Divorced, Desperate and Deceived

by Christie Craig

  He rolled off the bed. At the same time, the phone rang. His gaze met hers, and he knew what she was thinking.

  She sat up, pulling the sheet up with her. “Can’t I just say that I’m okay? Doesn’t it take a minute or two before they can trace a call?”

  Luke picked up the phone from the side table and looked at the number. Relief whispered through him. “It’s not him. Different number.”

  “Is it Calvin?”

  “No. It’s probably a call for Harry Johnson. So I’m not answering it.”

  Kathy nodded. From the look in her eyes, he could tell she didn’t agree with his decision but didn’t plan on arguing. For the latter, he was grateful.

  The cell quit ringing. Luke leaned down and kissed her again, then headed for the bathroom, the cell phone snug in his palm. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her, but considering that he knew she disagreed with his tactics…well, there wasn’t a damn good reason to take a chance.

  “We got them,” Foster said into the phone. “Told you I was good.”

  Joey’s heart raced with indecision as he listened to the dirty trooper talk to someone he assumed was Lorenzo. Imagining what Foster would do to Lola gave him courage but just not quite enough. Finger on the trigger, he wondered whether Donald had hesitated when he’d offed Freddy. Had it been hard at all?

  “Nah, we don’t need them,” Foster continued. “I say, let Joey and me take care of this. We’ll get the job done, and you make my deposit in the morning.”

  Joey looked back at the cabin and saw a shadow move across the front window. He thought of the redhead and looked back at his gun. He had to do this. He had to. Not just for Lola and the redhead but for her kid.

  Kathy frowned as Luke walked away with the cell phone. Seriously, what harm would it do to call Lacy and in less than ten seconds let her friend know she was okay? From what Harry Johnson had said, her friends thought Luke kidnapped her. Lacy and Sue didn’t need to be worrying, not in their conditions.

  Kathy looked around the cabin for a radio or television. It appeared Claire thought those might be bad for her digestive system, because neither was present. Kathy supposed a weekend escape didn’t require keeping in touch with the outside world.

  She thought again about calling Lacy, about insisting Luke loan her the phone. Ahh, but arguing with the man who had just sent her to heaven didn’t seem right. So she kept her mouth shut and watched him move into the bathroom.

  Damn, if he didn’t look good. His backside was round and tight. His thighs were solid, and no skinny knees for Luke Hunter. His legs were muscled, thick and finely dusted with hair. She’d read once in a magazine that a lot of men were waxing. She was glad Luke hadn’t taken that route. No, she wouldn’t want a man covered in fur, but a little hair…well, it seemed masculine. She remembered how sensitive her nipples had felt brushing against the soft hair on his chest. Yup, a little hair was fine.

  A smile tugged at her lips, and she realized the light, airy feeling in her chest was all because of him. He made her…happy. Not that she hadn’t been happy. She had her son to make her smile, to remind her of what life was really about. She had Lacy and Sue, her anchors, helping her stay sane whenever life seemed too crazy. She had her florist business. It felt good to make a living doing something she enjoyed. But Luke made her…well, he made her feel something more. As if she’d been missing out on something, a part of her that had been neglected. A part of her that had been dormant, a part that he’d brought back to life.

  Who knew sex was so important?

  His words vibrated though her head and heart. That wasn’t sex. It certainly wasn’t—not like any sex she’d ever had.

  Pulling the sheet up to her chest, she fought back the fear that this was “more.” That it involved things like promises and commitments. She had no problem offering those things, but she’d known the sting too often of having them broken; of having her love, her trust and her heart tossed back in her face—first from her father, then from a shitload of cops and then her husband. Did she really want to go there again?

  Closing her eyes, she recalled several conversations she’d had with Sue and Lacy. She hadn’t blamed them for falling in love, for relying on men to make their lives complete, but she’d sworn she would never want or need that security, herself. And yet…

  Goodwill’s bark brought her out of her thoughts. She looked at the puppy, who was dancing by the door.

