Billy gazed around the home—if it could be called one. Take-out boxes and junk mail littered the floor. He’d heard the term trailer trash, and he suspected this was an example. Not that he judged Andy. Nope. He couldn’t blame Andy. The boy had explained that his parents just up and left. That was hard to grasp. Sure, fathers tended to run off—Billy’s own had—but mothers weren’t supposed to do that. Yeah, his mom could be pretty crazy, but she would never have left him. It was a shame that Andy didn’t have a sister like Mace, or maybe a grandma like Nan. They’d have taken care of him. Of course, Andy said he didn’t need anyone. He worked at a fast-food place where they fed him on his shifts and let him bring home any mistakes from the kitchen. Pride had filled the teen’s eyes when he’d claimed to make enough money to pay the utilities, his cell phone, and to buy dog food for Spike.
Why had Andy picked him up? The question still jumped around Billy’s confused brain. If it was for money, the kid hadn’t asked yet. Maybe the boy was just lonely. He sure as hell didn’t have anyone else in his life. Then again, it was probably because he thought it was cool to help an escaped prisoner. There might have been a day when Billy believed that, too. But right now, nothing felt cool about this. And when Andy asked Billy why he’d gone to jail, Billy’s answer had been short. “I made a mistake.”
The dog stirred beside Andy. “It’s been four hours since you called her.”
“She’ll come.” Billy refused to think that something had happened. Ellie had been so scared when he’d told her that Tanks had escaped. Somehow, Billy had managed to calm her down and tell her what to do. At least he hadn’t screwed that up. He’d almost reminded himself of his sister: taking care of situations, telling others what needed to be done. Not that Mace would ever have gotten herself into this jam. Why did he always get messed up in things?
He wanted to call Mace to see if Ellie had gotten there yet, but he was afraid the police had tapped her phone. And while he wanted to see his sister, he knew she would try to talk him into turning himself in. That wasn’t an option, not until he fixed this.
Stepping over a pile of dirty clothes, he bit the inside of his lip. He could almost hear Mace saying, Don’t bite your lips raw—it’s just gonna hurt. She was right.
His sister had always taken care of him. But now it was his turn to take care of her. Especially when this was his fault. He wouldn’t let Tanks hurt Mace or Ellie.
He thought about Hal. Was the guard alive? Images flashed in Billy’s mind of the man lying on the ground, blood oozing from his chest. Then he saw the other inmate, Brandon, his prison uniform soaked in red. Billy wanted to puke.
The gun tucked into the waistband of his pants felt heavy and cold against his hip. Part of him wanted to throw it away, but another part wouldn’t let him. He’d messed up. He wouldn’t be a coward again. David Tanks had to be stopped, and it no longer mattered what happened to Billy himself. Hadn’t Mace told him that he had to grow up, to stop thinking about himself and start thinking about other people? A spray of light danced across the blinds, followed by the sound of a car pulling down the gravel street. Billy ran to the window, praying it was Ellie and that she’d brought Mace. But the car drove past, its red taillights winking in the darkness.
“That’s my neighbor,” Andy said. “He works second shift…when he works. Mostly he just hides from his ex-wives.”
Billy bit down on the inside of his lip so hard he tasted blood.
It was midnight when Jake pulled his car into the precinct parking lot. “You can head home,” he told Donaldson, who sat in the passenger seat. He opened the car door but didn’t look forward to getting out; he was still sore from his run-in with a certain brunette’s knee. “I’m just going to see if the reports I requested on the prison breakout were faxed.”
“You want me to go over them with you?” Donaldson asked.
“Nah. I’ll probably grab them and head home myself.”
Donaldson’s orthodontist-straightened teeth gleamed in the dark. “Wait until I tell the guys that you got taken down by a pizza girl.”
“Wait until I tell everyone you get your ass waxed.”
While Jake only had a year of experience on the other detective, it felt like more. Probably it was because of Donaldson’s background. His daddy was a bigwig in Washington. Donaldson, an only child, had spent his childhood traveling the globe—first-class, no doubt. Not that Jake had anything against rich people, but he and this kid came from two different worlds. Of course, while he didn’t relate to Donaldson, he’d grown to respect him. No matter how much razzing the unit gave him about being a golden boy with Washington ties, the new detective took it on the chin and continued to prove he cared about his job.
