by Rose, Karen
‘That’s peace, of a fashion,’ Robinette said, smoothly.
‘That’s treason,’ she whispered. ‘If you get caught, you will be imprisoned. They can give you the death penalty, Robbie. And you’ll take the rest of us down with you.’
With Henderson on the run, Westmoreland AWOL, and Fletcher caught in multiple lies, the ‘rest of us’ constituted only Brenda Lee, and she was clearly getting seriously cold feet. This was not good. A less than confident PR person signaled trouble in the ranks. That would be a bigger beacon for scrutiny than his business affairs could ever be.
Maybe it was time to completely clean house.
But who would he get to replace Brenda Lee? Calm down and stop thinking crazy. Brenda Lee is still loyal. She’s just trying to keep you of jail.
‘Think about this logically,’ he said, still projecting a calm he now did not feel. ‘As a congressman I’ll have access to information that will help us direct our shipments to the most stable of the tribes and will redirect unwanted attention.’
‘You’re justifying.’ She shook her head. ‘They will want tax records and employment records. They’ll want information you fought to keep out of police hands eight years ago. They will make that information public. It won’t take long before some smart nerd figures that you’re living a champagne lifestyle on an imported beer budget. They’ll know you’ve got extra income and they’ll dig until they find it. You’ll ruin us all. What’s wrong with the way things are?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I’m bored.’
‘Bored? You’re willing to risk our way of life because you’re bored?’ She closed her eyes, calming herself. ‘You don’t run for office because you’re bored.’
‘No, you run for office to establish connections that will make you even richer.’
‘No. You run for office to serve the public.’
She sounded like she really believed that. This was worse than he thought. ‘We served the public,’ he said bitterly. ‘Look where it got us. You’re in a chair. You’ll never walk again. Where were you when I called you to represent me eight years ago, Brenda Lee?’
She paled at his blunt assessment. ‘Unemployed. On food stamps.’
‘And your son had to take free lunch at school. You served your country, but you couldn’t even buy peanut butter to make a sandwich for your son. And me? I came back without a penny to my name, without a skill I could legally use. We served and we got screwed. It’s time for us to get a little payback, don’t you think?’
She nodded, firmly. ‘Yes. You’re right. I’ve always agreed with you about this.’ She lifted her chin. ‘What do you want me to do?’
This was the Brenda Lee he trusted. ‘I want you to check every aspect of my business and personal life. I want you to make sure there are no loose ends. No skeletons hanging in closets.’
‘What about that cop? The one who accused you of killing your wife? The one who killed your son? She might resurrect her lies if she sees you running for office.’
‘She won’t be a problem.’
Brenda Lee’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you going to do?’
He smiled. ‘Absolutely nothing. Haven’t you been watching the news? She’s got dirty cops on her tail because she ratted them out. I won’t have to do anything about her. Her own kind are taking care of the problem for me.’
‘I’ve been watching the news. I know she’s getting what’s coming to her.’ Brenda Lee looked at Levi’s photo. ‘She harassed you over the murder of your wife when you were innocent and then robbed you of your son. I don’t care if her hands were lily white on every other case she ever worked, she deserves what’s happening to her for what she did to you alone.’
That Mazzetti had robbed him of his son was the true part of the partial truth he’d fed Brenda Lee, that he’d fed the others as well. Levi never would have actually shot anyone. If he’d lived, Levi would have served a reduced sentence or maybe even been put into court-ordered rehab. But Mazzetti killed him in cold blood.
That Mazzetti had harassed him was also true. That Robinette was innocent of the murder of his wife was the lie part of the partial truth. Levi hadn’t killed Julie. I did that.
None of that Brenda Lee could ever know. He needed her hating the cops. Hating Mazzetti in particular. ‘That’s my girl,’ Robinette said with a smile.
Brenda Lee raised her forefinger. ‘But what if I find things in your finances that I can’t redirect? If I can show you that it’s too dangerous, will you abandon this bid for office?’
