by Julie Miller
He slipped into bed and let the woman put her hands on him. Claire was just a kid. She wasn’t a street thug or a dealer or the competition like the other names on the list. She wasn’t even a part of the company that had become such a profitable enterprise for him over the years.
But she’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“Do it.”
He disconnected the call, knowing Galvan intended to kill Claire Winthrop, no matter what he said.
He’d deal with his conscience later.
Chapter Seven
Even in the nice part of town, stakeouts sucked.
A.J. sipped on his cold black coffee and watched the two boys zoom past on their bicycles. They found the deepest puddle of water on the sidewalk to hydroplane across, splashing water up onto their bikes, themselves and the neighbor’s lawn. It looked like a great way to spend a drizzly Saturday afternoon after being cooped up all week in school.
He wished he could take his car out to the country and find an old blacktop road where he could take it up to speed and kick back some water himself. But his wild days had ended years ago, and carefree hadn’t been a part of his vocabulary since he’d gotten that sobering call from his mother eighteen years ago.
Your father’s dead, A.J. Wherever you are, come home. I need you to be a man now.
He’d been grown-up ever since.
But maybe all those years of undercover work and watching his back—all the times he’d watched his partners’ backs because he knew that’s what kept a cop alive—were starting to tell on him. Life was passing him by. Fun and laughter and letting loose weren’t a part of his life anymore, not to any real extent.
Maybe that’s why he’d been so restless lately. He set his coffee in the cupholder between the Trans Am’s bucket seats and let his gaze slide over to the dark gray, L-shaped ranch house behind the white brick retaining wall and evergreen bushes.
She was in there. With Reed and Henley, sharing her smiles and working those hands with elegant precision whether she was washing dishes, playing cards or reading a book. Maybe that’s why Claire’s youthful vitality held such appeal for him. He needed something more than work in his life. He needed something more than duty in his heart.
He needed to play cards and trade smiles and…get his head back in the game.
Silently cursing his uncharacteristic flights of fancy, A.J. pulled his cell from the pocket of his leather jacket and called the precinct.
“Josh. When you get to the safe house, why don’t you bring me something decent to eat. And some black coffee.”
“You’re at work early, amigo. Our shift doesn’t start until one.” He could hear the creak of Josh’s chair as he sat up straight at his desk and swore. “Or have you been there all night?”
“I’ve been here thinking.” A twelve-hour stakeout gave a man little else to do.
“I’m thinking you need to seriously get with this woman and get her out of your system.”
“Whatever. Now that you’re done assessing my love life, Dr. Phil, could we talk police business?”
“If you insist.” Did the big guy have to sound so cocky. “Banning found three different bank accounts in which Valerie Justice has been depositing around $10,000 a quarter for the past few years. Winthrop was generous with his bonuses, but not $40,000 a year worth. She was into something else.”
“Any leads on the body yet?”
“Nothing at her apartment. Though Holly Masterson said Valerie had a male visitor within the past week.”
“Sid Greenstreet?” Talk about a longshot. If they could place Dominic Galvan with Valerie before the murder, then they could build a pattern of familiarity to back up Claire’s testimony.
“Holly’s typing the DNA of the semen sample this morning. But if Galvan isn’t in the system, there’s no way we can get a match.”
The boys zipped back by on their bikes, and A.J. saluted when they waved. The gray house with Claire inside remained quiet and unassuming.
“Can we place Galvan at any of the dealer murders yet?”
“We’ve got a couple of DNAs from the stabbing victim scene we can cross-match. But you know there wasn’t much left when Slick’s car exploded.”
“I know.” A.J. checked the rearview mirror to probe the crescent-shaped scar tissue that glowed pink against his olive-tinted cheek and beard scruff. He’d had the stitches removed yesterday. “But there’s a connection there, I know it.”
“I thought that’s what made him the Renaissance Man—that there was no pattern. If he is responsible for all the dealers’ deaths, then he’s just as adept at explosives as he is at hand-to-hand combat.”
