Colby Rebuilt

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Colby Rebuilt Page 9

by Debra Webb


  No, she couldn’t be sure it was her…but it was definitely her voice.

  “I’d know her voice anywhere. The voice was hers.” The words could have been from some kind of recording done before she died…if she was dead.

  If. If. If.

  Mary Jane dropped her head against the seat and closed her eyes. Dear God, what had her sister gotten her into? The tire on her car had been slashed. Her apartment searched. And now this. Her car was riddled with bullet holes. She’d seen a couple of holes in the metal, not to mention all the broken windows.

  At least she understood exactly what Victoria Colby-Camp had been talking about when she’d mentioned the dangers of shadowing an investigator.

  But this was her sister’s mess.

  Her mess.

  And this man had nearly lost his life.

  More of those confounding tears rolled down her cheeks and she had to look away—look at anything except the man next to her. Her need to have the truth could have cost him his life.

  “Rebecca,” she murmured, “what have you done?”

  THE DOCTOR WASN’T HAPPY ABOUT the crowded room, but he would just have to deal with it. Shane wasn’t letting Mary Jane out of his sight and Officer Woody wasn’t allowing Shane out of his presence. With the nurse, that made five people in the small exam room. And Woody’s partner was in the corridor just outside the door.

  Detective Bailen was on his way, as was Simon Ruhl.

  A real party.

  “It’s a soft tissue wound,” the doctor confirmed. “Clear entrance and exit wounds. Not too serious but fairly deep.” He looked over his wire-rimmed glasses at Shane. “You’re sure you don’t want something besides the local for the pain?”

  Shane moved his head side to side. “Just do it.”

  He fixed his attention on Mary Jane as the doctor began. The first prick made him wince, but after that he was good. Mary Jane’s hands shook as she shoved long, silky strands of fiery red hair behind her ears. Her skin was as pale as porcelain and looked every bit as smooth. He hadn’t noticed until then the sprinkling of freckles across her nose. Went with the territory of being a fair-skinned redhead, he supposed.

  Her sister had said in her video message that no one should die a virgin. He wondered if, these days, a twenty-nine-year-old woman who hadn’t been living in a cave could actually be a virgin. Maybe Rebecca just hadn’t been privy to her sister’s private life.

  Those wide blue eyes locked on his, and he hoped Mary Jane couldn’t read his mind and that she wasn’t going to cry again. She’d proven pretty damned strong so far, considering what she’d been through. But he couldn’t tolerate those tears.

  He never could.

  His ex had used the power of tears to make him feel guilty for her mistakes so many times. If she blew the budget, he felt guilty. If she forgot Matt’s play dates, it was Shane’s fault. She never took responsibility for anything. Not even for cheating with his best friend.

  Fury twisted his gut. He was a fool to be going down that path again.

  He’d been one then and evidently he hadn’t learned his lesson yet. Otherwise this woman wouldn’t have him wishing he could dry those tears dampening her cheeks.

  Keeping her safe while getting to the bottom of what happened to her sister was his job. Keeping her happy wasn’t. He had to remember that.

  “That’s got it.” The doctor stepped back and let the nurse take care of the dressing.

  As the doctor left the exam room to move on to his next patient, the officer in the corridor stuck his head inside. “Woody, Detective Bailen from Homicide is here, and he needs to speak with you.”

  Good. That was going to save Shane a lot of explaining. Between Bailen and Ruhl, they should be able to clear up the incident. Shane really wanted to get this woman home.

  Problem was, he couldn’t risk taking her back to her own place. And there was the detail of his Harley at her place. Simon could take care of that problem. But convincing Mary Jane to go home with him might prove considerably more of an issue.

  “You’ll need to pick up your follow-up orders at the desk,” the nurse told him as she finished dressing the sutured wound.

  The door opened and a suit walked in. Before Shane could decide if he was FBI or the Marshals, the man flashed his credentials.

  “Special Agent John LeMire.”

  Now the real fun began.

