Hideaway

by Roberts, Nora

  “I know.” As he soothed her, a woman who so rarely needed soothing, he struggled to bank his own fear, and a terrible anger. “We’ll take care of him, the three of us, whether he likes it or not.”

  “Or not.” She managed a watery laugh. “Very seriously or not. I need to be grateful, we all need to be grateful he’s alive and well enough to bitch at us because we’re hovering.”

  She clung to Dillon another minute. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t.”

  “No, no, I didn’t mean that.” She drew back, laid her hands on his face. “But right now it’s sure good to lean on my boy. You were with Caitlyn.”

  “Yeah.”

  When she nodded, reached for the pitchfork again, he stilled her hand.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “I already love her. She’s easy to love, but even if she wasn’t, I’d love her because you do.”

  “It shows?”

  “I see your heart, Dillon, always have.”

  With her face tipped to his, she laid a hand over his heart.

  “She’s the only one I’ve ever known who could break it, because she’s the only one who’s mattered, really mattered to you. On the other hand, she’s the only one who’s ever put that light in you. So I’m torn between being happy and being worried. That’s my job.”

  “I’m going to marry her.”

  Julia opened her mouth, then took a breath, scooped more hay. “Did you let her know that?”

  “Did you raise a stupid son?”

  Her lips curved a little. “I did not.”

  “I know how to take my time, and as much as she needs. The only way she’ll break my heart is if I’m not what she needs. And I am.”

  “I also raised a confident son.”

  “I see her, Mom, who she is. She sees me. She might need some time to see us. I can wait.”

  He walked over, got another pitchfork. “I’ve got this. Go hover. I’ll be along to take my shift there by lunchtime.”

  “Gram’s got him for now. She’s more pissed than he is, if that’s possible. You and I know there’s no fighting Gram when she’s on a tear.”

  “He hasn’t got a chance.”

  “Not in heaven or hell. So we’ll get this done, then do a team hover.”

  Cate slept late—hello, Saturday—decided she’d go up to the main house. She’d talk her grandfather into a walk. Around the gardens, maybe down to the beach. She’d give him a break from the gym, but still have him moving.

  They’d have some lunch before she came back, got some dough rising, looked over her next script. That would leave her plenty of time to fuss with herself, make the pasta—and maybe do the whole scene. Light candles, pick out some music, set a pretty table.

  Maybe she’d been half-asleep when she’d asked him to dinner, but that was fine. They needed to talk, of course. And after the talk, after the meal, she wanted him back in her bed.

  How nice to remember she liked sex, had some talent for it. And how being intimate with a man she cared about gave her all this positivity and energy.

  She pulled on black leggings, a white tee that skimmed her hips, and old sneakers she wouldn’t mind getting wet and sandy during that walk on the beach.

  She grabbed her phone because Darlie had sent a little video of her baby—and Cate’s unofficial godchild—Luke giggling when he knocked over a tower of blocks. Maybe she and Grandpa would make Luke a little vid. He was a year old now, and Cate wanted him to know her.

  She thought of her friend as she walked up the path. And of the friends Dillon had held close most of his life. It took effort, she admitted, to hold friends close. Maybe she could convince Darlie to bring the baby for a weekend. Dawson, too, of course. Husbands couldn’t be excluded.

  But more, she wanted to see Darlie and the baby, show them the family home, show them the ranch. Introduce them to Dillon.

  The more she thought of it, the more she wanted it. She started to text Darlie, just to put it out there. Then saw Michaela Wilson getting out of the sheriff’s cruiser.

  “Sheriff Wilson.” Waving, Cate quickened her pace. “I don’t know if you remember me.”

  “Sure I do. It’s good to see you again, Ms. Sullivan.”

  “Come on. I’m Cate.” Cate accepted the outstretched hand. “Absolutely Cate.”

  “And it’s Michaela.”

  “Did you come to see Grandpa? I’ll walk you in.”

  “Actually, I hoped to talk to both of you.”

  “Great.”