  “You gotta go?” she asked, feeling relieved to have something to pull her out of her reverie. God help her, but she didn’t want to start regretting what had happened, and she didn’t want to start thinking about the consequences. Couldn’t she just enjoy the moment? Luke was going to leave tomorrow. She’d have plenty of time to reassess, to beat herself up for any mistakes then.

  Standing up, she found her towel on the floor and wrapped it around her. Then she grabbed the leash that she’d left on the counter. After attaching it to Goodwill’s collar, she opened the door to the dark, silent night.

  Goodwill started barking—hard, serious barks—and yanked on the leash. It surprised her.

  “What’s wrong boy? You smell a raccoon or something?” Holding tight to the leash, Kathy gave a quick glance around the property. There wasn’t another house for a mile, so no one would see her in a towel. She stepped out into the night.

  The spring air held a tiny thread of coolness. As her feet met the damp ground, her gaze moved up to the dark sky. The stars seemed extra bright. Goodwill continued to bark and tried to run toward the woods. “No!” she ordered, and moved to another patch of grass, hoping he’d do his business before she lost her covering.

  Foster had no sooner hung up when Joey saw the cabin’s front door open. His breath caught when he recognized the redhead. With a couple of bushes and about fifty yards between them, she didn’t have a clue of her danger. But the puppy on the leash, dragging her closer, seemed to have them in his sights.

  “A little closer will make it easier.” Foster let out a low groan, and the puppy started yapping louder. “Damn shame we can’t get us a piece of that before we do the job.”

  The realization of what Foster meant made Joey wince in disgust, and he knew without a doubt the man deserved to die. While he didn’t like being the one to do it, he also knew it had to be done. Maybe whatever Higher Power there was had put Joey here just for this reason—to do what had to be done. Maybe.

  Foster released the safety on his gun. Sweat dripped from Joey’s brow, and his hands felt sweaty beneath his gloves.

  “She’s even hotter than that Mexican piece of ass I’m going to get me some of later,” the trooper muttered.

  “You’re making this easy,” Joey whispered. He pointed the gun with its homemade silencer at the back of his companion’s head.

  “Making what easy?” Foster asked.

  Joey pulled the trigger.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Joey felt a splatter of what he assumed was blood on his arms and face. The whoosh from the gun, the gasp of Foster catching his last breath and then the thud of the man falling onto the soft ground, it all seemed drowned out by unrelenting barking. Bile rose in Joey’s throat. Immediately, he realized he’d been wrong—not wrong to do it, but wrong about it being easy. Falling to his knees, refusing to look at the corpse of the man he’d just killed, he lost the contents of his stomach as silently as he could.

  He, Joey Hinkle, had murdered a man. Did that make him damned to Hell, or had he done the job he’d been fated to do? Trying to control his gasping, he attempted to remind himself why he’d done it: the kid. He’d done it for the kid. Because that boy would have grown up without a mother like Joey and his brother had. Joey had also done it for Lola, because Foster would have forced her to have sex with him.

  “Kathy?”

  Joey heard a man call the name in panic. Hunter. Had the gunshot been loud enough for them to hear? Still on his hands and knees, Joey inched back farther into the woods. The ground felt cold even
through his gloves, and dampness seeped through his suit pants.

  “I’m here,” the redhead answered above the dog’s barking.

  “What the hell are you doing outside? You scared the piss out of me!”

  “Goodwill had to go.”

  Joey looked up and saw Luke Hunter rush over to the woman. His gaze shifted back and forth, checking out the area. While Joey couldn’t be sure, it looked as if Hunter had a gun. Still feeling sick to his stomach, Joey crouched a little lower.

  “What’s got him all riled up?” Hunter asked, and Joey assumed he meant the dog. Relief fluttered through him.

  “Probably a coon,” the redhead answered.

  “Has he done his business?” Hunter asked, impatient.

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, he’s had his chance.” The man scooped up the dog. “Let’s go inside.”

  “But…” She never finished what she had to say, as Hunter nudged her back toward the house.

  Joey stayed where he was, on his knees, smelling the earth and the coppery scent of blood. His stomach still roiled.

