Hank stared down at the meticulous notes. "You rule out vehicles . . . every day?"
The giant shrugged. "What the hell good is information if it's not verified? There's a good sixty cars here each day."
"In this block?" That seemed high—even accounting for all the construction personnel.
"Two and a half blocks," he corrected. "After I caught Miss Ortega's brother spying on her, I expanded my recon grid six weeks ago."
Not quite sure what he was talking about, Hank couldn't help the smile forming on his lips. "Why?"
"Cuz it's fun." His face heated with the admission. "And I started getting bored. Jeff was worried about Marisol. When I showed him it was her brother, Manny, he was able to chill."
"Each day you analyze every vehicle."
"I determine whether it should be here," he confirmed. "I check plates and registration-"
"With your mystery contact," Hank filled in.
"I cross-reference addresses," he continued, ignoring his question. "And where they work. And whether they could be going to that physician practice two blocks over."
Jesus. Shea should be a private investigator. By the glint in Pete's eyes, he knew the giant had information. But, Pete was testing him—to see whether he could resist the impulse to jump ahead. Hank was determined to wait him out. If only to prove to himself his discipline had returned. Catching Phil would require calculation. Patience. "Go on."
"I'm about ninety percent accurate ruling people out."
"Damned impressive." He tipped his hardhat at the giant. "Which leaves vehicles that shouldn't be here," he concluded. "And who are they?"
Pete took a pull from his coffee. "We have seven vehicles to choose from. All have been here too often to be a coincidence, but none have a logical reason for being here." Setting his coffee down, he returned to his notes. "Of the seven, three are vehicles that match the driver."
Hank stilled. "Like the owner is a woman and it's driven by a woman?"
"Or old guy. Or young kid," he confirmed. "You get the drift—they don't match Phil." He began drumming his pencil on the pad. "I got two likelies for you."
"What about the third?"
Pete raised his gaze, clinical, detached eyes locking with his. Across the table, Hank felt a shiver of certainty crawl up his spine. "I got two chicks. And one guy." He stared at him, the perpetual scowl seeming ingrained in his forehead. "Ask yourself this—what kinda guy is friends with a douche like Phil? Would you lend him your car? During the day—when you're probably at work?"
A cold sense of elation coursed through him. "He's got a woman." Likely, one he could control. Take her car. A woman he was abusing . . .
"Based solely on addresses," he prefaced, "one of 'em fits the description of 'desperate'." Pete checked his watch. "What're you doing for lunch?"
Hank rose from the table. "Let's go find her."
THE BATON CLUTCHED in aching fingers, Annie raised her arm for the hundredth time.
"And . . . strike," Candace ordered, weaving between the five women still showing up for her class, careful not to get within hitting distance. "Down across his body," she directed. "We're working on torso today. So, aim for shoulder, bicep or throat if you're tall enough. Wrist or forearm if you're short." She smiled at Gabby. "That's you." She stood before Annie, her expression neutral. "No lunging, Annie. This isn't fencing. You're beating the shit out of him."
Concentration broken, Annie huffed out a laugh. "You're right. I'm sorry."
"Lunging gives him the opportunity to grab it," she announced to the motley group assembled in the second floor corridor. Candace motioned her approach. "May I?"
Standing behind her, the younger woman raised Annie's arm over her head. "Bend it a little." She tapped her elbow. "Your strength will last longer if you're not extended." Following her downward motions, Annie nodded.
"Okay—I see what I'm doing wrong." Her bicep burning with fatigue, she raised her arm again. You need to be ready. Having lived it for seven years, she knew Phil's MO. Yesterday, as Henry had driven them back to the shelter, she'd felt the prickling sensation on her neck. Through Tommy's backseat belligerence over leaving the farm and Jason's over-tired whining. Through Henry's stoic, trying-not-to-rush-her armor. She'd felt it. The Phil warning. He was nearby. Somewhere.
Careful not to raise Henry's suspicion, she'd glanced to the rearview mirror. Henry was worried enough for all of them. Determined to tackle her problems as though they were his. Her mouth lifted briefly. Only one of the reasons she loved him.