  She led the way in and over to the main parlor. “Have a seat. I’ll go find out where he is. Would you like coffee?”

  “If it isn’t too much trouble.”

  “You’ll give him an excuse to have some. I’ll be right back.”

  Michaela didn’t sit, but took the time to wander the space. She’d visited the house more than a few times over the years, at Hugh’s or Lily’s invitation. And often brought the boys swimming, again at invitation.

  But she never failed to marvel at the place. The way it perched on the hill in its tiers and layers, the way it managed to exude a feeling of home and warmth even with what she considered the elegance.

  When Cate hurried back in, Michaela thought much the same of her. A lot of warmth, and despite the casual clothes, innate elegance.

  “Coffee’s coming, and so’s Grandpa.” She nodded toward the window. “Never fails, does it?”

  “No, it doesn’t. It must feel good to be back, to be home, to see the ocean every day.”

  “Yes, to all of that. I honestly didn’t know how much I missed it until I got back. Does it feel good to be sheriff?”

  “Big shoes to fill. I’m doing my best.”

  “From what Red says, you fill them just fine.” Cate gestured to a chair, but didn’t miss the slight, the subtle change in Michaela’s face. “Is something—”

  She broke off when Hugh came in. Good stride, no favoring of the leg. And welcome all over his face.

  “What a nice surprise! How are those boys of yours?”

  “They’re great, thanks. Their dad’s in charge today. Little League game. I’m sorry to intrude on your weekend.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Waving that off, Hugh sat. “You’re always welcome, and you know I expect to see those boys in the pool once it warms up a bit more.”

  “They’ll love it. But this isn’t really a social call.”

  She let that hang when Consuela brought in the coffee, along with a plate of bite-size pieces of coffee cake. “Good morning, Sheriff. Mr. Hugh, only one cake for you.”

  “They’re small.”

  “Only one.”

  “I’ve got this, Consuela.” Cate rose to pour the coffee. “And him.”

  “They unite against me.” He waited until Consuela left the room. “Is this official business?”

  “Yes. There was an incident last night. Red was injured. He’s fine. He’s at Horizon Ranch.” She took the coffee from Cate. “Two men in a car stolen outside of San Francisco pursued him on Highway 1, northbound, after he left the ranch to go to his place. They opened fire on him.”

  “They—” The cup and saucer rattled together as Cate offered them to Hugh. “Shot at him?”

  “With an AR-15. His truck’s riddled. He sustained a minor wound to his left arm.”

  “He’s been shot!” Hugh gripped the arms of his chair, started to push up.

  “It’s a minor injury. Hugh.” Michaela’s tone switched from objective cop to friend. “I can reassure you on that because I was there when he was examined, when the wound was treated.”

  “He could’ve been—”

  “Could’ve been,” Michaela agreed. “But he wasn’t. We’re still reconstructing, but from what we have, Red was able to outmaneuver them, and as they were unable to control the stolen car at such a high rate of speed, they jumped the guardrail, went over the cliff.”

  “We saw—last night Dillon and I were driving back f
rom the Roadhouse. We saw the barricades. We thought there’d been an accident. He’s all right, you said. He’s really all right?”

  “Minor injury, lower right shoulder, upper right biceps, treated on-site. The other two weren’t so lucky. The first was DOS—dead on scene. The second died this morning in the hospital without regaining consciousness.”

  “There’s a reason you’re telling us,” Hugh commented.

  “We were able to identify the second man—the shooter—who died this morning. Jarquin Abdul. Is that name familiar to either of you?”

  “No,” Hugh said as Cate shook her head.

  Michaela took out her phone, brought a mug shot on-screen. “This is Abdul. The photo’s about three years old. Do you recognize him?”

  Cate took the phone, studied the photo of an angry-eyed man of color with a shaved head and a thick goatee. With another shake of her head, she passed the phone to Hugh.

  “I’ve never seen him before, or not that I remember. Should we?”

