Watch Your Back

by Rose, Karen

  ‘If we pick Culp up, he’ll just deny it.’

  ‘I know. Can you do me a favor?’

  ‘Name it.’

  ‘Can you track Culp down, make sure he doesn’t skip town?’ If he already hadn’t. If he skipped while I was wasting time with Clay, I’ll . . . She exhaled, reining her temper in. She’d cross that bridge when she came to it. ‘I want to talk to him. I want to see his reaction when he sees me. I’m coming back into town. Just let me know where to meet you.’

  ‘What about Hyatt?’ JD asked hesitantly. ‘Do we tell him or not? Your call.’

  Stevie bit her lip. ‘How about calling Hyatt, but after you get to Culp’s house? If Culp tries to escape after you’ve called Hyatt, then we’ll know we’ve got more trouble than we thought.’

  ‘That makes sense. I can do that. What about Cordelia?’

  ‘I’ll leave her here with Tanner and Emma. She’s safe here for now and we have a plan to move her to another secure location if this one is compromised.’ She didn’t plan to toss the baby out with the bath water. She was angry with Clay Maynard, but his plan seemed solid. ‘I’ll drive myself back to the city and meet you at Culp’s.’

  ‘What about Clay?’ JD asked quietly.

  ‘He’s a big boy,’ she snapped. ‘He can find his own way home.’

  A beat of silence. ‘Okay. Call me when you’re close to the city. Do me a favor?’

  ‘Name it.’ Unless he asked about Clay.

  ‘Take Joseph’s Escalade. I don’t want any more bullets hitting you.’

  ‘That makes two of us.’ Stevie hung up, then looked over her shoulder when the door to the house opened. Emma came out, looking elegant in wool slacks, a silk blouse, and a soft scarf artfully draped around her neck. ‘I’m glad to see you, Em.’

  ‘Yes, you are. You have no idea how much.’ Emma unwound the scarf from her neck and rewound it around Stevie’s. She gave it an upward tug. ‘There. That’ll do.’

  ‘It doesn’t go with my Hanes ensemb,’ Stevie deadpanned. ‘Clashes with my tee.’

  ‘Yeah. But it covers the hickey on your neck long enough for you to get past your seven-year-old who’s on the other side of this wall.’

  Stevie’s eyes widened, her hand slapping against her neck. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’

  Emma gave her an exasperated look. ‘Like you didn’t know? Were you asleep at the time?’

  She gritted her teeth. ‘Goddamn that man. How did you know?’

  ‘I saw it,’ Emma hedged. ‘When you were on the dock.’

  Stevie scowled. ‘Unless you were spying on me with binoculars, you are kidding me now.’

  ‘I had binoculars, but I was looking at birds!’ she added defensively when Stevie swore.

  ‘Does Tanner know?’ Stevie asked darkly.

  ‘Who do you think gave me the binoculars? But Cordelia doesn’t know. He distracted her with the puppies.’

  ‘At least there’s that. Please, God, let me have packed a turtleneck.’

  ‘You can borrow one of mine if you didn’t. Where are you going?’ she asked when Stevie got up from the swing.

  ‘To change my clothes, then back to Baltimore. I have a lead.’

  Sunday, March 16, 12.20 P.M.

  The cold shower hadn’t helped. And it had been cold. Clay stared down at his erection with contempt. What was it about him that was determined to chase women who didn’t want him?

  Stevie wasn’t the first. Lou hadn’t even been the first, although he wasn’t sure she deserved to be lumped in with the other two. The first had been the worst, or so he’d always believed. No other way to go but up. Or so he’d always believed.

  His ex-wife had been a spoiled, pampered daddy’s girl who Clay had truly believed would grow up eventually. He’d been wrong on so many levels. And lives had been ruined.

  There had been women in between. Not a horde, but he’d had his share. Nice, pretty, smart women. Women who’d wanted him. He’d tried not to lead any of them on. Had tried not to break their hearts. He remembered all of their names. All of their faces.