"Do it again." Candace's voice disrupted her thoughts. She obeyed, slicing down. Her baton whistled through the still corridor. When the wild-haired blonde nodded her approval, Annie poured newfound determination into the movement. Like the dropping barometric pressure before a hurricane, Phil was churning closer. About to touch down. She would be ready for him.
"How do I-" Annie hesitated. "I've been practicing with a bat . . . and the weight is so different-"
Candace stepped back. "A bat? Why are you-"
"We ain't got no money for batons, Candy." Oblivious to the younger woman's wince of distaste, Brenda continued. "Miss Sharon gave us bats from storage. To practice with."
"And some of us . . ." Gabby glanced to Annie. "Can't leave here—very often. Going out for—anything is a risk."
"Even with a credit card, I can't order online," said a voice from the back. Angelina? "My ex can trace it."
Candace studied them, her startling blue eyes flashing in the dimly lit hallway. "Then, you need to keep these." She nodded to the batons she usually doled out at the start of each class.
"I can't pay you . . . yet." Chin raised, Gabriella's voice was determined.
Candace drew closer, a curious emotion flashing over pretty features. A loner among them, she rarely broke from a neutral expression. Yet, Annie knew she was compassionate. Kind. She adored the tiny baby boy who spent his days with Miss Robin in the daycare center.
"Nobody worry about money." She nodded to each of them. "We may be here for different reasons . . . but we all have something to prove."
"Girl—you know that's right." Brenda's muttered approval made Annie smile.
Eyes narrowed, Candace thumped her baton on the floor, startling them when it sprang back into her hand, instantly a quarter of it's original size. She swung hard, the muscles in her forearm flexing, and it snapped open—fully extended. "You need to learn how to do this, too," she challenged. Whacking it again, she reduced it, before shoving it in her back pocket. "Back to work. Show me what you got."
"I'LL THINK ABOUT IT," Hank muttered. Not.
"Charlie said to report each time Phil violates the restraining order." Jeff's persistent voice nagged in his ear like a bee dive-bombing his head. "And they'll pick him up."
"Yeah, because it works so well." Hank had been on board with the conversation—until he'd started droning on about his brother-in-law. The state trooper. Charlie had suggested the restraining order. Which Annie already had.
"Then get him to sign the revocation," he urged. "If you get rid of Phil that way, you never have to worry about him again."
After speaking with their corporate attorney, Traynor had been filling his head with legalese. Revocation of parental rights. The kid was getting one drawn up for Marisol to use with Hector's addicted mother. "If Phil agreed."
Jeff studied him. "Offer a trade—sign it and he's off the hook for back child support."
She'd finally be free. But, like every great opportunity, there was always a catch. One he would be thrilled about. But, Annie- Hank swallowed around the knot of worry. "Annie would have to agree to-"
"Gentlemen, can I speak with you a moment?"
Startled, he glanced up, surprised to find Miss Sharon in the doorway. He intercepted a look from Jeff. "Did we forget a meeting?"
"Nah, Sugar. No meeting." A stack of bracelets clanged on her wrist. Normally, an aggravating sound, Hank acknowledged. But, on a generous, soft-hearted, prot
ective mama bear, it was somehow soothing.
"Is anything wrong? Someone making too much noise?"
Guilt flashed across her mocha eyes, sending a warning strafing down his spine. "I need . . . to show you boys something in my office." Her gaze couldn't seem to land on them. "But, I need to keep my job."
Nodding to him, Jeff rose from his chair. "Let's go."
Three minutes later, they assembled in Sharon's office. Considering their fast-approaching lunch engagement, Hank texted Big Pete to join the impromptu meeting.
Sharon punched up a video feed on her computer screen, twisting it to face the three men crowded into her office. "We're worried about the Phil issue," she admitted. "He always seems to show up when our staffing is the lightest."
Hank stiffened. "Always? I thought it was just the one time."
"Yeah, we did, too," she admitted. "But, Leon—our night security guy-" When Big Pete snorted, she turned to glare at him. "Leon got to thinkin', and he reviewed several surveillance tapes last night." She crossed nervous arms over her ample chest. "Turns out . . . it's more like four times. Twice, he approached the door, and changed his mind." She shot Pete another glare. "Likely, because you were on duty."
