Watch Your Back

by Rose, Karen

  ‘How?’

  ‘Silas had a safe in the floor of his bedroom. In it were some throwaway guns and a ledger that listed the deposits he’d made to an off-shore account.’

  ‘Payments from Lippman for services rendered?’ Clay asked.

  ‘Exactly. Silas listed amounts and dates, but not any details about which job was which. When Lippman was killed and his “tattle report”, as you call it, was released, IA worked from that. The ledger was handed over to forensic accounting to track down the cash.’

  ‘I’m guessing somebody eventually realized the deposits didn’t match up with Lippman’s tell-all,’ Clay said and she nodded.

  ‘I did. Accounting finished with the ledger – they never did find his stash – and returned it to the evidence room. They sent me a copy on a CD. I didn’t look at it until after I’d been discharged from the hospital in December. I just did a quick count of the deposits and realized there were twice as many payments than there were actual jobs Silas had done, according to Lippman’s report. I told IA and they got to work on it – but there were so many cases on the report to start with. They weren’t getting through them very fast.’

  ‘So you started looking yourself. Why? Why not let IA do their job?’

  ‘Because they weren’t getting through them very fast,’ she said again, impatiently this time. ‘I was home, recuperating, and all I could think about was all the innocent people sitting in prison because of Silas and Stuart Lippman. And all the guilty people walking around grinning because they got away with it. I got mad. So I got busy. I found three rapes and an armed robbery that looked off because they were. I gave IA the details with the suspects that should have been at the top of the list. Four innocent people have been in prison for years.’

  ‘But you’ve rectified that situation. Those innocent people will get out of jail and the real perpetrators will get what’s coming to them.’

  ‘Yes. But then I looked at the timeline for one of the rapes. Silas couldn’t have planted the evidence because he and I were on a stakeout that weekend. I was with him the whole time. I tried to figure out which of the cops on Lippman’s list actually planted the evidence in my four new cases, but on two of them I couldn’t find any of the known dirty cops that weren’t somewhere else at that specific time.’

  ‘So you think other cops are involved,’ Clay murmured.

  ‘I don’t want to think that. But a few hours after I left IA, someone shot at me. Today, same thing, only twice and with more finesse.’

  ‘I sure don’t like the coincidence of it, but it could be someone else that knows you’re digging. Maybe a perp from a case you haven’t even gotten to yet.’

  ‘That’s possible, too. Or it could be both.’ She cast her gaze up at the ceiling, then peeked at him from the corner of her eye. ‘The attacks started before I went to IA, but we caught both of those guys.’

  ‘Both? You’ve been attacked on five separate occasions? In one week?’

  ‘It sounds really awful when you put it that way.’

  He looked exasperated. ‘Hell, Stevie. So, what’s with the first two?’

  ‘One guy had a knife. The other just had hard fists. Both are in custody.’

  ‘You got away and called for backup?’

  Her chin came up. ‘I cuffed ’em. The cane comes in handy for more than walking.’

  He grinned at her. ‘You hit them with your cane?’

  ‘I did. Both attackers were related to cases that weren’t on Lippman’s list. Neither wanted me to continue my investigation.’

  ‘Did Hyatt know about your visit to IA yesterday?’ Clay asked.

  ‘Yes. I realized there might be more dirty cops on Monday and took the information straight to him that day. He went with me to IA yesterday. That’s why I was surprised he insisted on a safe house. He knew why I wouldn’t trust going to one. I hope he doesn’t take it out on JD. Any other questions?’

  ‘Where are your files?’

  ‘Most of them are in the suitcase you moved from the trunk of JD’s car into the SUV. Anything I downloaded is on my laptop, which is in my backpack. I left it in your dad’s house.’

  ‘Do you have any idea which cop – or cops – are involved in these new cases?’

  ‘No. IA wouldn’t say. Neither would Hyatt. Anything else?’

  He met her eyes directly. Let himself stare until finally she looked away. Yes. Why don’t you want me? And what do I have to do to change your mind?

