to the exits that their perp escaped, too.
“Nick, she’s here.” He alerted the task force members on his radio. “We’re evacuating the house. But don’t let any of the guests leave.”
“Understood.”
Spencer wound his arm around Bailey’s shoulders and turned her toward the front door. “Let’s get you out of here, too.”