Watch Your Back

by Rose, Karen

  ‘Why not just check in as yourself?’ Emma asked.

  ‘A, because it would stink of a trap,’ Stevie answered. ‘B, because they’d shoot me before I got to the front desk. You, they’d want to keep alive so that they could make you tell them where to find me.’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ Clay said quietly. ‘But I can’t think of anything better. We have to put a stop to whoever wants you dead. You and Cordelia can’t go on like this forever.’

  You and Cordelia. Stevie winced again, this time in her own mind. Before their interlude on the boat, he’d said ‘we’, again and again. She missed the comfort of being part of a ‘we’.

  ‘Can you take care of security?’ Stevie asked him.

  He nodded once. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then we have a plan.’ Stevie looked around the table. ‘Thank you. All of you.’

  ‘You were never alone in this, Stevie,’ Grayson said.

  ‘I know,’ she murmured. ‘I get that now.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Baltimore, Maryland, Sunday, March 16, 7.00 P.M.

  Robinette leaned back in his desk chair, staring the enlarged photo on his computer screen. He was close to finding Maynard’s hiding place. He could feel it.

  Robinette had scanned in the photo he’d found in the debris on Maynard’s bedroom floor. The photo was of the PI with his arm around an older man’s shoulders, the two of them standing on the deck of a boat. Robinette now enlarged the image until the name of the boat was clear. Only three letters had been visible – F-I-J.

  Fiji? Maybe. A Google of ‘search boats by name’ brought back the recreational vessel database. And what do you know? It was searchable by vessel name. F-I-J, he typed.

  Then grinned. Less than a dozen boats had F-I-J in the name. Less than half of those were currently located on the East Coast. Robinette searched the vessels’ owners and his grin got wider. ‘Like taking candy from a baby,’ he murmured.

  Captain Tanner St James owned the Fiji from which he chartered fishing trips. His website was extremely helpful, showing both a photo of the captain and the address of his business. St James was, without a doubt, the man in Maynard’s photo.

  The address – Main Street, Wight’s Landing, Maryland – was a marina on the Chesapeake Bay. Google maps showed it to be an hour and ten minutes from Robinette’s current location.

  Robinette did a final search, just to be certain. Tanner St James was married to Nancy St James, nee Maynard. The boat captain was the PI’s stepfather.

  Priceless. This would be a place Maynard would feel safe. But it was premature to cackle. Maynard may not have hidden them on the boat itself. His father might have a house in Wight’s Landing. Another Google search yielded more than Robinette had hoped for.

  Tanner St James had an unlisted number, but the property records served up his address in a few seconds flat. Robinette loved the property records database. Anyone who’d ever owned a home was in there. Maynard had been smart enough to hide his own house under layers of corporations, all linked to other corporations.

  But Maynard’s stepfather hadn’t been so careful, so his home address was viewable by any and all, and some of the people who’d viewed it hadn’t been wound so tight. St James had pressed charges on a group of fruitcakes who’d tried to storm his home on an annual basis.

  The old guy was no wuss. St James had chased them off with a semi-automatic rifle.

  Robinette Googled one of the people listed in St James’s complaint. The fruitcake had a Facebook page, of course, and turned out to be a devotee of a serial killer, kind of like those crazies who kept trying to smuggle cell phones into prison for Charles Manson. This serial killer, though, was a woman who’d committed some of her crimes in the house where St James now lived. Her photo thoroughly creeped Robinette out. That didn’t happen very often.

  There had been a cluster of posts around the killer’s birthday, many of which criticized Tanner St James for denying them access to what ‘should be a national monument’, but most of the annual pilgrimages to St James’s property had apparently stopped five years before.

  When St James had completely fortified his home. The man had added a ten-foot electrified fence, a steel gate, motion detectors, cameras. Bank vault doors and bullet-proof windows, even.

  ‘Bingo,’ Robinette crowed. ‘This is most definitely the place.’

  The only problem was – how was he going to get in?

  ‘I’ll figure that out when I get there.’ He shot the Rubik’s cube on his desk a look of contempt. ‘Now who’s dumb?’ he murmured. His oldest pal would be eating his words at the moment, if Rene were still alive. Which he was not.