“My ass has never been waxed,” Donaldson laughed. “But you buy me breakfast in the morning and I’ll keep this to myself.”
“What’ll it be, caviar?” Jake’s parents had raised him and his brother on a preacher’s salary. They’d never gone hungry, never gone without clothes, though hand-me-downs and meatless casseroles had been a way of life. Still, he’d never considered them poor until his dad got cancer and the insurance had covered only a portion of the medical expenses. He doubted Donaldson had ever experienced that sort of glitch.
“A ham omelet will do—with a side of caviar.” The new detective chuckled and got out of the car.
Jake, bruised balls and all, followed suit. He groaned. “How about a Pop-Tart?”
“Still hurting?” Donaldson asked.
“Hell, no.”
“You got more pride than balls.” Donaldson smiled.
Jake took a step. It wasn’t the first time he’d been accused of having pride to spare, but some things were hard to forget. Like the humiliation of watching church members drop change into the Baldwin donation tin every Sunday. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate help, but he hated being at the mercy of others.
Donaldson took the keys to his Mustang Cobra out of his pocket, tossed them up in the air, and caught them. “I like my Pop-Tarts with icing.”
Jake kept walking. “See you tomorrow,” he said over his shoulder.
After limping to his office, Jake found the ten-page report on the fax machine. He dropped the papers on his desk, placed his gun and handcuffs in a drawer, curled back in his chair, and ran his hand between his legs. Pizza Girl could fight, he’d give her that. He would’ve been furious if he hadn’t believed it was panic that sent her into attack mode.
“Macy Tucker.” He’d memorized her name, address, and descriptive information from her driver’s license. And of course there was his visual inspection and their physical contact. Twenty-eight, five feet four, brunette, blue eyes. A full B or a small C cup. And while he’d bet she didn’t weigh a hundred pounds in wet shoes, what she lacked in mass she made up for in spunk…and in hair. He remembered pinning her to the ground, burying his nose in all that hair. She’d smelled like pizza. He loved pizza. Give him the meat lover’s special, a beer, and…
Closing his eyes, he intended to visualize a pie with extra sausage. Instead, his mind conjured up an image of Macy Tucker, her long dark mane spread around her head and her shirt open. Damn, he’d always been fond of colored underwear. Did she wear matching panties? Maybe a thong, or something lacy?
He moaned as he realized where his mind was taking this. Hell, the woman had kneed him in the balls, twice, and he was lusting after her? He really needed to start working on his personal life. Meaning, he needed to get laid.
Rummaging through his desk drawer, he found an unused address book. He took a moment to jot down her info, hoping that after doing so he could let it go. Then, forcing her image from his mind, he focused on the prison report.
All they’d gotten from the guard before he’d lapsed into unconsciousness was that a gun was buried in the flowerbeds where the prisoners were working, and a couple of boot prints had been found that didn’t appear to match those of the inmates. CSI had taken images. They’d release any information as
soon as they had it, yet it was obvious the inmates had help from outside. Someone had either picked them up or left a getaway car.
Jake tapped his pencil’s eraser against his desk. Was Ellie Chandler’s showing up at his office yesterday a coincidence? Hell, no. He’d learned not to believe in coincidences. Like the coincidence of his ex-fiancée announcing her engagement to his brother six months after she’d broken up with him. Yeah, that was a coincidence.
Why the hell was he thinking about that now? The answer rolled over him like a sputtering 18-wheeler. His mom expected him to attend the celebration that she was hosting in a couple of weeks for his grandfather’s hundredth birthday. He’d been a no-show last year, managed to avoid the newlyweds altogether. But this time his mom had made her feelings clear: You will be there.
Gritting his teeth, he pushed back in his chair and focused on work. He had escaped-convicts and a different coincidence to figure out. Not that this was his case, but having ties to David Tanks, his captain would expect him to contribute. Jake prided himself on exceeding people’s expectations. He was no one’s charity case—not anymore.