‘For now. I’ll take a pass, tell them I need more time for my charitable affairs. We’ll fix whatever loose end you couldn’t manage to hide. Then I’ll run again the next opportunity I get.’
‘That sounds fair.’ She put her chair in reverse. ‘But do me a favor. Next time Lisa has an idea like that, please tell me first. I can’t protect you if you keep me in the dark. And don’t forget. You have dinner with—’
‘The city planner at six,’ he finished. He straightened the tie. He’d come home and gone straight to the shower, washing away any lingering evidence that he’d lain in the sand, shot at a child, and burned down a house, and still had had time for a power nap before dressing for his dinner meeting. ‘See? I’m all ready to go. Don’t worry. It’ll go just great.’
When she’d gone, he opened his laptop to check on the latest Mazzetti news. Listening to a feed from the BPD all the way from Wight’s Landing to Virginia and back to Baltimore, he’d heard the details of the massive manhunt in progress. The Bay Bridge at the northern end of the peninsula had been at a standstill all day, the result of a roadblock and car searches. They’d been especially checking black Toyota Sequoias and sand-colored Chevy Tahoes.
They had seen him and Westmoreland, probably via cameras at the PI’s house. But they haven’t seen my face. There had been no physical description other than his height and weight.
Robinette hadn’t freaked out, but had been smart enough to take back roads home, returning the Tahoe to his storage facility where it wouldn’t be spotted by some nosy security guard. He’d have to find alternate transportation from here on out. A vehicle at least as old as the Tahoe had been. He still didn’t want to risk being tracked through GPS.
But other than that, the news was good. The sniper who fired on a Wight’s Landing dock – and who was likely responsible for the restaurant shooting – was still at large.
They got that mostly right. Robinette was still at large and he’d directed the restaurant shooting, although he hadn’t fired the shots. He wondered where Henderson was. Maybe the bullet Maynard had fired as Henderson had fled the scene had done the job.
Maybe Henderson was dead. The thought cheered him as he scrolled down to read more news, then his finger froze on his track pad. Well, that’s interesting. Emma Townsend was giving an interview with Phin Radcliffe. Right now.
He switched on the TV and sat back to watch.
Monday, March 17, 5.05 P.M.
Sam opened the door to his apartment to Ruby. ‘Thanks for coming.’
‘Stop thanking me,’ she said. ‘I told you that this is for me as much as it is for you.’ Her eyes settled on the TV. ‘Is that the interview with Dr Townsend? I wanted to see that.’
Sam nodded. ‘They just got started. The woman’s been through a lot the past few days, but she seems to have it together.’ He sat down on his sofa and awkwardly motioned her to join him, surprised when she sat on the middle cushion, close to him, instead of taking the other end.
But she didn’t seem to be flirting and Sam couldn’t figure her out.
‘She’s classy,’ Ruby said, thoughtfully tapping one of those long red nails on her equally red lips, ‘or so I was told. One of my colleagues retrieved the waitress who was killed in the restaurant and he heard Dr Townsend talking to the cops and was r
eally impressed.’
Sam found himself watching Ruby as she watched the interview. Her face was relaxed, expressive, engaged. He could simply watch her for hours.
Then the interview was over and Ruby rose. ‘Now, where can I change my clothes? We have a skeevy strip joint to crash.’
Sam laughed. Her quicksilver mood changes kept him on his toes. ‘End of the hall, on your left.’ He watched her walk the length of his hall and bells started ringing in his ears.
Just watching her walk got him hard and overheated. She is way out of your league, Hudson. Ruby was a Lamborghini whereas his previous relationships had been with good, solid Chevys. You’d never make it out of second gear with a woman like that. He was already about to pop his clutch. He laughed, at himself this time. Do yourself a favor and stick to what you know.
He turned back to the news where the anchors were discussing Phin Radcliffe’s interview.
‘That Mazzetti was the target has been widely accepted,’ one of them said. ‘According to a source who wishes to remain anonymous, Mazzetti and Dr Townsend have met at that restaurant every year, on the same day. Saturday was a tragic anniversary for the detective.’