  Pushing his panic aside, he tried to think of what he needed to do now. He’d killed a man, killed him to save others. But unless he could stop Lorenzo from getting the redhead, his killing would be in vain. He couldn’t let that happen.

  Forcing himself to do what needed to be done, he moved to Foster’s body and found the man’s phone and keys. Then, grabbing Foster’s feet, Joey pulled him deeper into the woods. He wouldn’t bury him. Nope. If the buzzards picked Foster’s bones, the man deserved it. Giving the body, facedown on the ground, one last look, Joey fought the need to puke again and started back to the car.

  Remembering what Foster had said about the gun belonging to some drug gang, he tossed it out into the woods. When he reached the car, he had to adjust the seat before his 300-pound frame would fit. Sitting there, hands gripping the steering wheel, he focused on breathing and not thinking. Then he saw it, out of the corner of his eye: another shooting star. It whisked across the sky like a message. Swallowing a lump, the ugliness of what he’d done didn’t seem quite so ugly.

  He grabbed Foster’s phone from his coat pocket.

  Lorenzo’s voice echoed across the line when it connected: “Tell me the job is done.”

  “Sorry,” Joey said. “Hunter shot Foster. He’s dead.”

  Lorenzo let loose a long string of curse words that had Joey remembering his mother—a redhead like the woman he’d just saved. Someone needed to take a toilet brush to Lorenzo’s mouth. Oh, hell, Lorenzo needed more than that.

  “Here. Let me get that for you.” Jason jumped up from the kitchen chair to help Claire Banks reach the glasses for the iced tea she’d offered him and Chase.

  “Why, thank you. It’s good to see at least some young men still have manners.” The woman glanced at Chase, almost as if to suggest she found him lacking in the etiquette department.

  “We appreciate you talking to us this late,” Jason said.

  “No problem, I usually stay up to watch The Tonight Show.”

  When the woman turned back around, Chase shot Jason an annoyed expression, and Jason knew it went without saying he’d get his chops busted when they left. His friend was always ribbing him about his soft spot for the elderly. Not that he really had one.

  He brought three glasses down. “Like we were saying, we would just like to go over everything you saw and see if there’s anything you might be able to add about Stan Bradley.”

  The old woman handed Jason an ice pick. He stared at it.

  “You’ll need to chop the ice. It’s in the freezer,” she said, motioning to the fridge.

  “Oh.” He went to the freezer and pulled out a bag of ice. He looked down at the refrigerator and the ice dispenser in the door. “The ice machine is always the first to go, isn’t it?”

  “Go?” she asked, as she cut up a lemon.

  “With refrigerators.”

  “Oh, it’s not broken. I just don’t use it. Makes the ice taste funny. And, if you ask me, it causes IBS.”

  “IBS?” Chase asked.

  “Irritable Bowel Syndrome,” the woman said. “Think about it. Probably five out of ten people have this problem now, and back before all this new modern technology started messing with our food, IBS didn’t exist. Sure, we got gassy in the old days, but nothing a good walk around the block by yourself wouldn’t cure.”

  Jason saw a look of suppressed laughter on Chase’s face and had to swipe a hand over his own mouth. Then he turned around, dropped the bagged ice in the sink and started picking off chunks.

  While he picked, he talked. “According to the reports, you said that you saw Stan Bradley kidnap Kathy Callahan.”

  “I didn’t say he kidnapped her. Okay, sure, it sounds like he kidnapped her. I’ll go so far to say it looked like he kidnapped her. But that boy is a good boy. He’s never once turned me down when I asked a favor.” She went to the fridge and took out a pitcher of tea. “And being the age I am, I have a tendency to ask for a lot of favors. Of course, I cooked for the boy. Boy howdy, he sure did enjoy my meals.”

  “Exactly what did you see?” Chase asked.

  “Why, one time I was out of my suppositories and he came through for me,” Claire continued, ignoring Chase. Jason saw him make a face. “Can’t see to drive at night, and that boy drove to five different pharmacies before he found them. My own son-in-law won’t go pick up my supposito-ries—as if there’s something ugly about them just because they go where the sun doesn’t shine.”

