by Carol Caiton
"You're right," he said coolly. "They're one and the same."
Another short silence ensued. "I'm a teacher, Mason. Of young children. I can't be connected to RUSH."
It was a direct hit. "I understand." And it pissed him off. Nothing else—not the PIC group, the protesters, the police, or any community outcry—had ever caused him this sense of dishonor. But one brief conversation with Ali Brosig left him feeling like less than he knew he was. And it angered him all the more because he couldn't fault her reasoning. "I wish it could have been different."
"So do I."
He ended the call.
Angry, he took care while placing his phone on the desk. He'd always suspected it would come to this one day. Not this, per se, but that RUSH would become an issue that spilled over into his personal life. He hadn't counted on a woman being part of that issue, though. It was Joshua he thought he'd need to protect from the backlash.
Because he represented RUSH on all legal matters, he was the most visible of the seven of them. Elliott had introduced him to the others even knowing he planned to end his association to RUSH when the time came to enroll Joshua in kindergarten. That was the agreement he'd arrived at with Maryann's parents and that time was drawing near. If he started the process soon, he'd have time to break in a new attorney and decide on another course for himself. He sure as hell didn't want Joshua's grandparents filing a complaint with DCF, questioning his competence.
A knock sounded at his door.
"Yes?"
Simon opened it and pushed his head inside. "Got a minute?"
"Sure. Come on in."
Simon carried the drawing of their suspected murderer. "Ethan brought this by your office this morning, but you'd already left for court."
"Has it been circulated?" Mason asked while clearing an area on his credenza.
"Yes. And Michael ran a search in the system for anyone fitting this guy's description but there were too many possibilities to break it down to any one person."
Mason stared at the drawing. Nina had used her talent to transform a piece of paper into a portrait that had more resemblance to a life-like photo than a chalk drawing. "What's your woman doing here at RUSH when she could be earning a living at this?"
"I asked the same question. She claims half the people on the planet can draw like that."
Mason shook his head. "No. Not like that. She's—"
"Excuse me, Mason," his secretary interrupted from the doorway.
"Yes, Lois?"
"Security is on the way over with Nathan Brosig."
That was fast. He must have been in the vicinity. "Good. Show him in when he gets here." He turned toward Simon. "Let's see if the police recognize him."
He and Simon waited the few minutes for Security to escort Ali's brother to his office. Then the guard left to wait in the lobby and Mason closed the door.
The resemblance between brother and sister was obvious. They had the same dark hair, the same eyes . . . . But the brother's eyes held a worldly knowledge and the cynicism that came with seeing too much of the corrupt side of humanity.
"Nathan, this is Simon Yetzer, our statistician," Mason introduced. "Simon, Detective Nathan Brosig."
It might be a long shot, but he gestured Nathan to follow him over to the credenza. "This isn't the reason I phoned you, but while you're here . . . do you recognize this man?"
Brosig looked down at the drawing then scowled. "One of your members?"
"No." Mason shook his head.
"What's your artist's connection to him?"
"One of our clients saw him on the grounds at Threshold the night of the murder. Our artist drew him based on verbal description."
Nathan looked up. "You have an artist on the payroll here?"
"We have a wide range of talented people at RUSH."
Nathan narrowed his eyes, then laughed out loud. "Fucking lawyers."
Mason smiled with him. "Careful, you're on my turf today."
"You've got me there." He pointed at the drawing. "Your friend here goes by Lorenzo Waymore out on the street. AKA Lorenzo Moreland. But his real name is Steuben. Lonnie Steuben. He's a dealer . . . with a reputation for carving lessons into people who get in his way. So yeah, he fits the profile. We're gonna want to talk to your witness." He looked at the drawing again. "This is a good rendering. Very good."
Mason let the witness comment go unanswered. Instead, he turned to his desk, slid the telephone around and punched a couple of buttons.
"Vassek. What's up, Mason?"
"Michael, I've got you on speakerphone."
"Okay. What do you need?"
"Three names. Tell me if any of them are in the system, will you?"
"Sure. Go ahead."
Mason gave him the first name and Michael ran it through the database.
"Yep, we've got Lonnie Steuben. Applied for membership two years ago. Application denied."
Mason met Simon's eyes. "How about Lorenzo Moreland?"
"Nope. No Lorenzo Moreland. What's the last one?"
"Lorenzo Waymore."
Again, they waited.
"Got two Lorenzo Waymores. Both applied last year. Both denied."
Mason nodded. "Thanks, Michael."
"No problem."
Michael disconnected from his end, no questions asked. He'd been alerted to the nature of the call as soon as Mason told him he was on speaker-phone and knew he'd get answers later.
Nathan Brosig pulled out his cell phone. "Meese is working that case, right?"
"Yes."
"I'm gonna call this in."
Mason motioned Simon to follow him to the door. "Let Malcolm know we've got a name. I've got something else to discuss here so I'll meet up with everyone later."
Simon nodded and started toward Malcolm's office.
"Simon?"
He turned.
"Your woman did well."
He nodded. "She did, didn't she?" Then he proceeded down the corridor.