  Robinette cleared his Internet browser and shut down his computer. He shoved the photos into the pocket of his coat and locked his office door behind him, ready to catch himself a cop.

  ‘Todd?’ A female sigh of exasperation had him tensing. ‘You forgot, didn’t you?’

  Shit. Lisa. Robinette drew a breath as he pulled the key from the lock. Ensured none of the euphoria he felt over finding Mazzetti’s hiding place showed on his face. He turned to find Lisa wearing a conservative cocktail dress, diamonds dripping from her ears, and a frown on her face.

  ‘Forgot what?’ he asked, his confusion genuine. ‘Brenda Lee said I had the night off.’

  Annoyance flickered in Lisa’s eyes. ‘Brenda Lee didn’t plan this. I did.’

  Robinette bit his tongue and swallowed his scowl. Made himself smile instead. ‘Well, darlin’, you’ll have to give them my regrets. I’ve got someplace else to be.’

  Lisa grabbed his arm. ‘Don’t you dare,’ she said quietly. ‘I have a living room full of wealthy men and women who want to donate to your rehab centers. I told you this several times. I emailed you to remind you an hour ago, but I knew you’d be here. You’re always here.’

  ‘They can write a check even if I’m not there,’ he said coolly.

  She didn’t budge. ‘Two of them are interested in having you run for office, Todd.’

  That got his attention. ‘Me? Run for office?’

  ‘Yes, you. I wasn’t supposed to tell you. They wanted to gauge your reaction, so look surprised when they ask you. Surprised and humble.’

  ‘Lisa. I’m . . . I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Say “Thank you, Lisa.” Then get your ass into a decent suit. This one is filthy. What have you been doing? Cleaning sewers?’ She dropped her hand, giving him a disgusted look.

  His jaw tightened. That he’d once cleaned sewers was not well known. It had been a summer job when he’d been a dirt-poor teenager trying to save for college. Lisa’s daddy had turned up that little factoid when he’d done a background check on his son-in-law-to-be.

  ‘It was honest work,’ he murmured. Keeping the malice from his voice was difficult.

  ‘That’s what Congressman Rickman says. You met him last night at your awards dinner. He admires you.’ She sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Todd. But I told you about this dinner. It makes me crazy that you only listen to Brenda Lee. I’m your wife. You’re supposed to listen to me.’

  ‘You’re right.’ He hated to give the information about Maynard’s stepfather to Westmoreland, but he couldn’t afford to lose Mazzetti if she truly was hiding at Maynard’s stepfather’s house. At the same time, running for office . . . Me. This was the opportunity he’d been waiting for. That he deserved. And I didn’t even have to kill anyone to get it.

  Plus, after getting shot at today, Mazzetti would probably be hiding out, trembling in her boots. She wasn’t going anywhere for a few hours. ‘I’ll go change now.’

  ‘Can you use the back stairs?’ she asked. ‘I don’t want everyone to know that you forgot.’

  ‘Of course.’ He kissed her cheek, noting the way she stiffened, pulling away from his touch. It’
s just dirt, bitch. Not poison. He had the sudden mental image of his hands around her throat, twisting her neck like he’d done to the cops earlier that day. Back, boy. You can’t kill any more wives. ‘I’ll hurry as fast as I can.’

  He took off at a jog, dialing Westmoreland as he ran, then frowned. No answer. Wes was supposed to be at a coffee shop trying to hack into Maynard’s office server. He’d try again later.

  But a shower, a tux, and three calls to Westmoreland later, his man still hadn’t answered.

  ‘Put the phone away, Todd,’ Lisa murmured as she tied his bow tie. She’d been waiting impatiently outside his bathroom door when he emerged from his shower, making that mental image of his hands around her neck refresh with vivid clarity. She brushed non-existent lint from his lapels, then flashed him a brilliant smile. ‘It’s show time.’

  Sunday, March 16, 8.15 P.M.

  ‘What is this place?’ Sam looked around the nightclub Ruby had all but dragged him into.

  ‘I told you,’ Ruby shouted over the music. ‘It’s called Sheidalin. It’s owned by some friends of mine.’