  But of course he didn’t ask either of those questions. He stood, folded his chair, and stacked it against the wall. ‘No,’ he lied brusquely. ‘Let’s go back now. Hopefully Cordelia has had her fill of the puppies. I’m sure you’re all tired. You need to get to bed.’

  As I will, he thought, opening the door. Alone. I am so damn tired of being alone.

  ‘Clay, wait.’

  He didn’t look at her. ‘You don’t need to keep thanking me, Stevie.’

  ‘I wasn’t, although I should. I was going to say you were wrong about something.’

  ‘What was that?’

  He could hear her slow exhale. ‘When you were trying to convince me to come here, you said you knew I didn’t like you. That’s not true. I don’t feel about you the way you want me to, but I never disliked you. You’re a good man. I need you to know that I believe that.’

  She’d let him down more easily this time. Still . . . breathing actually hurt. ‘You forgot to say “You’ll make some lucky woman a wonderful husband”.’ He said the words bitterly.

  ‘You will. And she will be lucky.’

  ‘She’s just not you.’

  ‘No. It can’t be me.’

  She said the words so sadly that he turned to face her, his back to the cold night air. She still sat in the chair, her shoulders sagging, her expression so dejected that he felt a spark of hope.

  ‘Can’t or won’t?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Yeah, it does. It matters to me.’

  She stood up, leaning heavily on the cane. ‘It’s late. I need to get Cordelia to sleep.’

  Hope gave way to frustrated anger and he took a step forward, blocking her exit. ‘No.’ He moved closer, crowding her space so that she had to look up at him. ‘You can’t keep saying that to me without a reason. I want to know why, Stevie. At least you owe me that much.’

  She glared, but the pulse at the hollow of her throat fluttered. ‘I don’t owe you anything.’

  ‘Yes, you do,’ he said silkily. ‘You said so yourself, not ten minutes ago. “I am in your debt, Clay” were your exact words. This is how I want to be repaid. I want the reason you believe it can’t be you. And I want it now.’

  Chapter Eight

  Wight’s Landing, Maryland, Sunday, March 16, 12.25 P.M.

  Stevie couldn’t breathe. Clay was big, so big she could see nothing but him. Big in a way Paul had never been. Maybe it was because Paul never loomed over you, looking so fierce.

  Paul had managed her with charm, never like this. Clay stood toe-to-toe, leaning so that he towered. Forcing me to look up. Or away. But she found she couldn’t look away. His dark eyes held hers, demanding an answer, and she knew he wouldn’t budge until she gave him what he wanted. There was a small part of her that was challenged. Excited.

  A little bit turned on. Which is so wrong of me.

  You owe me that much, he’d said. And even though she’d denied it, she knew he was right.

  ‘I never wanted to hurt you, but I know I did. I’m sorry.’

  He didn’t move a muscle. ‘That’s not an answer.’

  ‘I know.’ She gave in to the urge to retreat, shuffling back a step. It didn’t help. Still can’t breathe. ‘Can you give me some room? You’re making this worse.’

  He straightened a fra
ction. ‘Stop stalling, Stevie.’

  ‘I loved my husband.’

  ‘I know you did. I’m sure you still do. And?’

  She blinked, thrown off balance. ‘And? And that doesn’t bother you?’

  ‘If you hadn’t loved him, you shouldn’t have married him. Wouldn’t have grieved him.’ He hesitated. Lifted a shoulder in a gesture that was anything but careless. ‘You don’t just stop loving someone because they’re gone. Or because they don’t want you to.’

  She closed her eyes, his meaning clear. ‘I won’t love anyone the same way as I loved Paul.’

  ‘Of course you won’t.’

  She looked up at him, frustrated. ‘Stop that. Stop agreeing with me.’

  One brow lifted maddeningly. ‘Really?’

  She gritted her teeth. ‘You’re making me crazy.’

  ‘Join the club,’ he said wryly. ‘So you love him still. He’s not here, Stevie. He’s gone. He’s not coming back. Do you think he’d want you to be alone for the rest of your life?’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘I’m still waiting for the point.’

