“You want me to help you so I can clear my father’s reputation. Obtaining the rings will identify the accomplices. Is that it?” Her expression said she found the flaw in his plan. Or flaws.
“That’s part of it. The Feds questioned dozens of suspects and so did your father. If I can narrow down the field from his notes, maybe I can track the other ring pieces. I need proof the ring leads to the jewels. Proof I can take to the FBI.” How he’d obtain the ring pieces from Leon’s partners in crime was another problem. One thing at a time.
“I see.” She folded her napkin and laid it beside her plate. “Dad didn’t get the case until after the robbery. He was suspected because he knew the Jeweler from other cases and because they appeared too friendly. He wouldn’t have had a ring piece. I don’t see how identifying the accomplices by who has the ring pieces will do anything to clear his name.”
His pulse kicked up. “Just so we’re clear, no guarantee. But wasn’t your father suspected first because he requested the case?”
“Yes, but not because he was in on the robbery, like the FBI suspected.” If her eyes could shoot daggers, he’d be a dead man.
“Hey, I didn’t say he was. Here’s another angle the police could’ve thought of. You’d be surprised how porous jail security is. Leon could’ve arranged from inside for somebody on the outside to involve Marton. Once I find the accomplices, they might know something that’ll clear him. Either way, I have to ID Leon’s accomplices.”
She chewed her bottom lip as she thought about it. “I need some time to decide. Unless you want coffee, I think we’re done here.”
Did she really need time? Or was this a brush-off? The fries sat in Cort’s belly like a clump of wet sawdust. He tossed down money to pay the bill.
“I’ll pay for my own,” she said, eyebrows lifted in objection.
“This was my idea. My treat.”
“Then thank you.” Pulling her sweater around her, she wove her way through the tables.
Damn if he was going to let her walk away without giving him another chance.
Chapter 3
Outside, Mara shivered as she tied the sash of her wrap-around sweater. A light mist fell and she wished she’d worn a raincoat. She stuffed her hands in her pockets. Anxiety tightened her shoulders. This was her only chance to clear her father’s name. How much could she trust this man?
“I’ll walk you to your car,” Cort said.
She started, only then realizing he was standing beside her. His jaw worked back and forth as storm clouds darkened his eyes. Guarded and still, he seemed to have a volcano seething beneath the controlled surface.
Her stomach swooped and not with fear. She’d be safer if it were fear. Her research on him along with the past hour she’d spent with him had dissipated any lingering fears for her safety. “I walked. But there’s no need for you to escort me.”
No smile but his eyes softened. “I already know where you live. And I won’t let you walk alone this time of night.”
Her stomach fluttered again at his offer of protection. Being a gentleman? Or making time for one last plea?
“I wasn’t worried.” Just surprised. She headed across the street. “It’s this way.” But of course he knew that.
As they proceeded side by side down the narrow sidewalk, she didn’t mind his escort. He was rugged and rough-edged, with brown hair curling onto his collar and the hint of dark beard on his jaw line. He radiated vitality and dominance, not just physically, but with the force of his personality.
Light from building entrances glistened on the wet pavement. A few cars passed. A skinny man hunched beneath a hooded sweatshirt ambled toward them. A vomit-green recliner, its padding erupting through the flowered seat, blocked the sidewalk.
Cort’s big hand touched the small of her back, indicating she should precede him. Frissons of awareness eddied down her spine from the momentary warmth.
“Quiet here,” he said. “The D.C. I remember from college days was a lot noisier.”
“Quieter in Maine, I imagine,” she observed when he caught up to her. “How did you end up so far north?”
“One thing led to another. In high school I took wood shop, built some furniture. When I got out of prison I still had thirteen months supervised release.”
“Probation?”
“The federal prison system doesn’t call it probation, but yeah. I worked as apprentice to a cabinetmaker near Pittsburgh. From him I heard about the furniture school in Maine. He recommended me, so when my time was up, I went. Spent some time there as a kid.”
Ah, yes, his arrest had interrupted his freshman college year. He’d put that behind him and lived a solitary life in the woods. She started to squash her sudden spurt of compassion but remembered something. “My research said your mother is gone.”
His step hitched and he jammed his hands in his jacket pockets. “She died while I was in prison.”
The grim line of his mouth told her he didn’t want sympathy but she couldn’t let the comment pass. “I’m sorry. I still have my mother, but you’ve lost both parents.”