  ‘Hell. If there are drugs going through this place and it gets raided . . . Shit.’ Although he wasn’t sure why he was worried. A drug charge was nothing compared to murder.

  ‘We’re not going to get raided. Dios, you’re a fraidy-cat.’ But she smiled as she said it. ‘Thorne runs a clean house. Anyone caught with drugs gets kicked out and isn’t allowed back. Relax. Listen to the music and let your brain rest.’

  The band was pretty good, he had to admit, and the clientele . . . diverse. Goths and hipsters, aging Deadheads, and a group of bikers. Men and women dressed like bankers and . . .

  And other cops. ‘Hey. I know him.’ Sam pointed to a man sitting at a table alone, nursing a beer and looking like he’d lost his best friend. ‘Where do I know him from?’

  ‘That’s JD Fitzpatrick,’ Ruby said sadly. ‘He’s Homicide. You heard about the cop that ate his gun this afternoon? JD was there. Tried to stop him. He saw it up close and personal.’

  Sam sighed. ‘This day has sucked all around, hasn’t it?’

  Fitzpatrick’s posture abruptly changed. He sat up, leaned forward and stared at the stage where a leggy blonde wearing a miniskirt was getting ready to play the strangest-looking violin Sam had ever seen. The crowd had noticed her, too, and conversation stilled for a moment before the place erupted in applause.

  And then she started to play. He’d thought it would be wild and rowdy like the number the band had played before, but instead it was sweet. Haunting.

  Fitzpatrick had closed his eyes and was listening. Sam did the same, embarrassed when tears pricked at his eyelids. But the music quieted him. He felt less frenzied. Even peaceful.

  Sam’s eyes flew open at the sound of a chair scraping against the floor. A huge man in a snappy suit sat beside him, eyes focused on the violinist. ‘She’s good, isn’t she?’ the guy asked.

  Sam looked left, but Ruby was gone. ‘Look, I’m here with a friend. I’d better go find her.’

  ‘Ruby will be back,’ the man said. ‘She went to the office to see the baby.’

  ‘What baby?’

  ‘Her baby.’ He pointed at the stage. ‘She had a little boy a few months ago. This is her first night back. That’s why everyone went so crazy when they realized it was her.’

  The violinist finished her piece and blew a kiss into the crowd. The homicide detective blew one back. ‘Fitzpatrick’s . . . ?’ Sam let the question trail. Not his girlfriend, he hoped. Sam hated when men cheated. And he knew the guy’s wife. She was the ME who was on maternity leave.

  ‘She’s JD’s wife.’

  ‘No way. He married the ME. She told me so, the last time I was in the morgue.’

  The man next to him said nothing and Sam squinted at the violinist, who’d launched into the next song, this one so full of energy that the dance floor was filled to capacity in a minute. Her hair color might be similar to the ME’s and both women were tall, but . . . ‘That is not Dr Trask.’

  ‘If you say so. Except that she is.’ The man extended his hand. ‘I’m Thomas Thorne. I own the place with Lucy and Gwyn, one of our friends. Gwyn’s in the office, watching Lucy’s baby.’

  Sam had heard rumors that the ME had a wilder side, but he’d thought it was just that – rumors. But they were true. He studied Thorne. ‘I’ve heard of you. You’re a defense attorney.’

  Thorne smiled. ‘Guilty as charged. Ruby seemed to think you might need my services.’

  Sam closed his eyes, his stomach launching straight into his throat. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Okay, that’s fine. I checked out your record before I came out here. You’ve got a good one. Ruby thinks you’re a nice guy. If you need to ask any legal questions, I’m happy to help.’

  ‘I couldn’t afford you. Your shoes cost more than my car.’

  Thorne chuckled. ‘Ruby’s a pal, so for now you can retain me for a dollar. If we go to court, we’ll renegotiate. If you can’t afford me, I’ll find you good representation you can afford.’

  ‘A dollar.’ He’d heard Thomas Thorne was a fierce opponent in the courtroom, but Sam had never heard the guy was dirty. ‘Hell, what can I lose? Is there a quieter place we can talk?’

  ‘Yeah, come on.’

