by Misty Evans
Savanna wrapped the fingers of both hands around her teacup. “Was he the person who hit us today in the car?”
Coldplay put a hand on her lower back and guided her toward one of the chairs across from Beatrice. “Probability is high.”
“But you said the hit and run was just a warning. If he’d wanted me dead, he would have finished it then and there.” She sat, careful not to dislodge the blanket or spill her tea. “I don’t think tonight was a warning.”
“His orders may have changed,” Beatrice said. “Once he found out you were at the station and insisting on airing the Westmeyer investigation, he was told to stop you at all costs.”
“How did he find out?” The cup in her hands shook, tiny shockwaves rippling the surface. “No one expected me to show up tonight. I could see it on their faces.”
“Your altercation with Lindsey when you arrived wasn’t exactly private,” Coldplay mentioned. “And you had the studio send the limo like usual to pick you up. Even though you were late, the original expectation was that you were doing the show.”
Savanna rubbed a hand over her face. “The female limo driver who pulled the gun on Lindsey. Was she in on it too?”
“Maybe it was her job to take you out,” Beatrice said. “When that failed, Russo was activated.”
“I still can’t believe the president is trying to kill me to stop this Westmeyer investigation.”
“Maybe it’s more than that,” Coldplay said.
Everyone looked at him, and he dropped his gaze to the floor.
A tense silence filled the air. Parker had done the same thing to Savanna many times during their childhood when she’d had a secret. She’d toss out a one-liner, then leave Savanna hanging. Whether it was for dramatic effect or her sister was simply having an inner debate over whether to spill the beans, Savanna was never sure. Every time, it made her insides freeze up a little. Her heart beat quicker.
“You think it has to do with Parker?” Savanna asked Coldplay.
His gaze finally rose to meet hers. “If the president gave her an assignment and she refused to carry it out, he may be threatening you in an attempt to get her to follow orders. I’m sure he knows you’re her one and only weakness.”
Savanna rubbed her neck. The tendons were tight as stone after the accident and then being thrown around at the studio. If that was true, she and her sister were both in trouble.
But I have help. She doesn’t.
“Do you have any other theories about why the president is threatening Ms. Jeffries?” Beatrice asked Coldplay.
His jaw clenched and he shot Beatrice a look that could melt steel. Something passed between them—an internal struggle of wills.
Was there another theory Coldplay didn’t want to offer? “That’s the most likely one,” he said.
Most likely? “I’d like to hear all of your theories,” Savanna countered.
Beatrice stared down Coldplay for a moment, then switched her attention to Savanna. “I’d like to hear more about your Westmeyer investigation. Why is the president adamant to stop you from talking about it?”
She didn’t like being shut down, but she was too wrung out to push for Coldplay to explain what other theories he may have had. She’d work on him later. Maybe he would open up when they had less of an audience.
There wasn’t much to tell about Westmeyer. She gave Beatrice and Emit the basic facts she’d already shared with Coldplay. Westmeyer’s founder and CEO was being investigated. Behind the scenes, she believed they were supplying experimental drugs to the Department of Defense for use on soldiers. She had the uncanny feeling Beatrice already knew everything she was saying.
Coldplay was staring at the floor again, his jaw working overtime. Beatrice removed a file from a pile on her desk. “If that’s true, there are people involved who can verify it. Those in charge who’ve okayed it and selected soldiers to be tested. The scientists running the experiment. The soldiers themselves.”
Savanna took another sip of tea. Mint. Her favorite. It had cooled but still tasted good, and talking about work gave her a bit of clarity again. “Finding those people and getting them to come forward is nearly impossible. That’s why I was running with the illegal campaign contribution story while I continued to dig on the drug trials.”
“You’re an expert at what you do,” Beatrice said. “I’m sure you can find the sources you need, but if you’d like help, please say so. I have…other resources…that might be helpful as well. In the meantime, we need to realign your security measures.”
She slid the file across the desk. “I have three safe houses open at the moment. Take your pick.”
“Safe houses? I can’t go back to my apartment?”
“While we increased security, the threat has escalated,” Coldplay said. “We have to change tactics, keep you away from places you would normally go.”
Beatrice flipped open the file and laid out three pieces of paper, each with a picture of the house and the pertinent details. “La Escada is a horse ranch in Virginia. Berkley is a modern estate here in DC, and our premium safe house is on a private island near St. Lucia.”
Holy shit. Savanna had just taken another sip of her tea and nearly spit it out. “You guys don’t mess around, do you?”
Emit leaned on the edge of the desk, arms folded over his chest. “We service the rich and famous, Ms. Jeffries. They expect a certain level of…amenities.”
“Do you have a preference?” Beatrice asked.
Beachfront in the Virgin Islands or horses in the rolling hills of Virginia. She glanced at Coldplay and let her eyes wander for a moment from his head—cowboy hat?—to places lower—or Speedo?
Damn, that was a difficult choice.
His eyes turned to her and she hurriedly glanced away from his lower regions.