“I lost my father a long time ago.”
His statement was uttered flatly, without emotion. That, together with his earlier comments about his father, told her theirs had not been an easy relationship. His demeanor with her was low key, but she sensed the passion and determination in his soul.
The mist turned into a light rain as they walked in silence to her front stoop. She climbed the first step and plucked her keys from her sweater’s deep pocket.
“Thanks for walking with me.” She extended her right hand.
The streetlight sparkled on the moisture beading his hair and cast a shadow on his face. He stepped closer and clasped her hand. His was tanned and tough in contrast to her smaller, paler fingers. Callused palms from hard labor, as well as scarred on the backs. His grip was gentle but unbreakable.
Holding on as if to keep her from running inside, he pinned her with his gray gaze. “You haven’t told me what you decided. Will you let me see the files?”
Savoring the feel of his palm, she didn’t pull away. Maybe he’d go along with her compromise. “I’m not comfortable letting you look through my father’s papers. I’ll go through everything this weekend. Then I’ll phone you with a list of names.”
His jaw firmed. “It’s not good enough. Look, I—”
“Research is what I do. Take it or leave it.” She glared at him eye to eye, the step raising her to his level.
He nodded, releasing her hand. “I’ll take it.”
The sad desperation in his eyes nearly undid her.
“Good night.” She darted up the three steps, inserted her key, and ducked inside before she could relent. Through the side window she saw him striding back the way they’d come. Her hand tingled from his grip and she swiped it against the sweater’s rough knit. His imprint remained.
Cort Jones was a study in contrasts. She shouldn’t be drawn to him, but she couldn’t help being intrigued.
A big man, hard and lean, with bulges of muscle testing the seams of his knit shirt, he was all edgy intensity and coiled energy. Yet he gave her space and reassured her. His square jaw tightened with agitation. Yet his voice was gentle and resonant—raw, as if he rarely used it, deep and dark and very male. He had eyes of steel. Yet shadows lurked in their depths. Of loneliness? Pain? Prison would do that to a man. So would a lonely life. She shivered at the thought.
He was an ex-convict. A criminal. Hadn’t Dad always said, “Once a crook always a crook”? His investigative work had taught him healthy skepticism, and he’d tried to pass it on to his daughters. In more ways than one. She sensed there was a lot more Cort wasn’t sharing. What he said seemed straightforward. She’d have to proceed methodically. And carefully.
Leaving the foyer, she opened the inner glass door. The hallway was dark, lit only by the dim light filtering through from the foyer. She felt along the wall toward the light panel and flicked the switch. Nothing.
&n
bsp; Drat. The overhead light was working when she left.
A shadow of apprehension nibbled at her mind. Her pulse jittered. Maybe she should’ve had Cort walk her inside. No, she was being foolish. It was just a burned-out bulb. She’d report it in the morning.
Good thing she lived on the first floor. The brownstone had three stories with two apartments on each floor. She edged her way along the wall toward her door, first on the right. When she reached the frame, she sighed in relief and felt for the keyhole.
She heard a board creak and tensed, started to turn.
Hard arms grabbed her from behind.
She dropped her keys. Heart racing, she struggled, but a vicious grip twisted her left arm behind her. She opened her mouth to scream but all she managed was a whimper of pain.
A sharp point jabbed her throat. “Quiet, bitch. Or I’ll cut you.”
Mara’s attacker thrust his upper body against her, ramming her against her door.
Her pulse pounded in her ears. Where were the other tenants? Why didn’t someone come down the stairs or open their door?
Her next-door neighbor took out her hearing aids at night. She wouldn’t hear her scream, but upstairs they might. And Cort! Was he still close enough?
The mugger wrenched her arm tighter behind her back. Pain rocketed through her shoulder. Her heartbeat clattered and her throat closed tight with terror. She could barely breathe, much less call for help.
He jabbed the knife harder beneath her chin. “What did Jones want?” The voice was half whisper, half growl.
The reek of checkout-counter cologne and sour breath gagged her. Dizziness swam in her head. She couldn’t fathom his question. She was too trapped. Her stomach lurched and her knees buckled. She’d have fallen if he wasn’t propping her against the door.
Apparently concluding he’d squeezed the breath from her, the man eased up his body pressure against her. But not the knife. “What did he want?” he repeated.