Elbows bracketing the report, he focused on reading. Had Tanks orchestrated the breakout alone, or were all the inmates involved? The bullet that killed the fourth prisoner appeared to be from the same nine millimeter that had shot the guard.
Scanning the page, Jake digested what he’d read about the murdered inmate: Brandon Stafford, grand theft auto, five years down on a seven-year sentence.
“Why were you killed, Brandon?”
Thoughts about the guard, Hal Klein, raced through Jake’s mind. The last report that came in said the guard was still in surgery. Doctors weren’t optimistic, which meant that every law officer in Texas would be out to bring in the escapees. Jake stared at the guard’s name, remembered hearing that Klein was a father and a grandfather.
Hang tough, old man.
The next page contained the data about Tanks and the other two escaped inmates, Chase Roberts and Billy Moore. Jake’s eyes caught on the second name, and Ellie Chandler’s words echoed through his brain: I love Billy now.
It couldn’t be, could it?
Thumbing through the pages, he searched to see if he had the most recent visitors log of the escaped inmates. He found it. The list went back three weeks, and the names were easily legible. Faye Moore, mother. Bo Gomez, friend. Ellie Chandler—
Crap. It was the same guy.
But if these two criminals were in a dispute over a woman, why would they run off together? Something didn’t fit. He’d feel a lot better if he could find Miss Chandler. Where was she? Had she been part of the breakout? Before he’d gone there tonight, he’d called her home and cell phone. He’d left messages saying he wanted to help. She hadn’t called back.
He scanned the pages again. Ellie visited Billy at least four times a week. Then Jake’s gaze caught the last name on the visitor’s log: Macy Tucker, sister.
Pizza Girl.
“Son of a…That little liar!”
His gut had tried to tell him. Why the hell hadn’t he listened?
Because you were too busy listening with your dick.
He grabbed his gun and his handcuffs and headed for his car.
Suddenly conscious, all Hal Klein could think about was his chest pain. Was this a heart attack? He tried to remember things, important things, like what had happened. Yes, something had gone down. But what? Or was it still happening? He tried to open his eyes, but they felt glued shut—or maybe just heavy.
“Daddy?”
It was his daughter Melissa’s voice. But Hal couldn’t concentrate.
Danger. Fear. Emotions ran chaotic in his mind, fragments of dreams or perhaps reality. He didn’t know. The pain kept him from thinking clearly. He worked harder to open his eyes. He couldn’t. Words formed on his tongue, but he couldn’t spit them out. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry.
He heard a soft cry. His daughter’s. Was something wrong with Melissa? The feeling of danger pulled at his mind. Was someone hurting her? He had to help her, but—
“Don’t talk,” Melissa whispered. “Doctors say you’ll be fine. Steve’s here, too.”
His son was here? Where was here? The smells of the room began to register: rubbing alcohol, pine cleaner. Hospital smells. Yes, Melissa had said something about doctors. The pain in his chest registered again. Heart attack? No. Now he remembered David Tanks rising up from the flowerbed.
At first Hal thought he’d spotted a snake, because the inmate moved so fast. He should have been more suspicious. Tanks came for him, and there was no time to go for his gun. The bullet hit Hal, and Hal hit the ground. He almost passed out but fought it. If these were the last minutes of his life, he wanted them. Flat on his back, he watched Tanks aim his gun again. Hal tried to pull his weapon, but his arms were dead weights.
Then the kid—Billy—tackled Tanks. The two prisoners rolled around. Hal almost reached his weapon, but the inmate Roberts snatched it from his holster and took off. A bullet was fired. Not by Roberts, but from the gun Billy and Tanks fought over. The fourth inmate, Brandon Stafford, crumpled to the grass.
Billy broke free, gun in hand. He looked at Hal, and then at Stafford, who lay screaming. “I didn’t do that,” he said. “I didn’t shoot him.”
Tanks got up and moved forward. Billy raised the gun.
“Don’t,” Billy ordered, but his voice quavered.
Hal wasn’t the only one who heard. Tanks laughed. “You won’t shoot. You’re a coward.”
Right then, a car squealed to a halt beside them. “Get in!” yelled a man from the car.