  He gave the wastebasket sitting outside the shower a perplexed look. He didn’t have any idea which of them had left the condoms in the drawer, though. He couldn’t think of a single former lover who’d carried chocolate-flavored condoms, but that’s what he’d peeled off himself.

  Maybe he hadn’t been as considerate a partner as he’d thought, because that seemed like something he should remember. He only hoped he’d ended all of the relationships with the consideration they deserved. He prayed that none of the women he’d brought to his bed in the past had left feeling like he did right now.

  All I ever wanted was a goddamn family, he thought wearily. People married, raised families every day, all over the world. Why was it so hard for him?

  When he’d met Stevie, he’d . . . known she was the one he’d waited for. No lightning bolts, no bells. Just a sense of rightness that had sustained him for two long years. She’d been the first one he’d ever truly wanted. God help him, he’d prayed so hard that she’d want him back.

  Didn’t look like God was on his side in this one.

  Shoulda taken her when you had the chance. He’d been so close. And she’d been willing. No, not willing. More like furiously resigned. Are you satisfied now?

  No, and it didn’t look like he would be. You should have just done it. And when he’d finished inside her? Knowing all it had meant to her was the scratching of an itch, a rain shower to end a ‘dry spell’, when for him it had been something far more? He would have felt cheated.

  Dirty, even. Yeah, but at least you wouldn’t be in pain because your damn balls are blue.

  He glared at his palm, knowing he was going to have to finish himself off before he went anywhere. Partly because he didn’t want his dad or anyone else making smart remarks about the steel rod in his pants. But mostly because he needed to concentrate. Needed to eliminate the threats in her life so that she could be free from danger.

  And free from me. The further away from her that he got, the faster his life would get back to normal. Whatever the hell ‘normal’ was.

  Grimacing, he gripped his cock and pumped. Until his fingers cramped and his flesh felt raw. Nothing. Nada. No relief. Frustrated, he dragged his hands down his face and—

  He stopped mid-drag. He could smell her on his hands. Goddammit. Feeling like a perverted fool, he slipped his fingers into his mouth. And tasted her. Instantly his mind filled with the image of her coming, body arched, firm breasts flushed, lip trapped between her teeth.

  The back of his head slammed into the shower wall, his body going taut as a strung bow as the orgasm shattered him. When he was finally spent, he picked up the bar of soap and lathered himself, rinsing his body with mechanical efficiency. Watched as the suds carried the evidence of his obsession down the drain.

  He shut off the water, hollow inside. And more alone than he’d ever been in his life.

  He carefully combed his wet hair, staring at his face in the mirror. The man who stared back was a stranger with eyes so bleak that Clay felt tired just looking at him.

  He had to get Stevie Mazzetti out of his system somehow. Or she’d end up killing him.

  Baltimore, Maryland, Sunday, March 16, 12.20 P.M.

  Robinette was not impressed. He’d come all prepared to flex his B&E muscles only to find the side door into Maynard’s garage unlocked. As was the door into the laundry.

  I sure wouldn’t hire him to do my security. It just proved what he’d always known – the biggest weaknesses in the security of any organization were the humans who lived and worked in it. The fanciest alarm system on the planet could be neutralized if one employee blocked open a back door to make taking his smoking breaks easier. Or simply forgot to lock the door.

&nbs
p; Keeping his head down, Robinette slid the baseball cap from his head, hiding his features with the brim as he tugged the ski mask to cover his face, all in one motion. No use in taking chances. Even if Maynard had forgotten to lock his door, he might have cameras.

  Get in fast, get out faster. Robinette entered the living room from the laundry and turned in a slow circle, taking in the floor plan, the shelves, the china cabinet on the far wall. If Mazzetti was nothing more than a client, the file listing the location in which Maynard had hidden her would probably have been kept in the man’s office. But Robinette had watched the film of that December shooting more than once. He’d watched the desperation on Maynard’s face while performing first aid on the detective.

  Maynard was in love with her, which made him choose to start here versus his office. Maynard wouldn’t chance hiding Mazzetti just anywhere. It would be special. Extra-safe.