  “He’s out of L.A., has done some time. Gang related. He’s been out about a year now.” She took the phone back, put it away. “It’ll take some time to identify the other man through dental records and DNA.”

  “That’s not the answer,” Cate murmured.

  “I’m looking at some angles. There have been two murders and this attempted since November. Frank Denby was killed in prison. Charles Scarpetti was killed in his home in L.A. Now Red.”

  “They’re all connected to me. To the kidnapping,” Cate corrected. She had to set her coffee down, grip her hands together to keep them still and calm.

  “Almost two decades ago,” Hugh pointed out. “Are you saying they were killed by these two men who tried to kill Red?”

  “No, I don’t believe that. But the connection’s there. Whoever killed Denby was most likely another inmate, or someone in the prison system who had access to him. The LAPD has eliminated robbery as a motive for Scarpetti’s murder. They’re pursuing the theory of revenge killing. Someone he represented who got sent over, a victim of someone he got off. That’s not panning out. With Red added, we’re looking into the possibility all three were hired out.”

  Connecting dots wasn’t hard when they stared back at you. “Someone who’d pay to have people connected to my kidnapping killed. But why?”

  “Revenge still works.”

  Unable to sit, Cate pushed up, walked to the glass to look out blindly at the sea. “You think my mother may have done this.”

  “Has she attempted to contact you since you came back to Big Sur?”

  “No. She knows better by now. She gets in little digs now and again, through the press. That’s her way. I can’t see her doing this.” On a hiss of breath, Cate pressed her fingers to her eyes. “Then again, who would have seen her doing what she did to start all this? But . . .”

  She turned back, looked at her grandfather. Hated to see the stricken look in his eyes. “She has all the money in the world now. It may sound dramatic, but if she wanted someone dead, she could hire a professional. She wouldn’t need a thug from a gang in L.A. How would she know how to hire someone like that? And what does it gain her? She’s about what it gains her, personally.”

  “There’s a cruelty in her,” Hugh said. “A calculated cruelty. But like Cate, I can’t see her doing this, only because it offers her nothing. And if she wanted revenge? She wouldn’t have waited so long.”

  “You’re connected.” Cate swung around to Michaela. “You, the Coopers. Gram. My God.”

  “I’m a trained police officer, like Red. And like Red, I can take care of myself. As to the Coopers, I’m going over to speak with them, with Red. But if Charlotte Dupont isn’t involved, I’d look to her as the next target. You found the Coopers that night, Cate, they didn’t find you. I’m not saying they shouldn’t take precautions, be careful.”

  “Dad. G-Lil.”

  “Again, if Dupont’s not involved, they didn’t have a part in it. They’ll be informed, this morning, but they weren’t part of the kidnapping, they weren’t investigators, lawyers. It’s a theory,” Michaela stressed.

  “Grant Sparks.”

  “I intend to make a trip to San Quentin, speak with him. Get a sense. He has a record of being a model prisoner. I don’t fully subscribe to model prisoners.”

  “But how could he arrange this from prison?” Cate demanded. “He couldn’t even competently kidnap and hold a ten-year-old.”

  “What better place to hire killers than a facility that holds them? Again, it’s a theory.” Michaela set down her coffee. “And I know it’s upsetting. If these were random, unconnected acts—”

  “You don’t think they are,” Cate interrupted.

  “I don’t. I’ll do my best to find and stop the source. Let me know if anyone contacts you, or attempts to, that feels out of line, if you feel uneasy about anything.”

  “The calls, Catey.”

  Michaela’s eyes narrowed, flattened. “What calls?”

  “They’ve been going on for years.” Because she wanted to dismiss them, Cate reached for her coffee again. Calm and steady. “Recordings, various voices—my mother’s is often in there, from movie dialogue—music, sounds.”

  “Threats?”

  “They’re meant to be threatening, meant to scare and upset me.”

  “When did they start?” The notebook came out.

  “When I was seventeen, still in Beverly Hills. They come intermittently, months pass, sometimes more than a year. The last one came right before Christmas.”