  “Will you excuse us, ma’am,” the agent said to the nurse. His navy suit looked fresh from the cleaners, not a single crease. He appeared to be about forty, with a hint of gray at his dark temples.

  The nurse gave the agent a tight smile, took her tray and exited the room.

  “Ms. Brooks, I hope you’re all right,” LeMire said to Mary Jane.

  “I’m fine.”

  The way her arms were hugged around her middle didn’t back up her assertion. Shane knew she wasn’t all right. Far from it.

  LeMire’s interest focused on Shane once more. “I was unaware a private investigation firm was involved in the Rebecca Brooks case.”

  “Detective Bailen should have kept you up to speed,” Shane countered as he slid off the exam table and reached for his damaged jacket. “He was fully aware of Ms. Brooks’s decision to retain our services.” He gritted his teeth as he pulled on the leather coat that had been his favorite for a hell of a long time. He doubted it would be so easy to repair this time.

  “I’m sure you’re aware that you are legally obligated to share any information or evidence you discover with the Bureau.”

  “Yep.” He adjusted his jacket and tried to ignore the ache in his arm with each movement. “I assured Bailen that I understood my responsibilities.” He let go a big breath, hoping to exhale some of the frustration and fatigue, as well. Didn’t work. “Any more questions?”

  “This is a very sensitive case,” LeMire countered. “I’m concerned that your agency’s tampering may damage our efforts to reorganize our case against Horizon Software.”

  Shane appreciated his frankness. “The way I understand it, you don’t have a case without a key witness.” He moved toward Mary Jane. “If there’s nothing else, we’re ready to go now.”

  LeMire pointed an accusing finger at him. “We’ll be watching you, Allen. I know more about you than you know about yourself. Don’t think we’re unaware of the grudge you have against Marshal Mitchell, as well as those who made the decision to retire you.”

  Shane allowed one corner of his mouth to tilt upward. “You know how to reach me.” He guided Mary Jane out of the room. He wasn’t going to be pressured by these guys. He had a job to do and he was well aware of the rules of discovery and disclosure. As far as grudges went, he didn’t waste the energy. Though he couldn’t deny despising Mitchell’s existence when forced to interact with the bastard. He was only human after all.

  In the corridor Detective Bailen, Simon Ruhl and another fed waited, and judging by their stern expressions no one was happy.

  “You okay?” Ruhl asked.

  Shane laughed softly at all the attention. He couldn’t remember when he’d had this many people concerned about his well-being. “Just a scratch.”

  Ruhl nodded. “I’ll update Victoria.”

  Victoria Colby-Camp wouldn’t rest until she knew her people were safe. That was the thing about the Colby Agency. It wasn’t like joining a staff, it was more like becoming a part of a special club…a family.

  “Officer Woody has been brought up to speed,” Bailen said, “on the situation. His report will reflect that you and Ms. Brooks were the victims of a drive-by shooting.”

  What else could they say at this point?

  “You didn’t get a look at the unknown subjects?” LeMire’s partner, Agent Richard Farmer, wanted to know.

  Shane shook his head. “I was a little busy avoiding gunfire.” He looked to Bailen. “The cops should have a license plate number.”

  “Dead end,” Bailen told him. “The car was stolen. Found it a few blocks from the sce
ne. We’ll, of course, have the forensics techs go over the vehicle for any prints or trace evidence.”

  And they would get nothing. “These guys were professionals,” Shane warned. “I don’t think they intended to kill anyone. I’d wager that this was a scare tactic.”

  “Well, it worked,” Mary Jane muttered.

  Ruhl looked from Mary Jane to Shane. “Time to move to the next level,” he suggested.

  Shane nodded. He’d already decided that. He gave Ruhl the key to his Harley. “Could you have someone deliver her for me?”

  Ruhl nodded. “A car is waiting whenever you’re ready.”

  “Wait.” Bailen’s expression was furrowed with confusion. “How can you be sure this was just a scare tactic?”

  “I’d like to hear the answer to that one myself,” LeMire added smugly.