  Robinette’s glance into Maynard’s kitchen confirmed his conclusion. On the fridge was a crayon drawing, torn in half, but fixed with magnets so that the halves came together. The signature scrawled in a childish hand was Cordelia Mazzetti’s. Maynard displayed the child’s artwork on his fridge. A man didn’t get much more besotted than that.

  The place Maynard had chosen to hide mother and daughter would be personal, just like the relationship. After giving the walls a quick check for a built-in safe, Robinette searched the closets and the cabinets for a strong box, a stack of file folders, any pile of papers that might hold property deeds or rental agreements.

  And found nothing. Except that someone had already been here looking. The cushions of the sofa in the living room had been slashed, stuffing everywhere. The contents of the desk in Maynard’s bedroom had been dumped on the carpet, the contents of every closet strewn. Books had been tumbled off shelves, clothing tossed from the drawers, the mattress pulled from the bed and slashed. Foam littered the floor. The box springs had been slashed as well. Pictures had been pulled from the walls, glass broken, photos pulled out and left where they’d fallen.

  The chaos was orderly, methodical. Robinette recognized the technique.

  Westmoreland had already been here. And had chosen not to inform him. There was no rage. No more feelings of betrayal. In that moment, Robinette mentally discharged one more member of his ‘inner circle’. Westmoreland, Henderson, Fletcher . . . They were of no more importance to him now than a stranger on the street.

  That was the way Todd Robinette rolled. Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice . . . not gonna happen. Anyone he trusted got one opportunity to screw him. If they tried, he cut them out of his life, quickly and irrevocably, as if they’d never been. And then he dealt with the betrayal.

  No one was spared. Not his friends. Not even his wife, as Julie had learned the hard way. His second wife’s accusations and betrayals had made it easy to kill her eight years ago.

  But Julie’s first husband, Rene . . . he’d been the worst. This mess Robinette now found himself in? It all started with Rene. The man had once been his oldest friend. He’d allowed Rene to raise Levi while he’d been at war. Rene had given him a job when he’d come home.

  But it had been a shit job. Everyone starts at the bottom, Todd. You gotta learn the business from the bottom up, Todd. Rene had started him in the goddamn warehouse reporting to high school dropouts. And when Robinette had found a way to make it work for him? Rene had accused him of stealing company property. Had threatened to report him to the cops.

  That was it. Friendship over. Robinette had killed Rene without planning to do so. When Julie had figured it all out and accused him, threatened to turn him in . . .

  Killing her had been even easier. Nobody threatens Todd Robinette and gets away with it.

  Stevie Mazzetti was about to find that out. Yesterday he’d wished he could personally deal with the bitch cop who’d killed his son. Looks like I’ll get my wish. Once I find her.

  And he would. There had to be something in Maynard’s house to point to where the PI had taken her, or at least to point to someone else Maynard loved. Someone who might be used as leverage to make Maynard talk.

  Robinette squatted, picking up photos from the floor, taking care to only handle the edges. He didn’t trust forensic scientists. They could lift fingerprints from fruit now. A print made through his gloves would be child’s play.

  He shuffled through the photos until one caught his eye. Maynard with an older man, standing on the deck of a boat. It looked recent. Robinette lifted his eyes, saw that the model boat Maynard had displayed on his bookshelf had been smashed to smithereens. From what was left of the wreckage, he could see the model boat looked much like the boat in the photo.

  Robinette had stowed the photos in his backpack when he saw another frame amidst the trash. This one made him frown. They were military medals for valor and courage – a Purple Heart and a Silver Star. They’d been awarded to Maynard. They didn’t belong on the floor.

  Robinette might not serve the Stars and Stripes any longer, but he still had respect for those who had, especially anyone who’d been injured in whatever god awful place he’d served. What had Westmoreland been thinking?

  Robinette shook the broken glass from the frame and leaned it against the dresser, then made his way back to the kitchen and checked the trashcan. It was filled with flour and sugar, salt and loose tea. Westmoreland had dumped all the canisters into the garbage rather than dumping all the powdery items on the floor and risking leaving a footprint. I taught him well.