  Jason heard Chase cough, which was really a laugh, and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep his composure. “He sounds like a nice guy.”

  “Which is why all this drug business is for the birds. Stan Bradley is a good man. If I were a few years younger I’d be smitten with him.”

  Jason dropped ice into their glasses. “So exactly what did you see this morning?”

  “He was carrying her out of the house. Over his shoulder. He put her down. Well, he sort of dropped her down. Then I saw him pushing her into that big florist van. He ran around and got in the driver’s side and drove off.” She waved her hands back and forth. “That’s when those no-good Yankees came out of the house and started shooting. Of course, I’d heard them shooting before.”

  Jason tried to imagine the scene. “So maybe the plumber was trying to get her away from the shooters.”

  “That’s what I tried to tell those other police officers. But you know how most of you men are—stubborn dingbats.”

  “Do you know if Mr. Bradley had any friends or family?” Jason asked.

  “Nope. Boy was a loner. Didn’t even have a girlfriend. Don’t know why either. He is what women your age would call a ‘hottie.’”

  “I don’t think he’s that good-looking,” Chase muttered.

  Jason turned and stared at him.

  “What?” Chase said. “I don’t.”

  Jason looked back at Claire Banks. “And that’s when you called the police?”

  “No, I’d already called the police.”

  “Why would you have already called the police?” Chase asked.

  The woman put a finger to her temple. “You know, I think I forgot to tell this part to the other cops, too.”

  “What part?” Jason said.

  “I called Stan when I saw those fellows pull up. He told me to lock my doors and to call the police.”

  Chase stood. “He told you to call the police? The plumber is the one who told you to call the police?”

  “Yup. I’m telling you, he’s a good boy. Any man who’ll go after suppositories is a good one. Why…I trust the boy. Even gave him free rein to my lake cabin. Unlike some men, I knew he wouldn’t be taking women up there, doing the dirty and using it like some cheap hotel. He’s a good boy, that one. Loves my meatloaf like you wouldn’t believe.”

  Jason looked at Chase, and a clear truth was rushing through his head: If Stan Bradley was into drug trafficking, he wouldn’
t have told her to call the police.

  “Ten o’clock at the fruit stand.”

  Holding the cell phone to his ear, Luke repeated what Calvin said while he looked at Kathy. She was sitting at the tiny table in the corner of the room, wearing his shirt. When she’d asked if she could wear it, he’d told her no, that the towel gave him easier access. She’d rolled her eyes at him, sashayed that cute, towel-covered ass into the bathroom and donned it anyway. He couldn’t complain.

  They’d almost finished their after-sex snack when the phone had rung again. It was Calvin with the time and place.

  “The stand is right off 101, a couple—”

  “I know where the stand is,” Luke answered. “We’ll be there.”

  Kathy glanced down at her plate of pineapple and crackers. Was she thinking the same thing Luke was? Bringing an end to the mess would be heaven, but being separated from each other was going to be hell.

  “About the girl,” Calvin said. “If you could…”

  “Could what?” Luke asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Luke didn’t like that. His gut twisted with an antsy feeling—the kind of feeling he’d banked on when working difficult cases. The kind of feeling that had helped keep him alive. Was he just getting paranoid, or was he picking up something in Calvin’s tone?

  “Who’s going to meet us?” he asked.

  A pause filled the line. Luke didn’t like the pause either.

  “Brad Chow and Kirk Paulson,” Calvin finally said.

  Luke recognized the names. He took a deep breath and tried to calm the inkling that something was wrong. He remembered Calvin telling him earlier that his wife had been in an accident. Was that why he seemed off the mark?

  “How’s your wife?” Luke asked.

  “She’s better.” Calvin let out a breath. “Is everything still okay there? No problems?”

  “It will be better tomorrow,” Luke answered.

  “But no troubles so far?”

  The niggling feeling stirred in Luke’s gut again. “Nothing I haven’t handled—why?”

  “Just checking,” Calvin said. “Stay safe. Stay…alive.”