  “They were on our tail for three or four minutes,” Shane explained. “I executed evasive maneuvers, but they had the advantage from the get-go. The shots were placed wide. I think this—” he moved his left arm slightly “—was a ricochet, not a direct hit.” Of course he couldn’t be certain, but instinct told him that during those minutes of high-speed chase the passenger had had ample opportunity to attain a headshot. Shane had been a visible target the entire time. If the intent had been to kill him, he would be dead now.

  Bailen shoved back his lapels and planted his hands on his hips. “The trouble appears to have started with your interference,” he said to Shane. “I’m not sure Ms. Brooks understands how much danger she might very well be in while in your company.”

  “The trouble,” Shane countered, “started when your department released the announcement that the remains of a star witness in a federal case had been identified.”

  The official authorities in the group all started to talk at once then. Ruhl and Shane exchanged a glance. The involvement of multiple agencies always made for awkward moments like this. There was always lots of accusations and no one willing to accept responsibility.

  Shane leaned toward Mary Jane. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They made a simultaneous about-face and headed for the exit to the lobby. Bailen and LeMire shouted after them, but Shane didn’t look back. The sound of Simon Ruhl’s commanding voice interrupted whatever opposition the men would have launched next, giving Shane and Mary Jane just enough time to escape through the Authorized Personnel Only doors.

  Shane didn’t slow until they’d reached the exit to the parking lot. The sooner they were out of here and at his place the better.

  Mary Jane hesitated at the curb. “What’re we going to do now?”

  He spotted the car, complete with driver. “The agency’s provided transportation. We’ll—”

  “Allen, you’re in over your head.”

  Shane’s gaze swung toward the man striding toward them. Derrick Mitchell. Fury instantly ignited in Shane’s gut. What the hell did he want now?

  “Ms. Brooks,” Mitchell said as he reached their position. “I would strongly advise you to reconsider working with this man. He’s a loose cannon. If you’re counting on him taking care of you, then you should talk to the last person who counted on him. And that would be me.”

  Shane didn’t remember throwing the punch, but he knew exactly when his fist connected with the bastard’s jaw. Mitchell staggered back a couple of steps.

  Dan Bolton stepped between them in time to cut off the next swing. “That’s enough,” he ordered, looking from one to the other.

  “I could charge you with assault,” Mitchell threatened.

  “So do it,” Shane goaded. Let him. Landing that punch was worth an assault charge.

  “No one will be charging anyone with anything,” Bolton growled. “You asked for that one, Mitchell.”

  Mary Jane tugged at Shane’s sleeve. “Let’s go.”

  He felt exactly like an ass when he got a look at her expression. She was exhausted and frightened and he’d taken the bait and ended up in a fight.

  Shane headed for the car, his hand resting against the small of her back. His full attention had to be one place only: protecting this woman from whatever demons her sister had left behind.

  Chapter Eight

  “Thanks, man.”

  Shane slapped the top of the car and it rolled away. Mary Jane’s gaze moved from the taillights disappearing down the street to the small house sitting on a postage stamp-size lawn.

  Craftsman-style bungalow. The streetlamp on the corner chased the shadows from the yard onto the porch. The neighborhood was quiet save for a dog barking three houses away. Apparently their arrival had awakened him from his sleep.

  There were about a dozen questions she wanted to ask as Shane ushered her up the walk to the steps, but she was too busy attempting to see the details through the darkness.

  He unlocked the door, reached inside and flipped a switch, then waited for her to go inside first. Three steps and one deep breath later and she knew for sure she was in his home. It smelled like him, like leather and earthy spices.

  The click of the latch and a chain sliding into place echoed behind her as he secured the door. She gasped as something brushed her leg. Then she smiled as a big gray cat rubbed against her again.

  “That’s Gypsy,” he told her as he tossed the keys onto a table by the door.

  Mary Jane crouched down to smooth her hand over the sleek fur. “Gypsy?”

  “Yeah.” He shouldered out of his jacket, wincing twice as he did so. “She wanders like a tomcat. But she always comes back.”