  ‘The point is that I could never feel about you the way I felt about Paul. You’d be second best. Always. And eventually you’d come to hate me.’

  Something flickered in his eyes and she wasn’t sure if it was anger or hurt. ‘You’re not being rational.’

  She sighed. ‘You just don’t like my answer. I’ve met your demand, now please let me go.’

  But he stood firm. ‘I want you to think about something. Seriously consider it. You didn’t just lose your husband that day. You also lost your son.’

  She sucked in a shocked breath, flinching. ‘And?’

  ‘You have Cordelia. Do you love her less? Is she second best to you?’

  Stevie’s mouth fell open, words failing her as she stared numbly. ‘You sonofabitch,’ she whispered. ‘How dare you?’ Then fury blasted through the numbness. She shoved him, but he didn’t budge so she gripped her cane like a bat. ‘Let me go or I will hurt you and mean it.’

  He finally stepped aside. ‘Just consider it,’ he repeated. ‘Please.’

  She wished she could stalk out with her head high, but her leg ached and she could only hobble. She paused at the door, not looking back. ‘I appreciate the use of this facility tonight,’ she said stiffly. ‘I’ll find another place to hide with Cordelia tomorrow.’

  ‘As you wish,’ he said quietly.

  She stared down the dock, hearing him lock the door to the boathouse behind them, aware of him following her. Watching my back, still. She wanted to yell at him, tell him to get the fuck away. But the truth was, she needed his coverage at the moment. It was either that, or let him pick her up again and carry her.

  It had felt too good before. Too safe. Not gonna happen again. Besides, with all that James Bond equipment in there, there was no way anyone was close enough to take another shot at her.

  She got to the end of the dock and stopped, dread filling her. The stretch of sand was only about a hundred feet, but it looked like a hundred miles. Lifting her chin, she took the first step.

  And her leg buckled right out from under her, pitching her face-first into the sand.

  Stunned, she lay there for a moment, turning only her head so that she could breathe as a sob began to build deep within her chest. She clenched her jaw, holding it in. You will not cry.

  She could hear him behind her, feel him. But he said nothing.

  She pushed herself to her knees and brushed the sand off her face, her chest growing tighter as she fought not to cry. Strong hands grasped her shoulders and she found herself lifted to her feet. His hands disappeared, but she could feel his warmth at her back. Still he said nothing.

  You lost your son. Is Cordelia second best?

  Suddenly it was simply too much. The day. The gunshots. The two dead women. Her throbbing arm. Her damn leg that shook pitifully beneath her weight.

  She sank to her knees, the sob barreling out. Wrapping her arms around herself, she hunched her shoulders, rocking back and forth, wishing he weren’t there to see her this way.

  Glad he was.

  A moment later she was in his arms again and he was carrying her across the sand. She turned her face into his chest, muffling the pathetic sounds she could no longer hold inside.

  He let them in through the gate, but instead of going into the house, he carried her to a porch swing and lowered them into it, cradling her on his lap. Rocking them gently, he let her cry.

  Finally the tears were spent and she felt hollowed out. He should be angry. He should hate her. Yet he held her tenderly and Stevie hated herself. ‘Goddamn you,’ she whispered.

  ‘I know,’ he whispered back.

  ‘Why can’t you hate me?’

  His chuckle rumbled in his chest, tickling her cheek. ‘I’ve tried. I’ve really tried.’

  She shuddered out a sigh. ‘I don’t want Cordelia to see me like this.’

  ‘Sitting in my lap?’

  Stevie felt her cheeks burn. That, too. ‘I meant I didn’t want her to know I’ve been crying.’

  He tipped up her chin. Winced a little. ‘I think she’s gonna know. I might have some frozen peas in the freezer, though.’

  She smiled at him sadly. ‘I wish you were a mean man.’

  ‘If wishes were horses,’ he murmured. ‘You ready to go in?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s been a long day.’ But she didn’t move. For a moment she just let him hold her and soaked in the feeling. Because it felt good. Far too good. You’re going to hurt him again.