“All of them are top of the line for security,” he said smoothly, as if he hadn’t just caught her ogling his crotch. “The island is hidden and hard to approach without being noticed, but difficult to leave if attacked. The cabin at the ranch is also hidden and there’s only one road leading in and out—except that an assassin would use the surrounding woods to go unnoticed upon approach.”
She cleared her throat. “So you’re recommending the Berkley estate?”
“The location is advantageous to keep others out, yet gives us multiple exits. There are safe rooms and I can set up extra layers of security outside.”
A knock on the door interrupted them. The bodyguard called Poison stuck his head in, addressing his boss. “Found the limo.”
Emit motioned him to enter. “Where was it?”
“Driver ditched it on the other side of town.” He wore a jean jacket, motorcycle boots, and black gloves. Striding across the room, he removed what looked like a picture from his inside jacket pocket, and tossed it on the desk. “This was stuck in the dash. Checked it for fingerprints and came up with zilch.”
The men all frowned and Beatrice glanced at Savanna. “Recognize this?”
Savanna leaned in and cocked her head to get a better look. “Oh, my God,” she said as realization hit. “That’s my favorite Gucci bag.”
“Walk-in closet, third row, east side,” Coldplay murmured.
“You memorized what shelf my bags are on?”
He ignored the question. “The limo driver had a picture from inside your…” His head snapped up. “Who else has had access to your bedroom closet?”
“No one.” How embarrassingly true. Brady had never stayed at her place. The only person who ever saw her closet was… “Parker.” A chill swept through her. A new thought dawned. “Could the limo driver have been my sister?”
Coldplay seemed to be on the same mind track. “Why would she leave you a picture of a purse?”
“I…I don’t know. Unless it’s to let me know she’s still alive and here in the area.” She put a hand over her heart. It was beating much too fast, but for the first time in weeks, she had hope. “I need to go back to my place. She may be
trying to contact me.”
“No,” the other three—Coldplay, Beatrice, and Emit—all said in unison.
“The killer may be baiting you,” Emit added. “Coldplay, Poison, and I will go.”
“She doesn’t know you guys. If she’s in trouble, she’s not going to talk to you.” Savanna stood and threw off the cashmere blanket. “I’m going to my apartment.”
Emit started to argue and Coldplay held up a hand to stop him. “She needs to do this. I’ll keep her safe.”
A warm sense of accomplishment spread through her veins. Coldplay understood her, knew her need to find Parker wasn’t something she could be talked out of.
Emit’s lips pressed into a thin line for a few seconds as he seemed to be sizing her up. Then he gave a tight nod. “I strongly disagree with this approach, but you’re the client, Ms. Jeffries. If Coldplay feels he can protect you, I’ll allow you to visit, but visit only. Two hours, not a minute more. You will not stay there overnight, nor will you be allowed to stay even two hours if any of the three of us” —he pointed between him and the other two men— “believe there is anything out of place. Your life comes first. Your sister comes second. If you don’t like those terms, I’ll refund your money and you can find a different protection agency.”
Hardball. She liked him and his dedication to doing his job, even if the client was being foolhardy. But seriously, who else was she going to turn to? He knew he had her in a bind. “No need to strong-arm me, Mr. Petit. I agree to your terms.”
Beatrice picked up the photo and fingered it. “I’m going, too.”
Another round of “no’s” rang out, Savanna chiming in this time.
Unfazed, Beatrice looked up at her. “When was the last time you used this bag? Is it possible there’s something hidden in it? Something Parker wanted you to find?”
“I use it all the time. I would have seen anything unusual.”
“Hmm.” Beatrice spoke to Coldplay. “When you get there, check the linings and all the hardware on the bag like grommets and buckles. Could be something hidden in them.”
“Roger that,” he said.
Emit headed for the door, Poison following. “I’ll bring the car around. Meet you downstairs.”
As they walked out, Connor, the receptionist stuck his head in. Like the news studio, everyone here seemed to work around the clock. “Ms. Jeffries’ coat is cleaned and pressed. It’s at my desk when she’s ready.”
“Perfect timing.” Beatrice rose and motioned at Savanna. “Connor will help you with the coat. I need to speak with Coldplay alone for a minute.”
Savanna was getting tired of being left out of these conversations, but it made sense that Coldplay’s boss occasionally needed to discuss topics with him that were none of Savanna’s business.
Excited at the prospect of seeing Parker, she hoped the meeting would be quick. “Of course. I’ll meet you outside,” she said to Coldplay.
He nodded, looking for the world like he’d rather follow her than discuss anything with Beatrice.
Thirty minutes later
“THERE,” TRACE SAID to Emit, pointing at the service door in the alley behind Savanna’s apartment building.
“I thought you talked to the manager about increasing security back here,” Savanna said. “How will we get in?”
Emit had dropped Poison off at a building across the street where he would set up surveillance on the roof. Callan Reese had joined the party and was watching the front of the building from his own vehicle. Trace didn’t want to go in the front door and alert the staff of their presence, so the service door was the best option. “The manager agreed to up the security, but he hasn’t done anything yet. We’ll go in here and take the stairs to the penthouse.”
Emit wheeled the Escalade up to the service door where a single light bulb cast a pale circle on the ground. “I’ll keep an eye on things back here.”