  Mary Jane scooped the cat into her arms, the sound of its rhythmic purring soothing. “Are we here to get you a change of clothes?” They really hadn’t talked much on the way over. She had assumed that he didn’t want to talk about the case in front of the driver. Her excuse was far more selfish—she’d been exhausted.

  But—she turned all the way around to take a look at the living room—now that she was here she’d gotten her second wind, which was mainly boosted by her curiosity. How did a guy who rode a Harley live?

  Things looked pretty normal so far. Comfortable sectional sofa in a deep forest green. Heavy wood tables and a massive television—one of the flat-panel types mounted on the wall. Probably surround sound and all that guy stuff.

  “Why don’t I see what I can pull together in the kitchen?”

  Her stomach rumbled at the suggestion. “I could eat,” she admitted. As if understanding that food was about to be prepared, Gypsy struggled to get free. Mary Jane set her down on the floor and then watched as she followed her master into the kitchen.

  The kitchen was nearly as large as the living room. The cabinets and appliances circled the room, leaving a table and chairs as the centerpiece. More of that dark, heavy wood with a butcher block countertop. Neat, clean. She doubted he did a lot of cooking. In fact, he’d said something about his cupboards being bare most of the time, too.

  She shoved her hair behind her ear, and something caught between her fingers. She peered at the object. Glass. Good grief. She hadn’t thought of checking her hair for debris.

  “Could I use your bathroom?” She also hadn’t considered that she likely looked a fright.

  “Sure.” He sat a skillet on the stovetop. “Down the hall, first door on the left.”

  She returned to the living room and took the only other doorway, which led into the hall. Two doors on each side. Home office on the right, then a bedroom. Probably a guest room. She didn’t see any sign of her host in that room. Directly across the hall was his room. The bed was unmade, but otherwise it was fairly neat.

  As much as she wanted to linger, she made her way to the final door, the bathroom. A groan vibrated in her throat as she caught sight of her reflection. “What a wreck.” After searching the drawers in the vanity, she settled on a comb. No brush. This would take some time. Slowly, she detangled the wild mass. Several fragments of glass dropped onto the white-tiled counter.

  She washed her face and hands and straightened her clothes. The bl
ouse had held up pretty well, but her skirt was wrinkled and had a small snag in the material on her right hip. She had no idea how she’d managed that, but considering she’d been chased and shot at, she couldn’t really complain.

  For a minute or two she stared at her reflection. At the same blue eyes as her sister’s. Was it possible Rebecca could still be alive?

  As much as she wanted that to be true, Mary Jane wasn’t sure she could ever hope to understand how this all happened if that were the case. But maybe she wasn’t being fair. She didn’t have all the facts. She had no idea what her sister had been through or why she had done whatever it was she’d done.

  For now, she had to give Rebecca the benefit of the doubt.

  She went back to the kitchen and found Shane scraping scrambled eggs onto plates. He looked up, smiled.

  “I’m not much of a cook, but I can do eggs and toast.”

  Her mouth watered. She really was hungry. “Smells heavenly.”

  “Have a seat.” He set the skillet in the sink. “I’ll get the toast and the beer.”

  Beer?

  Two slices of browned bread popped from the toaster. He placed them on a plate and set the plate on the table between the two already laded with scrambled eggs. Then he reached into the fridge and withdrew two longneck bottles of cold beer.

  Beer.

  Well, there was a first time for everything.

  “Would you like a glass?” He deposited an open bottle in front of her.

  “Do you use a glass?”

  He shook his head, another smile slid across his lips. “You don’t drink beer, do you?”

  Her mother had always taught her to pretend she liked whatever was served to her when a guest in someone else’s home. To do otherwise was rude, in her mother’s esteemed opinion.

  “Who doesn’t?” she tossed back, determined to be a sport considering what he’d gone through tonight to protect her.

  The smile stretched into a grin as he opened the second bottle and took his seat. “Eat,” he encouraged. “We’ll both feel a lot better when we’ve gotten some fuel into us.”

 

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