  “Why didn’t you report it?”

  “I did. Detective Wasserman, in New York. I—Most of the calls happened when I lived in New York. I sent him the voice mail. The calls aren’t long enough to trace, and they say it’s a prepaid cell.”

  “I’d like Detective Wasserman’s contact information.”

  “I—All right.” Taking out her phone, Cate called up the number, gave it to Michaela.

  “If you get another, I need you to inform me.”

  “I will. I’m sorry. I’m used to telling Detective Wasserman. I didn’t think past that.”

  “No problem. You said your mother’s voice is on some of them?”

  “All, actually. Sometimes my voice—from a movie or my voice work.” When her fingers wanted to twist together, Cate stopped them, ordered them to still. “I can tell you it’s amateur work, poor overdubbing, a lot of noise, lousy splicing and editing. Still, they’re effective.”

  “Other than these calls, have there been any threats, any attempts to harm you?”

  “No, not me. The first year I lived in New York, two men attacked and beat up a boy I was seeing. They used racial slurs, they used my name when they hurt him. Detective Wasserman and—she’s now Lieutenant Riley—investigated the attack, and I told them about the calls. They did what they could.”

  “Did they identify and apprehend the assailants?”

  “No. Noah, the boy, couldn’t remember what they looked like, wasn’t sure he’d even seen them before they jumped him.”

  “All right.” She’d get details from Wasserman. Michaela rose. “I appreciate the time, and the information. I need to follow up with Red.”

  “You tell him I’ll be over to see him for myself, see if he’s faking to get a bigger share of pie.”

  With a grin for Hugh, Michaela nodded. “He does love his pie.”

  “I’ll walk you out.” Cate got up, squeezed her grandfather’s shoulder, then walked with Michaela outside.

  “My grandfather’s going to New York in a couple days, to visit Lily, take some meetings. My father’s in London. I think they’re all safer away from here.”

  “Do you feel safe here?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’d stopped thinking about it. But this is home now, and I need to stay.”

  “Whether I’m right or wrong, I’ll keep you updated.”

  “Tell Red . . . tell him we’re thinking about him.”

&nb
sp; As Michaela drove away, Cate looked toward the garage, toward the old California bay. One day, she thought, one moment, one innocent game.

  How was it that day, that moment, that game never seemed to end?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  She took the walk with Hugh through gardens so happy in spring they seemed to dance, but walked the beach alone to give herself time to think. To let the salty breeze off the Pacific clear her head.

  Hide-and-seek, she thought again. Just a game. But then again, she’d done just that ever since. She’d hidden—or been hidden in Ireland. She’d hidden behind the walls of her grandparents’ estate, behind studio security. She’d sought, yes, she had sought, but she’d hidden in the crowds and anonymity of New York.

  She’d keep seeking—that was life. But she was done hiding.

  She’d told Michaela this was home. She’d meant it.

  L.A. would never be home, for so many reasons. New York had been a needed transition, an education, a place to come into her own.

  Ireland was, and would always be, a comfort.

  But if she stuck a pin on a map to choose a place to plant herself, to be herself, know herself? It would stick right here, here with the sea thrashing on the rocks, rolling green to blue. Here, with the kelp forest of her own pretty beach waving, the magic of seeing a whale sound or a sea otter sleek under the waves.

  Here, with the cliffs and the hills, the chaparral and redwoods, the sight of a California condor winging across the wide, wide bowl of the sky, or a peregrine dive out of it.

  Here was family—real family—and the chance to create the rest of her life. No one would drag her away from it again, no one could force her to cut and run again.

  So she walked back to her house, did what made her happy.

  She made bread dough, set it to rise. While it did, she closed herself in her studio to work for an hour, to do what actors did—become someone else for an hour.

  She dealt with the dough, set it for a second rising, set her phone alarm to remind her before walking to the main house and enlisting Consuela.

  If she was making dinner for a man she’d just slept with, it was going to be a damn good dinner. And that was no time to attempt to make tiramisu for the first time, on her own.