They all had comm units, even Savanna. Beatrice had Connor insert a tracking device in Savanna’s coat after it was cleaned. She’d told Trace of the precaution during their meeting. Between the tracking devices in her earrings, bra, coat, and phone, they had a good chance of finding her in the event she was kidnapped.
Beatrice told Trace she didn’t believe the janitor had been sent to kill Savanna, only to create a near miss in order to keep the heat on her. Killing her over the Westmeyer investigation, when all she had was intel on the illegal campaign funding that would go public in a few days anyway when the Justice Department announced their formal investigation, seemed too reckless for the president to employ. Linc Norman was cocky, clever, and shrewd, but he wasn’t reckless, according to Beatrice.
Trace knew better, but his arguing would bring up how he knew, and he wasn’t ready to share that little gem with anyone.
He touched the comm unit in his ear. “How’s it looking, Rory?”
“Penthouse is clear,” came the man’s reply from HQ where he was watching the apartment on giant security screens. “No one has been in or out since the two of you left. I backtracked the past week since we installed the upgrade, but no sign of Parker or anyone else entering the penthouse. I knew I hadn’t missed anyone, but I wanted to double check. The building’s previous security cameras never caught anyone either, but it was inefficient, so Parker could have been sneaking into the penthouse and was never caught on tape.”
“Roger that.”
Beatrice had told Trace about a female caller who’d asked for Coldplay earlier that evening. The woman had said she was interested in hiring him and wanted to know if he was available. When Beatrice didn’t confirm his employment status and started asking questions, the woman had hung up.
It could have been anyone here at the apartment building or at the studio who knew his bodyguard name, but Beatrice believed it had been Parker. Trace thought she was probably correct. Rory traced all incoming calls but all he could tell them was that it had been made from a disposable phone a few blocks from where the limo had been found.
If Parker had been driving the limo, she’d been trying to make contact. He’d missed her once again.
Why hadn’t she left a message with Beatrice? Why plant the photo of Savanna’s purse in the limo? Why not pick up the phone and call her sister?
She was taking chances while covering her backside extremely well at the same time.
Linc Norman may have met his match.
Even though Trace hadn’t met Parker, he liked her more and more. Something about her determination reminded him of Savanna. “Wait for my signal,” he said to his charge.
Savanna’s hands were clasped in her lap and she was nervously rubbing her thumbs back and forth. “Be careful.”
Careful wasn’t in his nature. Cautious, watchful, vigilant? Yes. Careful, no.
He’d already been scanning the area, but as he emerged from the SUV, he did it again, logging details from the snow-covered concrete pad to the dumpsters fifty feet away. There were no tracks in the alley except from the Escalade’s tires; no footprints anywhere near the door. Traffic noises from the street filtered down the narrow lane, and a church bell rang in the distance, signaling the ten o’clock hour. A few lights glowed from behind curtains in the nearby buildings but no one was looking out. Rooflines were clear.
A piece of brick, lying in the alley and mostly covered by snow, helped him take care of dousing the single light, the sound of breaking glass muffled by the falling snow as he plunged the service door area into darkness.
All it took to unlock the door was his Rock Star credit card, courtesy of Beatrice, and a flick of his wrist. The door automatically locked from the inside when closed, so he used the broken brick again, jamming the door open.
The snow was coming down good now, the wind sharp and cold on his skin. He didn’t mind—it helped with their cover. Back at the car, he pulled Savanna close to his body, hustling her into the building and toward the first flight of stairs. He stopped for a second and listened, making sure they were alone.
He understood her anticipation at seeing her sister. He just hoped this wasn’t going to backfire on him.
Because Parker obviously knew who he was. If she showed up and told Savanna, he was dead in the water.
Should have told her myself.
He still had time, but first, they needed to get to her penthouse and find that purse.
He automatically held out a hand. “Come on.”
She slipped her hand inside his and together they started up the stairs at a quick pace.
As per normal, the stairs were empty. Savanna, for all her workouts, was winded by the fourth floor. She laughed softly, the sound warming his chest as she sprinted beside him, grabbing onto the railing with her free hand and trying to keep up with his longer legs.
Her security card got them onto the penthouse floor, and a minute later, Savanna was inside her apartment, calling her sister’s name.
The place was dark and Trace flipped on the lights, going from room to room to make sure there were no visitors, regardless of Rory’s assurances. He reset the security system, and assured no one was there, marched Savanna to her walk-in closet.
The purse was on the third shelf, east side, exactly like it had been a few hours earlier. It had a conglomerate of studs and spikes, zippers and hardware. She grabbed it and one hand dived in, unzipping zippers and searching the pockets. A second later, she looked up, empty-handed. “Nothing.”
Trace took it to the kitchen and grabbed a knife from the butcher block. He raised the blade to start slicing when she stayed his hand in midair.
“This is a two-thousand dollar Gucci. Do we really have to cut it open?”
“In order to check the lining we do.”
“Maybe Parker didn’t hide anything. Maybe she just wanted me to meet her here and she isn’t here yet.”
“Why the picture of the purse then? Why not a note that said ‘meet me at your place?’ Or a general picture of the apartment?”