BLACK WIDOW (Book #1 of The Black Widow Series)

by Jenni Moen

  “I don't know anything anymore.”

  “Everything I do is for us. For you. To make the world a little safer for you. For our kids someday.”

  She snorted. “If only. Everything you do is because of Daniela. You’re in love with a ghost. Not me. I’m not stupid enough to believe you’ll ever want kids with me.”

  She might as well have slapped me in the face. I’d never told her definitively I didn’t want kids, but apparently she’d figured me out on her own. I stood in a stupor as she stomped to the kitchen and pulled the dog leash off the hook on the wall.

  “You can't take Maddie,” I said. “This is her home.”

  “No, Scott. I am her home.” She met my eyes, and that's when I saw it. Resolve. She was leaving, and there was no convincing her otherwise.

  “Where will you go?” I asked.

  “I'll be fine.”

  She hadn't answered the question. “Is there someone else?”

  The question was born out of anger. An irrational stab in the dark since she’d never given me any reason to doubt her. But when she’d looked at the front door instead of at me, I knew the truth. I should've known Elena would never leave if she didn't already have a plan.

  “I’m sorry, Scott. This is going to hurt.”

  At the front door of my now empty apartment, I ran my hand over the shitty patch job in the drywall. I'd put my fist through it that night. According to the landlord, it would cost a few hundred dollars to fix it properly. I was still paying for my mistakes.

  Melinda and Trevor were right. I needed to start over. Professionally and personally, my life was a mess. It was time to let it go.

  Highland Park will be a good thing. A clean slate.

  I pulled the door shut behind me and bent to shove the key under it.

  "Mr. Russell?"

  I jumped and turned, my stance defensive.

  A man held up his hands. "Whoa," he said, laughing. "I have a delivery for Scott Russell in apartment 402. He pointed at the numbers on the door. "That’s you?"

  I relaxed a little. "Yes."

  "Sorry if I scared you."

  I shook my head. "No, no. My fault. I was lost in thought. Did you say delivery?" He didn't appear to have anything other than a clipboard on him.

  "It's downstairs. Do you mind coming down?"

  "Sure. You just caught me on my way out. Is it big or something?" I asked as I followed him down the hall.

  "You could say that."

  We took the elevator in silence while I tried to guess what it could be. I suspected whatever it was had something to do with my move. It could be a housewarming gift from Melinda. She was thoughtful like that. Or it could be from Trevor. Maybe a peace offering. There was a chance it was a going-away gift from the precinct or even a thank-you from the Henson family.

  I looked up to find the delivery guy watching me with a curious smile. "You really have no idea, huh?"

  I laughed. "None at all."

  He shook his head and chuckled. "This is going to be fun. She said it would be."

  The doors to the elevator opened. Curious, I followed him through the lobby and out the front door. He led me to a motorcycle parked on the sidewalk. Momentarily distracted, I walked around it, admiring it. "Nice ride."

  The delivery guy smiled at me with a strange expression on his face. "It's got less than thirty-seven miles on it."

  I whistled and squatted down to take a better look. "I had a 2008 Wide Glide."

  "Well, now you have a 2016."

  I looked up at him and blinked. "Excuse me?"

  He shook his head and laughed. "The bike," he said, pointing at it, "is yours. Bought and paid for. I just need some information, and then I'll leave you to it." He waved the clipboard at me.

  "She?" I asked even as the meaning of his words settled over me.

  "If you don't want it, I'd be happy to keep it for myself."

  "I didn't say that," I said, laughing. "To be honest, my mind is just sort of blown."

  "Sure. Shit like this doesn't happen to me every day either." He pulled a pen out of his jacket pocket. "I need your driver's license for the paperwork, which you can pick up at Windy City unless you want us to mail it. You'll need to insure it within ten days too, though I'd suggest sooner."

  I stared at him, my mouth agape, and absently fished my wallet out of my back pocket. "You said she. What was her name?"

  "She never said.”

  “And you didn’t ask?” I sputtered.