  Robinette had found nothing definitive upstairs to indicate where Maynard had hidden Mazzetti, but there was still a basement to check. Wait. He froze, lifting his head to listen. The slam of a car door. Low voices. Someone was coming.

  He headed to the living room, stepping to the side of the sliding glass door so that he was hidden by the gathered curtain. And just in time. The door slid open and in walked a cop. I must have triggered a silent alarm. Good thing he’d hidden his face. It appeared that Clay Maynard had halfway decent security after all.

  Robinette made sure his holster was unencumbered. He wouldn’t use the gun unless he had to, but if he did have to, he wanted fast access.

  He waited for the cop to walk past the door, reached out, grabbed the cop’s head and . . . Twist. Robinette gave a good jerk, the sound of the cop’s neck breaking filling him with intense satisfaction. He dropped the cop to the floor with a thud and listened.

  The laundry room door creaked open slowly. The partners had separated, each taking a different door. Robinette crossed the room as the partner entered, grabbed his head and . . .

  Twist. Another one bit the dust. It was his specialty, honed over years in the desert. Henderson had been their marksman. Westmoreland’s weapon of choice had always been a dagger. Fletcher, poison. Robinette’s most lethal weapons were his own bare hands. But, like Westmoreland, he liked knives, too. Guns were the weapon of last resort.

  He slit their throats to make sure they were dead. Taking their radios, he grabbed his backpack, pulled the sliding door closed, then exited through the garage, the same way he’d come in. Anyone who saw him now would see only a workman. He pushed the ski mask up under the cap, keeping his head down. Then he got in his Tahoe and drove away.

  His former team might believe he’d gotten soft. Robinette suspected the two dead cops in Maynard’s living room would disagree.

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

  Clay wrapped a towel around his hips as he’d left his clothes in the cabin with Stevie. Bracing himself for another confrontation, he stepped out of the boat’s small head into the cabin.

  It was unoccupied.

  The bed had been made, military-grade creases in the spread. The files on which they’d worked had been packed into the rolling suitcase, which sat at the base of the stairs. His clothes were neatly draped over a chair, right down
to his socks. His shoes had been precisely aligned. On the table where they’d worked was his cell phone, also precisely aligned.

  Stevie, her laptop, and her cane were gone. With the exception of the large suitcase, no one would have known she’d ever been there.

  Clay sniffed his fingers, relieved when the dominant scent was that of the soap. But she was still there, underneath the Old Spice. Get her out of your mind. Now.

  He dressed quickly, then checked his phone. Snarled. Five missed calls, eight missed texts, most in the last five minutes. He couldn’t even take a damn cold shower without someone bothering him. Then he frowned. The calls were all from Paige as were half the texts – and his business partner was not the hysterical type.

  As soon as he looked at the other texts, he knew exactly what had happened. On any other day he would have been stunned. Shocked into immobility. But this wasn’t any other day.

  Someone had broken into his house, the alarm system sending the texts to his phone.

  ‘Shit.’ He grabbed the suitcase and muscled it up the stairs. Once on the dock, he broke into a run, dragging it behind him as he speed-dialed Paige.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she demanded.

  ‘Busy,’ he bit out. ‘I need details and I need them now.’

  Sunday, March 16, 12.30 P.M.

  Stevie went into the house and directly up the stairs, hoping Emma would take the hint and leave her and her damn hickey alone. No such luck.

  ‘What leads did you find?’ Emma asked, sticking behind her all the way up the stairs.

  ‘The leak’s IA.’ Stevie tried to close the bedroom door but Emma pushed her way in.

  ‘Slow down a second,’ Emma said, sitting on the bed. ‘Let’s talk details.’

  Stevie slanted her a warning look as she searched for a turtle-neck, throwing clothes from her bag every which way. ‘Must we?’

  ‘Yes, we must. You said you found the leak,’ she said. ‘Who?’

  Stevie told her about Scott Culp. ‘Which explains a lot about the lack of urgency in IA’s investigations over the last year. Dammit. No turtlenecks.’ Too bad she hadn’t packed for sex. Which she technically had not had. At least there’s that. ‘Do you have anything in your suitcase that won’t cost me a month’s salary to replace?’