  Either way this went, she knew it would be true. If she pushed him away once and for all right now, he’d hurt. If she allowed him to wear her down, if they had a relationship, she was certain he’d be disappointed. Eventually, anyway. He’d leave and they’d all be hurt.

  Especially Cordelia. Who is not second best in my heart, dammit. She forced her body to shift off his lap, testing her leg before taking a step.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked.

  No. Not even close. ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘Then I’ll show you where you’ll sleep. I’ll take you wherever you want to go tomorrow.’

  Baltimore, Maryland, Sunday, March 16, 2.30 A.M.

  The small beep woke him up. Robinette rolled over, reaching for his cell phone.

  ‘Who is it?’ Lisa asked sleepily.

  He ran a teasing finger along her spine, pressed a kiss to her temple. ‘A text from Jimmy Chan in Hong Kong. I need to call him.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Only two-thirty in the morning. It’s the afternoon for Chan. Go back to sleep.’

  He slid from the bed, pulled on his pants, and headed down to his office. He dialed quickly, except it was not Mr Chan of the Hong Kong Stock Exchange whom he called. The text had come from his source within BPD. ‘What is it?’ Robinette asked.

  ‘An address for Mazzetti’s safe house.’

  Robinette smiled. ‘Good to know. ETA for arrival?’

  ‘She’s there now with her kid.’

  ‘Solo?’

  ‘Yeah. She made that a condition of going – that no one was to disturb her privacy.’

  That sounded like the detective who’d made his life a living hell. Cocky and bossy. Her way or the damn highway.

  ‘Text the address to 301-555-1592.’ Westmoreland’s cell phone. Robinette had every confidence that Westmoreland was smart enough to learn from Henderson’s mistakes. Mazzetti would be dead within the hour.

  ‘Will do.’

  Robinette hung up the phone, satisfied. Now life could get back to normal. And I can get back to Lisa. He found those benefit dinners to be hellishly boring, but his wife thrived on the gowns and the jewels and the
stares of every envious woman and lust-filled man in the place. If he played his cards right – and tonight he had – her excitement spilled over into their bed. She was still young and adventurous with a body made for sin, when she was in the mood.

  And when Lisa took to her bed with a headache? There was always Fletcher to scratch his itch. They’d always been good in bed, he and Fletcher. And while Fletch didn’t like Lisa, his chemist was smart enough to never cross the line and demand anything more from their mutually beneficial, yet clandestine, relationship. He and Fletcher could have their cake and eat it, too.

  They could have a hell of a lot of cake, in fact. Fletcher’s improved formula was about to make Fletcher rich and Robinette even richer.

  And with money like that, Robinette didn’t worry about the state of his marriage. If he grew tired of Lisa, he’d just get another wife who was prettier, more socially acceptable, and importantly, more biddable.

  He paused mid-way up the stairs, the thought having come as a surprise. He hadn’t realized he was growing bored with Lisa until that moment. He wondered how to make a divorce work.

  His first two wives had died, after all. A third wife’s death would renew public scrutiny, arousing suspicions, something he’d avoid at all costs. But he had time to worry about that later. Lisa was in his bed, warm and willing. Fletcher was in the lab, working, making him money.

  And Stevie Mazzetti would soon be dying. All in all, a good night.

  Wight’s Landing, Maryland, Sunday, March 16, 3.40 A.M.

  It was a small sound. A shuffling sound. Clay lifted his head from the pillow, instantly alert and a half-second later on his feet, gun in his hand. Everyone was in one of the bedrooms, except his father who was standing guard downstairs.

  Quietly Clay slipped through the bedroom door and let out a silent sigh.

  Cordelia sat in the hall on the floor outside his room, her back against the wall. She’d drawn her knees to her body and had her face buried in her nightgown. Her shoulders shook with sobs.

  Looked like he’d be comforting another weeping Mazzetti female. He was glad this one was Cordelia. She, he could help. Seeing Stevie cry simply tore him up inside.