When Nathan finished his call he pointed toward the drawing. "We'll pick him up for questioning. That sketch, and the fact that he was on RUSH property without authorization will get Meese a warrant."
Mason knew that but he thanked the other man all the same.
"It's not my case, but every cop in the county wants to see this guy taken off the street. He's bad news." He glanced around Mason's office. "You've attracted a lot of attention out on I-Drive you know. Some of those posters are brutal."
"I was told the crowd's been growing throughout the day. Have a seat."
The change in Nathan's expression was subtle, but Mason knew he was bracing himself. "She got in, didn't she?"
Mason took the seat behind his desk and wished he could tell the other man what he wanted to hear. But Rachel had passed the first hurdle and if this cop wanted to keep track of her progress, he'd have to begin the application process himself and become a member of RUSH.
"Privacy issues prohibit me from discussing our applicants, guests, and clients," he said. "But getting in isn't a process that happens overnight. It often takes two days—more than eight hours—to complete the application. And that's the reason I asked you to stop by. I thought you might want to hear about the various plans and programs we have here."
Nathan studied him, his expression blank. But he understood why Mason extended the invitation. Rachel was probably going to be accepted. "Go ahead. I'm listening."
Mason went through the basic membership package offered to RUSH's male clients. "And if anyone, male or female, has a legitimate reason, the board will, on occasion, allow him or her to observe an instructor at work."
Brosig's eyes sharpened. He'd be able to observe Rachel's progress. "How about if you go over some of those membership plans again."
* * *
"Daddy, can't I have my own computer?"
It was seven o'clock and Mason hadn't been home long enough to change out of his suit. "Not until you turn six, Josh, remember?" He slid out of his jacket and dra
ped it over the back of an armchair, hungry, but wanting to share this last hour of his son's day.
"Yep, I remember."
Little fingers pushed their way into Mason's hand and Joshua began leading the way toward the study.
"Daddy?"
"What is it?"
"Can I turn six tomorrow?"
Mason chuckled. "Nope. It doesn't work that way."
His son made a face. Then he began hopping on one foot. "Do you think she sent me an e-mail today?"
Mason's smile faded. He didn't have to ask who 'she' was. Joshua and Ali had been e-mailing each other almost daily until two days ago—probably the same time she'd learned of his connection to RUSH. "I don't know," he told his son. "We'll take a look, okay?"
"Okay. Do you think she's sick?"
"Maybe she's just been busy," he said. But it added to his resentment to think that her prejudices might extend to hurting his son. "Let's check it out."
"Okay."
Mason sat down in front of the computer, lifted his son onto his lap, and powered up the system. "All right, type in your password."
It took nearly a full minute, but when his son finally accessed his inbox, he bounced forward excitedly. "There it is, Daddy! See?"
Sure enough, the top line—the only line today—showed Ali's return address as the sender.
"Okay, Josh, go ahead and click on it."
Almost instantaneously her message appeared.
"Look! She sent me a punkin."
"She sure did, didn't she?" Mason smiled at the colorful clipart she'd inserted and together they read.
Dear Joshua,
Today I took my class on a field trip to a farm where pumpkins grow. The farmer was a very nice man who gave each of us a pumpkin at the end of the day. I got three because I'm the teacher. I thought you might like one, too.
Ali
"Can we put it on the printer so I can hang it on the fridgidader?"
Mason turned so Joshua could reach the printer. "Go ahead and turn it on."
As soon as Ali's e-mail ejected to the output tray, Joshua scrambled off his lap and dashed off to the kitchen to attach it with one or two of the hundred or so magnets put there for whatever he thought warranted that honor.
Mason sat back in his chair and stared at her message, his heart a hell of a lot lighter. With each e-mail she sent his son he was getting to know her. They were only small glimpses into Ali the teacher, communicating with one of her young charges, but what he'd learned thus far showed him a young woman who regarded children as the small people they were, offering the same thoughtfulness and courtesies she would if they were adults. He should have known she wouldn't hurt Joshua. She'd be more inclined to protect him and nurture the relationship they shared by separating it from what she believed of his father.
How was he supposed to walk away from this woman?
CHAPTER 21
Michael stood in line behind eight other customers, frowned down at the DVD in his hand, and considered putting it back on the shelf. He hated lines. This close to Christmas was always a bad time to shop and Saturday night at the mall—any mall—was never a good time. He should've bought the thing online and paid for next-day delivery. But he'd been driving by so he'd zipped into the parking lot, and he was here now so . . . .
"Hey, look over at the food court," the guy in front of him told the guy standing beside him. "See that woman in the red sweater?"
It was impossible not to overhear. So Michael shifted his gaze to look out the storefront glass.
"The one with the baby?" the second, shorter guy asked.
"No. The one getting ready to sit down. Dark hair."
Michael scanned the dining area, looking for the red sweater.
"Yeah, I see her," the other guy said. "What about her?"
"Do you know what an R-link is?"
Michael froze, eyes momentarily locked on somebody's denim jacket.
"No. What's an R-link?"
The first guy chuckled. "R-links are RUSH's cream of the crop. They're women who've been taught every imaginable way to please a man."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah. They hook up with a different guy each time for two mind-blowing hours."