"You're welcome."
His blood heating, Hank was careful not to show it. "And the other two?"
"Once, he left before the cops could get here."
Pete snapped to attention. "The Sunday night? When he knocked out Leon."
Sharon nodded. "The last one was when he went for Marisol," she confirmed.
Jeff went rigid by his side. At least now, he wasn't the only one feelin' violent.
"So, we took out a restraining order for that one."
How'd Traynor like it now? A useless piece of paper to protect his girlfriend? Hank shook free of his distraction, focusing on Sharon's words.
"I'm wonderin' if he's watching to know when staffing is light—or if he's just getting lucky."
"What can we do?" Jeff's expression had turned deadly serious.
"We want to help," Hank assured.
Sharon eyed him with humor. "I know, honey. But, let’s make sure Miss Sharon doesn’t lose her job in the process." Checking the hallway, she closed the door. "I'm gonna show you the footage of Phil. The outside shots are shadowed." She glanced to Jeff. "But, the one from last week-" Her voice trailed off.
When Marisol was attacked. They all leaned in, straining to see through the shadows. Wearing his damned hoodie. Hank's gaze glued to her screen.
"Okay—this last one is from our cameras in the dining hall . . . when he tried to reach our client."
Annie. Hank stiffened, staring at the screen with the intensity of a laser. Jeff moved closer, as though he could strangle Phil through the screen . . . if he only got close enough. This time, Phil wore a trench coat.
Pete took a step closer. "That’s funny."
Sharon paused the footage. "What?"
"When he stepped in the side door." Pete pointed, placing Phil in the shot. "I was right there."
"That’s how I remember it too," she agreed. "Right before you cut him off."
"I can’t believe I missed it." Big Pete’s expression slowly transformed from his ever present scowl to one of agitation. That alone was enough to tighten his chest. But, imagining Annie and the boys there— had blood rushing his ears. Ten feet away from their usual table, a psychotic bastard had gained entry to the dining room. Looking for her.
"I shoulda been flash-blasted for that." Pete touched the screen. "Look at his hand. When I blocked him—I was only lookin' at his face."
All eyes swiveled to Phil’s hand . . . to the knife he clutched, before slipping it in his coat pocket as Pete’s hulking frame stepped in front of the camera.
Never again, Hank vowed, his gaze glued to the paunchy, thin-haired man filling the screen. Memorizing his face. Height. Weight. Stance. Mannerisms. With twenty years of military experience at his disposal. With everything he had, he made the vow. Never again.
Maybe the best thing for the shelter would be Phil disappearing—or damn well wishing he had.
APPARENTLY SENSING their need to digest what they'd seen, Sharon's wide-eyed gaze shot between them, before she slowly backed out of her office. "I'll just—you know . . . be back in a few-"
"Okay—so we need to discuss a plan." Jeff shook off rage like a wet dog, releasing a cleansing breath. "That bastard's gonna pay for touching Marisol-" His throat rippled as he tried to rid his voice of strain. "But, in the meantime . . . I need you to meet with the drywall sub over lunch. He's talking about placing the order and I need to know we're still on sched-" His voice trailed off as he studied them. "What the hell's going on with you two?"
The kid wasn't just a pretty face, after all. Hank shot a glance at Pete. "Can't do it today. We're . . . grabbing lunch offsite."
Eyes narrowing, Jeff stared at him, before turning to Pete. "What are you really doing?"
Pete stared him down. "Nothing."
He turned to Hank. "Old man—if you still want a job here—you're taking me with you."
His boss radiated fury like it was gasoline. One match strike and the kid would blow. Hell, Phil had attacked the woman Traynor didn't realize he was in love with. He'd threatened the little boy Jeff had likely started thinking of as his. Just like me. "Okay."
"Spare me from you two idiots," Pete muttered, checking his watch. "Let's go."
They filed out of Sharon's office. Jeff glanced over his shoulder. "You need me along—to keep the two of you out of jail."
Chapter 16
Annie craned her neck. Stood on tiptoes. Searched the sea of diners. She hadn't missed him—so, where was Henry? Lunch was nearly over . . . and he'd failed to appear.