“He’s pretty handy with a gun, too.” A.J. tried to relax and let his brain think of new possibilities. “What kind of man would have expertise in all those areas? And be in good enough shape to maintain that career for twenty years.”
Josh went with the flow. “You mean like a navy SEAL?”
“Or a SWAT team member. Special Forces. Who’s to say Galvan hasn’t had that kind of training?”
“You want me to check with Tenebrosa to see if Galvan has a military record?”
Taking the investigation in a new direction reenergized A.J.’s sleep-deprived body. For the first time in a lot of days, he began to think they were making some progress. “State police. Mercenary. Rebel forces. Tenebrosa’s been in a civil war of various drug cartels for almost thirty years now. Why wouldn’t he have that kind of background? If so, somebody’s got to have an address for him. A phone number. A means to contact him when he’s due a pension check, or somebody wants to rehire his services.”
He heard the grin in Josh’s voice. “You think any of them would keep medical records? If he’s former military, he must have had a physical somewhere along the way.”
“Put Dwight Powers on it. He can clear through the red tape faster than we can. Good thinking, partner.”
A.J.’s renewed energy matched the hum of the engine that turned the corner of the street. There was a lot of horsepower under that hood. But when the car passed by, he was less impressed. The body of the dinged-up Chevy needed some work and a coat of paint. Something in red or black, more in keeping with the sound of the engine.
The sound of the engine. A.J.’s senses sharpened. He pinpointed the license plate and tried to get a look at the hunched-up driver.
He’d heard that engine before.
The faded beige Chevy pulled into a two-story house down a ways. The driver, wearing a black stocking cap and reflective orange hunting jacket, climbed out, stretched, then rubbed at the small of his back as if he’d been driving a long time. A.J. watched him shuffle around to the trunk of the car and unload a duffel bag, a tackle box and some fishing poles. The poor guy had either eaten his catch or come home empty-handed.
But A.J.’s instincts wouldn’t let him feel any sympathy yet. He started the Trans Am’s engine and let the power of the car flow through him. “Josh. Before you come down, run an ID on a ’78 Chevy Malibu. Plate number six-eight-Charley, four-tango-three.”
“Something going on?”
The man unlocked the front door and trudged inside. He was shorter than Galvan, stockier than Claire’s description. But the bulk of that jacket and equipment could camouflage a lot, and A.J. hadn’t gotten a good look at his face.
He slipped the Trans Am into gear and idled past the driveway to get a better look. “And get me the family name of 7520 Fairway.”
They’d better come from a long line of outdoorsmen, or he was going to go knock on the front door and introduce himself.
“That’s catty-corner from Claire’s location. You need backup?”
“Not yet. But stay close to the phone.”
He hung up, pulled around the corner and dialed the safe house number. The facts said a tired fisherman with a wannabe stud car had just come home from a long, uneventful trip.
But those instincts were screaming he’d need backup soon.
; “NO. LIKE THIS.”
Claire reached across the sofa and curved Officer Reed’s index finger into the proper position. “Think of the shape of a cursive X when you write it on paper. Without the slash mark. That’s it.” She signed the last two letters of the alphabet. “Then Y. Z.”
She heard a distant, metallic rendition of the “William Tell Overture” that she’d learned to identify as the telephone. When Officer Henley went into the next room to answer it, she knew it was something official. The cops guarding her these past forty-eight hours had learned quickly enough not to let her “see” their conversations. Though she preferred to know what was going on around her, they’d done their best to keep her from being alarmed or upset by such phrases as “possible sighting”, “get her to the safe room” or “her father knows better than that.”
Pretending the exclusion didn’t make her any more edgy than two days of confinement already had, Claire hitched up the legs of her tan linen slacks and curled them beneath her on the sofa. She picked up the soda from their carryout lunch and took a sip.
“S-E-X-Y.” Claire laughed at Mike Reed’s adolescent efforts to spell words in sign language. “You think my girlfriend will be impressed? Now how do I say, ‘You sexy thang’?”