"Damn. So she's an R-link?"
"Yeah."
And then Michael spotted her, soft dark waves billowing around her shoulders, a navy blue tank top beneath the red sweater. The tank top covered her tits, but there was no mistaking an abundantly endowed female. And this one happened to be Nina Millering.
Fuck.
She set her shopping bags on an empty chair and sat down beside them, sipping from a paper cup.
"So was she as good as you claim?"
"I don't know. I haven't been with her yet. I only saw her through the gate at the R-link quarters."
"So you're a member?"
"Yeah."
Michael pulled his eyes from Nina and stared at the blond head in front of him. Not for long, you sonofabitch. And you're in for one hell of a shock when your name shows up on a lawsuit. He wanted a look at the guy's face. One good look and he'd run a search until he found the guy. He didn't care if it took days to do it.
Sliding his thumb along the edge of the DVD in his hand, he flicked his wrist and gave it a little toss, just enough for it to hit the guy's leg. The blond head turned and Michael got what he needed.
"Sorry, man," he apologized. Then he bent down to pick it up.
"Look at those tits," the shorter guy said, resuming their conversation. "Do they all look like that?"
But Michael stopped listening because a third guy, standing in front of the other two, was staring out at the food court as well. Lids narrowed, eyes directed toward the table where Nina sat, he looked a little too focused for casual interest.
Michael's instincts went on alert. The line moved forward and he kept one eye on Nina, willing her to finish her drink and get up. The other eye was trained on possible trouble. Dark hair, narrow face, calculating eyes, and a brown jacket. The guy looked away from her to move with the line, but turned back when it stopped. By the time he stood in front of the cashier, stuffed his purchase into a jacket pocket and walked out of the store, Michael was ready to ditch his DVD and follow. But the guy hung a left, away from the food court, and strolled out of sight.
Fingers tapping a rapid beat on the plastic case, not yet ready to write off his instincts, Michael kept his eyes on Nina, cursing at all the foot traffic. When he took his turn at the register and reached for his wallet, she stood up.
Shit. In the time it took to glance at his money, pull out a twenty and look up again, she was gone.
He slapped the twenty onto the counter. "I'll be back," he snapped. Then he took off, leaving the DVD and his money behind.
"Hey!"
He tore out of the store, grabbed the first empty chair he saw, and flipped it around. Leaping up onto the seat, he ignored the woman giving him crap for barging in on her meal, and scanned the shoppers heading back toward the stores.
Too fucking many red sweaters. And time was racing by while he eliminated their owners, one by one. Then he shifted his eyes to the exit doors and finally locked on her as she pushed one open and walked outside.
He forced himself to stand there, watching . . . watching . . . and . . . . Bingo. She had a shadow.
He swore beneath his breath, jumped off the chair, and a hand landed on his arm.
"Sir, the store can't take responsibility for these."
Some woman he'd never seen before held a bag in one hand, his change in the other.
"Keep it," Michael growled.
He pushed past her, dodging the people in the aisle, bolting around the crowded lines in front of the kiosks. A few seconds later, he shoved open the exit door, sprinted toward the parking lot, and stared out into the darkness.
It was lit by tall, evenly spaced streetlamps and he skimmed his eyes over the few people walking away from the mall. A short distance down the aisle to h
is right, two heads suddenly dropped right out of sight behind a car. Simultaneously.
He took off at a full-out run. If it was them, the guy was a stupid fuck to attack a woman in a parking lot full of cars.
Sure enough, the guy was a stupid fuck.
When he reached her, Nina was on her back, down on the asphalt. The guy was quick, but not quick enough. He was on top of her, holding her down, with his pants halfway down his ass. One hand was clamped over her mouth and he tore at her jeans with the other, oblivious to the fist she kept beating at his head.
Michael hauled the bastard off of her. Shoving him up against the nearest car, he got in a good blow to the eye, drew back for another . . . and nailed Nina in the face with his elbow. Damn if she hadn't been up on her feet that fast, swinging at the guy herself.
But that elbow to the face took them both by surprise. It knocked her backward against the car behind them and he whirled around to steady her.
It was all the break the other guy needed. He broke away and took off, one hand yanking at his pants while he ran.
Michael let him go.
"You okay?" he bit out, adrenaline still pumping through his veins.
She was pretty messed up. Her hair was all tangled around her face and her eye makeup streaked down her temples.
She looked up at him and opened her mouth. But nothing came out. Then he watched her choke down a sob and fight for control.
Fuck.
Ah, fuck.
It was there in her eyes—the terror, the need for comfort, then the recognition just before she caught herself and pulled back because she remembered who he was. Yeah—Michael Vassek—the prick who wouldn't acknowledge her presence long enough for an introduction. He might have come to her rescue, but she wouldn't be getting any comfort from him.
Stepping back, she swiped at the streaky tears, coughed out another sob, then finally let go and started bawling. And goddamn if he didn't know what she was going through. Standing there, watching her . . . it was a fucking black memory on his soul.
He shut his eyes for a second, breathed in, then opened an arm to her. "C'mere."