"Miss . . . can I get some green beans?"
Startled, she shook off her worry. For the next five minutes, she scooped green beans and mashed potatoes on twenty more plates. Was Henry angry? Because she'd turned down his offer to move in? She bit her lip. His expression had been more—resigned. As though he didn't want to push her. He'd been quiet.
"Has he changed his mind?" The boys had been so upset the previous day. Having to leave the best place they'd ever landed. Not even Henry's smiles could make them feel better about returning to the shelter.
Her boys were a handful. Though she knew Henry cared for them—he had no real idea of what he was contemplating. He meant well. And he . . . loved them. She was sure he believed it. But, the reality of life with two, rambunctious boys was hard enough. Loving another man's children. Toss in the fact that they'd been abused and bounced around for nearly half their lives-
"And you need to go slow," she muttered. Falling in love with Henry was the beautiful part of their future. Potential future. But, the rest of it- She shook her head. The clean-up-the-Phil-nightmare would be ugly. Butt ugly.
She couldn't risk her ex hurting the boys. Couldn’t afford to get distracted. And she would need to protect Henry—because only she knew what Phil was capable of—what his twisted mind could dream up. If Phil ever learned what Henry meant to her—he'd gain another weapon in his arsenal. Patting her back pocket, she confirmed her baton was there. Now, she would have a weapon, too.
On automatic pilot, Annie swiped her cleaning rag down the serving line as the diners slowed to a trickle. Glancing at the clock, she wondered again. Where was Henry?
"THIS LOOKS ABOUT RIGHT." Pete's gaze was fixed on the three story tenement in a neighborhood Hank could admit to being uneasy about. If it looked this bad during daylight hours . . . Jeff shot him a look suggesting he was rethinking his demand to be included.
"Sorta reminds me of Khanjar. All these abandoned buildings."
"You were there?" Hank traced his memory. In 2009, he’d been stationed further north.
"The entire summer. It was hot as shit." Catching Jeff's worried expression, Pete grinned over his shoulder to the backseat. "Easy, kid. This is a bust an' run. Nothin' to worry about."
"What's our plan
?" If this took any amount of time, his truck would likely be up on blocks by the time they returned.
Pete's expression turned serious. You said Phil's an alcoholic, right?" When Hank nodded, he nudged his gaze back to the house. "He might be into drugs, too. If this Betsy woman is livin' here—she's doing something."
"How do you know?" Traynor voiced the question Hank wondered.
"Because this is where you live when there’s no hope left." Pete shifted in his seat to include Jeff. "Okay—so we're gonna do a quick check. The car is an old Ford Taurus. Blue. Expired registration to a Betsy Longchamp. So, we look for proof of Phil livin' here. Maybe talk to the woman—if she'll talk."
"And if she won't?" Hank checked his watch. The other name on Pete's list would have to wait until the following day. He still had a job to build.
"She'll talk." Pete's confidence sent a trace of unease down his back. "If not—we pay a visit to Phil's work . . . maybe tomorrow, since we all got jobs to do. If we find the car there, we have confirmation he's living here with Betsy."
"Just remember—no arrests. Jake will kill me if Specialty gets any bad press."
When Pete smirked, Jeff stretched to tap the giant's arm. "And Sharon will kill you."
Two minutes later, they entered the vestibule. The smell nearly overwhelming, Hank blocked his nose with his shirt sleeve. Layers of smoke, both fresh and old, urine and decay. He thumped Jeff's arm. "You okay?" The kid looked a little green. He shook him off, leading the way down the hall. The rusted letter on the door he stopped at indicated they'd reached apartment B.
Hank shook the ancient knob. Locked. The silence in the building seemed to surround them. Desolate. Empty. Forgotten.
"She could be out-" Jeff's voice was cut off when Pete gave the door a hard shove. It popped open, as though the lock was too tired to resist.
"Drugs for sure," Pete muttered, lumbering into the dark room. Light trickled through a tattered shade on the single window. Torn, faded wallpaper peeled away from the window frame where a years-long leak had taken a toll.
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