“At least you’re not learning the cuss words.” She set her drink on the end table beside the paperback novel she’d been reading and showed him a few phrases that might score him some points.
“Pretty. Woman.” She wanted to know what Henley’s phone call was all about. Had there been a break on the case? Had Galvan been caught? “Sweetheart.” Mike imitated her sign. She really wanted one o’clock to get here so she could see A.J. again.
Not that he used any of his guard-duty time to flirt with her or even get better acquainted. But she felt safer when he was around. Not just from the threat of Galvan. But safer in her own skin. Calmer. Stronger. More confident about who she wanted to be. When A.J. was around, Claire didn’t feel handicapped—by her hearing loss or her money or her family name.
She was just Claire.
He’d dismiss it as a crush, no doubt. But she was falling for him. Because he made her feel normal. He made her feel as if her opinions mattered. He made her feel like a woman, not a girl.
He made her feel. Period.
“Show me another one.” Mike was still looking to impress his girl. Claire wondered if advising him to just listen to his girlfriend the way A.J. listened to her would make any sense.
But Mike wanted the flash, not the substance. “How about this one?” She curled her right hand into a fist, then extended her thumb, pinkie and index finger into a combination of the letters I-L-Y. “I love you.”
“Hey, now let’s not get carried—”
A vicious concussion of sound ripped through the air outside. Loud enough for Claire to hear the thunderous explosion, powerful enough to shake the sofa beneath. “What—?”
In the next split second, the glass in the living room windows shattered and flew into the room, shredding the curtains and giving Claire a glimpse of fire and metal sailing into the air across the street.
“Get down!” The force of the blast tipped her off balance, and she was halfway there when Mike grabbed her and dove to the floor. He covered her with his body as he pulled out his gun.
Claire heard screams and shouts, from inside the house and out, but nothing made any sense. Mike was on his hands and knees, dragging her toward the archway that led into the windowless interior of the house.
She climbed to her knees to crawl for herself. Tiny aftershocks from the explosion vibrated through her palms. A chunk of the pinewood arch frame splintered before her eyes. Mike pushed her back down to the floor.
Oh God.
“Henley!”
She knew that sound. Not again.
Officer Henley appeared in the archway. A bullet struck him in the neck above the collar of his Kevlar vest and down he fell.
“No!” Claire screamed and reached for the fallen man. Mike grabbed her by the collar and thrust her back against the base of the sofa. A cushion exploded above her head and stuffing snowed down on them.
Mike was on his radio. “We have a security breach. Shots fired! Officer down!” He shoved the radio into her hands. “Stay put.”
“But I can’t—” He didn’t wait for her to explain that she might not be able to pick up any of the responses from the airwaves. He crawled on his belly toward the closest window. Another shot gouged out the floor beside him. “Mike!”
Propping his back against the wall, he cinched up his protective vest, rose to his feet and turned to peer through the tatters of curtain still hanging in the frame. His body jerked and his knees crumpled.
“Mike!”
He threw himself against the wall and sank to the floor, clutching his shoulder as a circle of crimson bloomed on his white sleeve.
“Get to the safe room!” he ordered between clenched teeth. “Get out of here.” He shoved his gun and his good hand through the open window and started firing. “Now!”
Claire couldn’t tell if the grit stinging her eyes were tears or debris. People were dying for her. They were dying!
Getting out of there would be the surest way to remove them as a target and spare their lives.
Pressing her belly flat to the hardwood floor, she crawled beneath the coffee table and dragged it along on top of her toward Henley’s body. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she whispered, reaching out to touch his still hand.
Another shot broke a leg of the coffee table and tilted it over her back. Splinters pricked her bare ankle and pierced the top of her feet. Instead of crying out, Claire scrambled over Henley’s body and tumbled into the hallway. A bullet followed her through the archway and lodged itself into the wall across from her.
Oh God, what was she going to do?