‘Indeed,’ the other anchor said. ‘It was the eighth anniversary of the day that her husband, Prosecutor Paul Mazzetti, and her son were murdered in a convenience store robbery.’
Sam slowly came to his feet, staring at the screen. A horrible dread blanketed him and he had to force himself to breathe. Saturday. He’d been a cop too long to believe in coincidences.
Eight years ago, Saturday. The day he’d lost was most likely the same day his father had been murdered. Definitely it was the same day that Mazzetti’s husband had been murdered.
Her husband, the prosecutor. Sam’s father, the ex-con junkie.
And me, out like a light for a day and a half, potentially framed for a crime I didn’t commit. The murder of my own father.
His stomach, already dicey, began to churn. Sam began to pace. Could they be connected?
Had Mazzetti’s husband prosecuted Sam’s father? No. Sam remembered those trials. Mazzetti was not the name of either prosecutor.
Paul Mazzetti’s murderer had been convicted and was serving time. Sam could see the man’s mug shot being displayed on the TV screen this very moment.
Then why was John Hudson killed? Why drug me? Why leave the gun next to his hand? Why send his father’s effects? And why send the matchbook from the Rabbit Hole?
It was if someone was leaving breadcrumbs for him. Wanting him to discover who really had killed John Hudson.
‘Well?’ Ruby asked. ‘What do you think?’
Sam glanced at her, then did a distracted double take. Her scarlet dress was barely a Band-Aid, her shoes, five inch-stilettos. Her face, sensually exotic. Her black hair was tied back with a filmy red scarf, the ends of which she’d arranged artfully over breasts that were one deep breath from escaping the ‘dress’.
‘Oh my God,’ he whispered. ‘You’re . . .’
‘Sluttily amazing?’ she supplied with a grin.
‘No.’ On any other woman the outfit would be slutty. But on Ruby, it was . . . ‘Beautiful.’
She approached, managing to walk smoothly in those skyscraper heels. ‘So why do you look like you want to throw up again, papi?’
‘Ruby, I need to get my hands on the video from a convenience store robbery.’
She blinked. ‘Okay. That I didn’t expect. Which one?’
‘The one eight years ago that killed Paul Mazzetti. Eight years ago this past Saturday.’
Her eyes widened. ‘The same day you lost? We should go to the police station. Ask them to pull the tape from the evidence storage room.’
‘I’d prefer that no one know that it’s me who’s asking. Not until I know what’s what. Let me think.’ He frowned when Ruby stepped out on his balcony to make a call on her cell phone.
She returned, pulling his sliding glass door closed. ‘I talked to one of my contacts at the newsroom. They have a huge video archive. I asked for videos of every convenience store robbery for the past ten years in which there was a fatality. I told him we’re trying to ID a John Doe. It’ll take us more time, but no one will know specifically what you’re asking for.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. You do realize that they caught the guy that did that robbery, right? He’s serving a life sentence.’
‘I know, but I also know we’ve got a string of coincidences and I don’t believe in those.’
‘Neither do I,’ she admitted. ‘It’ll take the news studio a few hours to pull all of the tapes. Now, are you ready for a little pole dancing?’
Sam shook his head. ‘No. But let’s go anyway.’
She took his arm. ‘You want me to drive?’
‘Absolutely no. I’m still a little dizzy from last night. You drive too fast, Ruby.’
She laughed. ‘You drive too slow, Sam. You gotta live a little.’ Her smile faded. ‘You never know when I’ll roll you into my morgue.’
He lifted her chin, studied her eyes. In that moment she wasn’t a Lamborghini way out of his league, but a woman who saw too much death every single day. ‘What if I promise to run the yellow lights? Would that help?’
Her smile returned, but sadder now. ‘Yeah. It would.’
Monday, March 17, 5.25 P.M.
The interview had gone well, Clay thought from his post at the hotel suite’s door. Emma was a natural at this. Probably because she was being herself.