  Sam followed Thorne through the crowd to a small dressing room that at first glance seemed normal enough with clothing hanging from hooks and a changing screen in the corner. But then he blinked. Bullwhips lined the walls, coiled and displayed like trophies. What the hell?

  Thorne closed the door behind them and it was suddenly, blissfully quiet. Sam exhaled in relief. ‘No offense, but that music is not my style. I really liked Dr. Trask’s first song, though.’

  Thorne unfolded two chairs and gestured for him to sit. ‘It gets a little loud for me sometimes, too.’ He held out a hand, palm up. ‘A dollar.’

  Sam gave it to him. ‘Now what?’

  ‘Now everything you say to me is protected by attorney/client privilege. So tell me a story, Officer.’

  Wight’s Landing, Maryland, Sunday, March 16, 8.30 P.M.

  Clay locked the boathouse door and set its alarm. He’d finished his check of the security system, above water and below. Everything was functioning properly as he’d known it would be.

  He’d used the systems check as an excuse to get out of his father’s house, to clear his mind. To catch his breath. Sitting at that table with Stevie, calmly discussing murderers and plans to catch them – using her as fucking bait, for God’s sake . . . He would rather be in a combat zone with bullets whizzing past his ears than go through that again.

  He headed back to his father’s house, his step slow. I’m tired. He was simply worn down and couldn’t afford to be. Not right now. Not when so much hung in the balance.

  He let himself in the gate and was almost at the back door when he heard her voice.

  ‘Clay?’

  He stopped, not looking over at the swing where Stevie sat alone. ‘Where is Cordelia?’

  ‘She’s asleep. I . . . I needed to talk to you.’

  ‘Later. I’m going to sleep, too. Good night.’ But he didn’t move. Just stood staring at his father’s back door. Finally, he sighed. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘There’s something I need to know. What did I say that made you so angry?’

  He hung his head, weary. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered fiercely. ‘It matters to me.’

  The breath seemed to seep out of him. ‘You said you needed to fill your tank.’

  ‘Yes. Because it’s been a long time for me. You knew that. Why did it hurt you?’

  ‘Because . . . Hell.’ He shoved his fingers through his hair, wishing he could shove the pounding sledgehammer out of his
head. ‘Someone advised me that I deserved more than someone just topping off her tank.’ That I deserved forever.

  ‘Oh.’ The little syllable carried almost soundlessly in the night.

  ‘I won’t be a scratch for your itch,’ he said, the hurt rising up to choke him. ‘I don’t want you that much. I don’t want anyone that much. I’ll protect you and Cordelia until this is over. Then I won’t bother either of you anymore.’

  He went into the kitchen, leaving her sitting there in the dark. He wasn’t sure what he would have done had she called him back. Was grateful he didn’t find out.

  Paige and Grayson sat at the table with Emma and her husband. All four looked up when he came in alone, and he knew they were aware of the ongoing drama between him and Stevie.

  No. No longer ongoing. Because it was past. Done. Yeah, right. You keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel like less of a pathetic loser.

  Paige patted the empty chair next to her. ‘Sit. We had another idea for Operation Bait.’

  The thought of Stevie as bait made him sick to his stomach, but as he’d told her, he couldn’t think of anything better. ‘Okay.’ He sat down. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘We want the shooter to come for Stevie sooner versus later,’ she said. ‘Having Stevie simply check into Emma’s room won’t be enough. We need to be sure whoever broke in once will know to come back.’

  ‘Sooner versus later,’ Clay murmured. Because he wanted this done. ‘And so?’

  ‘We’ll have Emma do a TV interview in “her” hotel room,’ Paige said. ‘Emma leaves and you and Stevie wait. Shooters come, badda bing, badda boom, you catch them.’

  Clay frowned, too many questions swirling in his mind. ‘I thought we were keeping Emma and Christopher low key.’

  ‘We are,’ Christopher said. ‘About our returning to our kids. This would be Emma telling TV land that she’ll be a guest lecturer at the university here in Baltimore next week.’

  Clay’s frown deepened. ‘But she’s not planning to lecture. Is she?’

  ‘If you catch these shooters before then, then yes,’ Emma said. ‘I have a colleague who’s been asking me to lecture to his psychology class for years. He’ll jump at the offer.’