She needed A.J. She needed to think.
She swiveled her head back and forth, seeing the promise of easy escape through the front door just a few feet away. But Mike said to head for the safe room—the interior bathroom down the hall toward the kitchen.
Desperate instincts made her want to do more than just run and hide. Rising up on her knees, she used all her strength to grab Henley’s vest and throw herself back to drag the lifeless body into the hallway with her. A couple more tugs and she’d hauled him around the corner.
Another bullet sprayed chips of wood and plaster beside her head. Claire swiped the grit from her cheek and ripped open the Velcro on Henley’s vest. His blood seeped onto her fingers as she pushed the metal-lined nylon over his head, then rolled him from one shoulder to the next to remove his vest.
She slipped the Kevlar over her head and ducked as a shower of glass rained down from the top of the front door. Was that a ricochet? Had the shooter changed his location? Could he move that fast? Dammit! Wasn’t anybody stopping Galvan?
Barefoot and bleeding, Claire asked Henley to make one more sacrifice. She pulled the gun from his limp hand and crawled down the hallway. It was heavier than she’d expected. And cold. She hadn’t expected the metal of the gun to be so cold. She didn’t know who the hell she was going to shoot—she didn’t even know how to use the thing.
But she wasn’t just going to die. She wasn’t going to be a very nice good girl about this and let Galvan win without a fight.
She couldn’t hear or feel the shots any longer, but something made her turn. Rolling over onto her bottom, she squeezed the gun between both hands and caught a ragged breath. The wood around the front door’s dead bolt exploded. And then the whole thing was flying toward her.
Claire screamed. She raised the gun. A man in dark clothes rolled across the floor. She found the trigger.
He lunged toward her. “No, Claire!”
“A.J.?”
His hand closed around the gun and shoved it out of harm’s way as his body tackled hers.
Too stunned at the recognition, too numb with fear, too blinded by the adrenaline still pumping into her s
ystem, Claire could only wrap her free arm around his neck and hold on as they slid across the floor and bumped to a stop against the wall.
He folded his body around hers, squeezing her in a life-affirming embrace. He clung to her with his arms and legs. He pressed his rough cheek against her own and made sounds—whispers of air, brushes of lips—deep and potent against her ear.
“A.J. A.J.”
By the time she could chant his name and thank God that he had come to save her, A.J. was rolling to his feet and dragging her up to his chest. He hooked his arm around her waist and half dragged, half carried her down the hallway toward the door that was hanging from one hinge. He lifted her over Henley’s body, placing himself for a split second between her and the open archway.
And then her feet were on the concrete steps and the cool wet grass and she was running. They ran straight for the black Trans Am, parked like a car wreck in the middle of the lawn. The exhaust told her the engine was still running as A.J. opened the door and dumped her inside.
He ran around and climbed in. A bullet smacked against the windshield, and he shoved her head down between her knees as a web of cracks rippled outward from the tiny hole. A.J. shifted into gear and stepped on the gas, slamming Claire against the door as the wheels caught in the grass and mud and the car lurched forward. They bounced over the sidewalk into the street. From the roar of the engine through the floorboards and the acrid stench of burnt rubber, she knew that the car had found traction and they were flying through the streets.
By the time A.J. massaged the back of her neck and urged her to sit up, they were turning out of the residential area onto a busy, four-lane street. He drove with calm assurance through the other cars, his speed matching the flow of traffic and blending in. She watched the landmarks go by and knew they were heading downtown toward the heart of the city.
“Henley’s dead,” was all she could think to say. A.J. nodded. “Better buckle up.” He glanced toward the straps beside her and Claire dutifully complied.
She watched him holster his gun and pull out his cell phone in one fluid motion. He punched in a number, then wedged it between his ear and shoulder to free one hand to reach across the car and touch her cheek. His fingers shook as he brushed them across her skin. He smoothed the hair away from her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. Claire hugged her arms around the bullet-resistant vest she wore and wanted to cry.