  He looked sheepish. “She paid the asking price and then some. I assumed the extra was so I wouldn't ask questions she didn't want to answer. I'm pretty good at reading between the lines."

  "What did she look like?"

  "Never saw her. She ordered it by phone and paid with a cashier's check. Delivered by courier. Didn't matter to me. All I needed was a name for the title, and she gave me yours. She sounded hot, too."

  "You can tell that by phone?" I asked.

  He laughed. "Not always. That's bitten me in the ass a few times, but she had a nice voice."

  I shook my head and stared at the bike. "This is crazy."

  "Totally." He scribbled something on the paper and thrust the clipboard at me. “Write your new address at the top and sign at the bottom. I'll mail you the paperwork but give me a few days, yeah? I'm swamped."

  I did as instructed and started to hand it back to him but thought twice about it. I skimmed the invoice quickly, noting the paid in full stamp. The only names on the piece of paper were the motorcycle dealership and mine. Reluctantly, I handed it back to him.

  "Don’t worry. You get a copy.” He pulled the invoice from the clipboard, tore off the back copy, and handed it to me. "There's a note in there," he said, pointing at the closest saddlebag. "Won't help you figure much out, though."

  I stepped toward the bike.

  "If we're good here, I've got to get going." He pointed at a truck with a trailer behind it, idling at the curb.

  I nodded, and he spun on his heel. He gave me a half wave through the passenger window as he pulled away.

  My mind swam, and I churned through the possibilities as I unfastened the buckle on the saddlebag. But for some reason, I kept coming back to one: the nameless woman from the train. She’d been on my mind all day. Her mysterious behavior should have sent me running in the opposite direction, but instead, it had made her intriguing somehow. It hadn’t helped that I’d been calling for updates on the kid’s condition all day. It had been touch and go for a bit, but he was out of the woods now.

  I picked up the note by a corner, careful not to touch it more than I needed to, in case prints could be lifted from it. Not that I was in any position to call in favors to find out.

  Scott, you earned it. Please accept this token of my gratitude.

  It wasn't signed, and there was no letterhead. Each word ended with a swirly flourish, making the writing feminine. Was it possible that the bike was a thank-you gift for rescuing the woman on the train?

  I replayed our conversation on the train in my head, checking off the details I'd given away to her about myself. My name. The model of my old motorcycle. My stop on the L. It was enough. She could've tracked me down if she’d wanted to. A Google search would probably lead her straight to my door.

  Still, I dismissed the idea as crazy. It was too far-fetched. Who else did I know who would do such a thing?

  Mel? Unlikely. She lived conservatively and could probably afford it, but she was moving on with someone else and had urged me to do the same. Why would she then turn around and do something so generous?

  There was my mom. But she was an even more unlikely suspect. My parents did not have money to blow on extravagant gifts.

  Elena? That thought nearly sent me into a fit of hysterical laughter.

  And that was the end of my list. There were no other women in my life.

  A token of my gratitude. Could this somehow be related to the Henson case? It seemed like a possibility, though they’d be bet
ter served spending what little they had on getting their daughter well.

  My phone rang in my pocket, and I carefully dropped the note back in the saddlebag before answering it. "This is Russell."

  "We're here," said a masculine voice. "The landlord met us at the curb and opened the apartment for us. We thought we'd go ahead and start moving stuff in, but we don't know where to put it. The place is pretty full."

  The movers. Shit.

  “Just put it anywhere. I’ll be there in about thirty minutes.” I looked at the bike and a grin crept over my face. "Make that twenty."

  I walked around the bike once more before climbing on. It was exactly what I would have chosen for myself if money were no object. I didn’t know if I could keep it, but it would get me to Highland Park. I could figure out what to do when I got there.

  I heeled the kickstand up, held the brake and clutch, and then stopped myself. What if it wasn't safe? Maybe it was going to blow up when I started it. I mulled that over for a few seconds and then laughed at my own idiocy. I'd made a few enemies over the years, but I didn't think any of them had thirty thousand to burn on a plot to kill me. I revved the engine, thankful no one was around to watch me acting like a pussy.