“Give me a gun,” Tanks said to the driver.
But they had to go, said the man. Tanks yelled things at Billy, ugly things about what he planned to do to the kid’s sister, then the car pulled off.
“Daddy? Daddy?” Melissa’s voice rang out.
The pain in Hal’s chest grew worse. He heard beeping noises and more voices.
“You’re going to have to go,” someone ordered.
“What’s happening?” Melissa asked, fear and panic ringing in her voice.
Hal wanted to say something, something to let her know he was okay, but he couldn’t talk. Could hardly think, if not for the pain, then that damn bright light. “Get her out of here! We’re losing him! Losing…”
CHAPTER FOUR
It was two in the morning when Macy pulled into her driveway. Exhausted, she grabbed her purse and the remaining pizza box and crawled out of her Saturn. She didn’t have a clue how to go about finding Billy or how to get him safely back to jail. She hoped that tomorrow she’d be thinking clearer and would come up with something.
As she crossed her front lawn, a blue van coasted past. Was it Billy? Hope rose in her chest, but the van kept going.
Looking at her house, she wondered if Billy had called. Eager to check her messages, she increased her pace. She got to her porch, key in hand, when she heard footsteps.
Not again.
“Gotcha!” A hand landed on her shoulder. “Police.” A cheek pressed close, a five-o’clock shadow scraped her skin, and a voice said, “I repeat, police, Pizza Girl. Did you hear me this time? If you throw that elbow back, or try anything with your knees, I’ll have cuffs on your wrists in two seconds flat.”
Macy’s mind flashed a mental picture of this cop’s almost smile. Somehow she didn’t think he was smiling now. But while her pin-prickling fear began to fade, wariness followed. Was Ellie right about Baldwin? On the heels of everything that had happened, Macy didn’t know what to believe. All she knew was what she’d repeated dozens of times to the FBI: Yes, Billy manages to get himself into messes, but he’s not a murderer. He’d never kill anyone.
Squaring her shoulders, clutching her box of cold pizza, she tried to sound calm. “What are you doing here?”
“I don’t like to be lied to.” Sergeant Baldwin’s hand stayed on her shoulder.
She turned to face him. �
�I never lied.” She kept the pizza box between them.
He moved forward, nudging the box to the side. “So, Miss Chandler ordered a pizza tonight? Do you think I’m an idiot?”
Macy tilted her chin up. “Your intelligence is not for me to judge. As for your first inquiry, you’re right that Ellie never ordered a pizza. But I never said she did. You assumed it.”
He leaned in, his face inches from hers. “You said—”
“I said, ‘We’re open till twelve.’ I never said I was delivering a pizza there. It’s not my fault you do shoddy police work.” Damn. She shouldn’t have said that. Gritting her teeth, she vowed to keep her tongue in check.
His expression tightened, but he didn’t speak. Not that she minded. Backpedaling in her mind, she tried to think and speak rationally. Not easy. “I’ve had a bad day,” she said at last. “I just want to go to bed.” She fit her key into the front-door lock.
“Oh, hell no. You’ve got some explaining to do, lady.” The cop’s hand found her elbow.
Macy forced herself to speak calmly. “I’ve filled my quota of explaining for the night. Come back tomorrow.”
“You haven’t explained shit,” he argued.
“Not to you I haven’t. I spent the last hour with the FBI.”
“Try again,” he growled. “The FBI aren’t involved with state-prison breaks.”
“I know that,” she replied with a sigh. “And they wouldn’t say why they were there. But they were, so you’ve been outranked, and I’m tired.”
“Tired? Then let’s get this over with.” He motioned to the door as if they were both going inside.
“No.” She backed up. “I know my rights, and I don’t recall inviting you in.”
He scowled. “Let me tell you how it’s going to be. You can either invite me inside, let me look around to make sure you’re not hiding your brother, then you can explain what’s going on, or”—he pulled out his cell phone—“I’m going to make a call, and I’ll have three patrol cars here in about five minutes. We’ll tear through your place while you sit handcuffed in one of those cars, waiting to be carted downtown to have your pretty face photographed.”
Gotcha! Page 4