He caught Christopher’s eye and gave him a quick nod. Emma’s husband was solid. He’d kept calm as they’d carried out their plan. It wasn’t easy knowing that your woman was going to be bait. Stevie wasn’t even Clay’s woman and it was killing him to know she was in the next room, quietly waiting for a gunman to try to kill her.
But Stevie was no sitting duck. Armed to the hilt, she cradled a semi-automatic rifle that he should have given her that morning at his father’s beach house. Clay had worried about her ability to walk quickly across the sand while holding an M-16, but if he’d given her a rifle, she might have been able to cover him and Paige on the dock. Which is what she’d quietly told him when he’d unpacked the weapons on their arrival at the hotel.
They’d been the first words she’d spoken to him since they’d left his father’s house. On the trip into the city she’d busied herself making phone calls – to her family to tell them to expect Ethan to pick them up, and to Cordelia, to assure herself that her child was all right. From her frequent chuckles at whatever Cordelia said, the child was either fine or making a damn good show of it. Probably a bit of both.
Neither of them had mentioned the incident on the back porch or the words Clay had flung at her. The words he’d flung at his father and Nell. He and his dad were okay. Clay had made things right. But he and Stevie . . .
There was nothing to make right because there was nothing there. Not anymore. There couldn’t be. It didn’t matter that on the drive into the city, even as she’d made her calls, she’d watched him with a disconcertingly level gaze. She wanted him. That was no secret.
Just not enough. He kept telling himself that so he didn’t blurt out a pathetic plea for whatever scraps she was willing to throw him. It was just not enough.
Still Clay worried, because she sat in the adjoining suite waiting for a killer. But at least she wasn’t alone. Joseph had agents in the other two suites on this floor and Grayson sat with her, having left Paige at the farm to recuperate when he brought Emma and Christopher into the city.
Ethan was at the farm now and Clay breathed a lot easier. He trusted Grayson and Paige, just as he trusted Joseph Carter. But he knew Ethan Buchanan, had served alongside him in Somalia. They’d risked their lives for each other many times. Ethan would keep Cordelia safe.
/> ‘And . . . we’re done.’ Phin Radcliffe gave his cameraman the signal to stop taping, then turned to Emma with a high-wattage smile. ‘That wasn’t so painful, was it?’
As they’d expected, Radcliffe had thrown Emma a few curve balls, trying to trick her into revealing Stevie’s location. Emma played it perfectly, redirecting him with a nervous smile. Once she even darted her eyes toward the suite’s bedroom door, before hastily looking away.
Radcliffe wrapped up the interview, but kept looking at the bedroom door curiously as he and his cameraman packed up their things.
‘No, it wasn’t painful at all.’ Emma rose unsteadily, looking exhausted. ‘But if you don’t need me anymore, Mr Radcliffe, I’ll excuse myself. I haven’t slept well the past few nights.’
‘Understandable,’ Radcliffe said. ‘Thank you for your time.’
‘Thank you for providing the phone numbers for local grief counselors. You never know who’s watching. If one person at the end of their rope reaches out for help, it’s worth it.’
She went into the bedroom, opening the door only wide enough to squeeze through – as if hiding the room’s existing occupants.
Clay bit back a smile. Emma was very good. He turned to Radcliffe. ‘I’ll walk you down.’
Radcliffe glanced at Clay before returning his gaze to the bedroom door. ‘So you’re Dr Townsend’s bodyguard now?’ he asked casually.
Clay just looked at him, confirming or denying nothing.
Radcliffe half-shrugged. ‘I was under the impression that you were Mazzetti’s bodyguard. I understand you were with Mazzetti on Saturday when she was shot at in front of her house and again this morning when shots were fired at the house owned by your father.’
Clay opened the suite’s door. ‘I’ll walk you down,’ he repeated.
Radcliffe’s lips twitched as he shouldered a bag of equipment. ‘And of course, I can’t help but recall your presence on the courthouse stairs in December,’ he said as he walked through the door into the hall. ‘I was there, covering the trial. You saved her life then, too.’