  With a smile on my face, I drove past the Noyes station where I should have been catching the L. My shitty mood from earlier had completely vanished. Roaring away from my old life certainly felt better than walking away.

  I pulled up in front of my new home—a middle unit in a row of older townhouses—with a new problem on my mind. I wasn't sure where to park. Luckily, a welcoming committee was waiting for me.

  HIM

  “Don't get off," Sierra said, holding up a hand to stop me. "You'll want to park across the street now." She showed off a set of perfectly bleached teeth as she pointed at the bike. "Is this new?"

  Pretty and trim, I easily recognized the property manager from my tour of the townhouse a week before. I also recognized the noticeable difference in her demeanor. She'd been curt and dismissive then, as if she barely had time to show it to me. Now, she was grinning ear to ear. Apparently, she appreciated fine machinery too.

  "Just got it. Sorry, I'm late. I wasn't expecting you to be standing out here on the street."

  She waved a dismissive hand through the air. "As I told you, we take special care of our premiere residents."

  Funny. I didn't remember her telling me much of anything during our first meeting, and I was sure the single-bedroom townhouse I was moving into didn't qualify me as a premiere anything.

  With a smile, she handed me an electronic key card and pointed to an underground parking area beneath a newer apartment building on the other side of the street. "This will get you in that green gate over there. Spots four and five are yours. I'll meet you at the elevators."

  She left me in a wake of confusion, her high heels clicking on the pavement as she crossed the street. There was a swing in her hips that hadn't been there the week before, and she looked over her shoulder with an encouraging grin.

  She was flirting. A week ago, I might have been interested if she'd been nicer to me. But she hadn't, and now, I found her lacking somehow. Her hazel eyes weren't bright enough. Her smile lacked a sweetness I now found endearing. I wasn’t enchanted.

  I turned my gaze to the building across the street. Two double glass doors led to an interior lobby. With shiny brass accents, I could even imagine a doorman inside, like some of the ritzy apartment buildings downtown. Why she was allowing me to park below it was beyond me, but I wasn't going to argue. I needed somewhere safe to park the bike for the night while I figured out what to do with it.

  I pulled up to the security gate and used the card she'd given me. After I had parked in the allotted spot, she met me at the elevators as promised. "We've had a little problem with the movers, so I'm glad you're here,” she said cheerfully.

  "Where are they? I didn't see them parked out front."

  "Behind the building. There's a service elevator. It's larger than this one," she said as the doors opened for us. "Let's go. I'm sure you're anxious to see it, and I know they're anxious to see you. It’s like a Mexican standoff in there."

  I stepped in behind her. I suppose I thought we’d get off on the first floor and walk back across the street. I was surprised when she pushed the button for the seventh floor instead.

  "How lucky for you I manage both properties, right? I wish I'd realized what you were looking for the first time you were here. I'm sure the misunderstanding is all mine, though."

  Since I had no clue what she was talking about, I wasn't so sure that was the case.

  "It was an easy fix, though, and you're going to love it here," she continued. "Your unit has it all. Quartz countertops and a gorgeous balcony view. You can even see the lake from up there."

  Quartz countertops? Balcony view? From what I remembered, the countertops were only marginally better than the scorched laminate in Evanston, and there was no balcony, period.

  The elevator doors opened again, and she flitted off the elevator and down the hall. "Follow me."

  "Sierra, stop." My voice echoed off the polished stone floors of the hallway. "Why are we on the seventh floor?"

  She stopped and turned slowly. The excited expression she'd worn before had morphed into one of confusion that surely matched my own. "You said the higher the better."

  "That's what I said?" I asked.

  She pursed her lips together and squinted her eyes. "Yes, that's what you said. This morning. On the phone." There was a hint of trepidation in her voice.

  "Sierra," I said slowly. “I didn’t call you this morning.”

  Trepidation turned into exasperation. "Yes, you did. You called me twice."

  I hadn’t called her once, let alone twice. “Could you maybe refresh my memory about what we talked about?"

  "Okayyyyy." Her annoyance was now on full display. "You said you'd lost your paperwork and asked for the address of the apartment. I gave it to you. Again." She ticked off each event on her fingers. "Then you hung up. A few minutes later you called back and asked for an upgrade."

  "An upgrade?"

  "Yes. The best I had, I believe, were your exact words."

  "Did that surprise you, Sierra?" I asked, switching into full detective mode.

  “Frankly, yes, it did. You seemed happy enough with the other one, and well, I ran your credit check so …”

  So she knew what I could afford. And what I couldn't. I would’ve laughed if I hadn’t been about to snap instead.

  "Are you playing games with me, Mr. Russell? It's detective, right? Because I'm feeling sort of played right now." Someone was definitely getting played, but I didn't think it was her.

  "I promise, I'm not."

  "Okay. Then let me show you the apartment."

  "I don’t want to see the apartment. I want to see the paperwork. Where is it?"

  Her face fell. She pointed down the hall in front of her. “It’s in the kitchen.”

  “Take me there now.”

  “Okay. I also made a copy of the cashier's check the courier dropped off. In case you wanted a copy of that."

  Cashier's check. Courier. It was the same song and dance the Harley salesman had given me. The only difference was Sierra seemed to believe she'd talked to me directly, and the Harley guy had talked to a woman.

  "Do you happen to know what company the courier was with?"

  She shook her head. "Just let me show it to you. Please," she begged. "It's beautiful. I promise you're going to love it. Plus, the guys are waiting for you." She was on the move again, hustling down the hall. But there was no flirtation in her step now. She looked back every few seconds to make sure I was following. Her nerves were as frayed as mine were.

  "There are only three units on this floor." She paused briefly by a door labeled 7B and pointed at it. "All of the units in the building are rentals except for this one, but the tenants are rarely here. Same with the one on the other end of the floor. It's a corporat
e apartment that is hardly ever used. It's really quiet up here. You'll pretty much have the whole floor to yourself."

  She stopped again in front of an open door and gestured for me to enter first. "Here we go. This one’s yours. 7C."

  Sierra had a screw loose if she thought I was staying.

  I stepped into a barren entryway that was larger than my old living room. A dramatically arched doorway led to an impressive open living space. If my entire apartment in Evanston could have been picked up and plopped down here, it would have fit into this one room. In the center of it, two groups of men stood staring awkwardly at each other.

  On one side were my movers. The three men stood in front of my old furniture as if they were guarding it. The worn couch and recliner, souvenirs from my failed marriage, seemed more shabby and inconsequential than usual in the large pristine space.

  On the other side were two more men and a brand-new living room set. Except for a gigantic leather couch, it was all still wrapped in cellophane. I didn't need them to unwrap any more of it to know I'd never be able to afford any of it. In my current financial situation, I could barely afford a new lamp, let alone an entire room of furniture. Or the room it was sitting in, for that matter.

  "Moving on up, aren't you, Mr. Russell?" one of my movers asked. He pointed at the other group of guys. "They want to know if they should haul off your old furniture. But I told them you wouldn't have paid us to move it if you didn't want it."

  "Where did all of this come from?" I asked the opposing side.

  A taller, skinnier man pointed at the print on his T-shirt and spoke. "Robertson's Furniture. She has the invoice." He nodded at Sierra.

  The pinched look had returned to her face. "It's in the kitchen with the other stuff. I assume you want to see it too?" she asked.

  "Rental?" I asked.

  She squeezed the bridge of her nose with two fingers. "Paid in full."

  The tall, skinny guy stepped forward. "All of our donations are taken to a warehouse for refurbishing. Your couch is pretty worn, so they'd probably have to reupholster it. The coffee table will probably need some restoration, but it's for a good cause. The owners of our store are involved with a women's shelter. When the women are ready to get their own place, they come shopping. It's pretty amazing really."