She dragged air into her starving lungs. In the darkness her other senses came into sharp focus. She was aware of the blood rushing through her veins, aware of her heart pounding hard enough to rock her body—and aware of her right arm.
Free. Her palm pressed flat against the door.
Swallowing down nausea, she forced herself to think, to make sense of what the man demanded. No common mugger, he knew who Cort was. Instinct told her not to mention the rings. “He... he just wanted to talk.”
She couldn’t escape, but she could stall. She had to get help. She inched her right hand toward her sweater pocket.
“Talk. Not good enough. What did Jones want?”
She coughed, slumping against the door as she slipped her hand into her pocket. “Nothing! Only to apologize for my father’s death.”
The man growled an obscenity in her ear. “You bitch. You’re lying.” The knife point bit harder.
Mara winced at the sharp sting. “That’s all. I swear! Don’t hurt me. Please let me go.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated on what she had to do. Concentrated on closing her fingers around the cell phone. She eased it around and felt the screen for the right place.
***
Head bent against the now driving rain, Cort jammed his hands in his jacket pockets. Telling Mara about the puzzle ring had made him relive his visit to the prison hospital.
The reunion replayed in his mind.
He’d searched for deception in the watery eyes. “You conning me?” he’d asked the shrunken old man in the wheelchair.
“Why would I? Especially now?” Leon said. “Your mother, bless her departed soul, was the one who lied to you.”
Cort’s chest tightened. “She was trying to protect me.”
“Yeah, from your old man. I never lied to you. I’m not conning you now.” Again his gaze didn’t waver.
“But why tell me? Why not the FBI?”
“The Feds would arrest everyone who had a ring. I’m no rat.” Leon’s tone implied that should be obvious. He had his own code of honor, logical and reasonable to him.
Cort stared at the man he used to believe was larger than life. Scalp pale through his thin hair, bony shoulders hunched in pain and weakness. Hands once infamous for their skill and steadiness trembled. Eyes that used to glow with charisma and dreams of big capers were watery and yellow. Disease had aged him beyond his sixty-eight years.
The dimmed eyes studied Cort with fervor. “You’re a hell of a lot bigger than me but your face is mine at that age. Same gray eyes and stubborn, square chin. Uncanny.”
Only one of many reasons to hate the son of a bitch. He wouldn’t give in again to the bad seed within him. Staying in the woods kept him out of the light and out of further temptation. Cort clenched his fists. He schooled his emotions against the anger roiling in his belly. “A burden I have to live with.”
After some dancing around the subject, Leon got down to business.
“Those days are over,” he said. “The Jeweler’s days are over. I want to make things right. For you.” He gestured at the nearby chair.
Cort lowered himself onto the cool metal. He wasn’t convinced but curiosity gripped him. “Deathbed conversion?”
“More like yielding to reality. I’m never getting out of here. Not alive. I’m never going to reset those jewels like I planned.” He straightened, the gleam in his eyes reminiscent of the old days when he’d been a notorious man of mystery. “A perfect caper. The Smithsonian, no less. And you should’ve seen the crown. The diamonds and rubies in the scepter. Glorious. I—”
Cort had interrupted him to ask about the accomplices. They were to get a cut. Except for Cort. He’d refused any part of the take. But about the others, he’d hit a wall, a slippery wall named Leon Jones.
And tonight with Mara had he slammed into another wall? Global Insurance wouldn’t trust him. The FBI wouldn’t listen to him. And Mara...
He pictured her face, her expressive exotic eyes and lush mouth. She was an enigma, skeptical and distrustful yet compassionate and warm. She looked delicate and soft, but he sensed a steely strength inside. And he’d felt the impact of her smile. It had seeped into him, infusing a ray of light into the dark place he barely acknowledged as his soul.
He shouldn’t be attracted to her. Their fathers had been on opposite sides. Hell, if there was an afterlife, they still were. She didn’t trust him and she shouldn’t. His mother had trusted him, and he’d abandoned her to die alone.
Trust is for fools.
Nobody should trust him and he trusted nobody. He’d trusted his old man and look where it got him.
So he shouldn’t... couldn’t trust Mara. But she was all he had. Maybe her search of the files would yield names. He’d feel a hell of a lot better if he could see the notes.
He reached the corner and saw Sean and Tony’s Pub two blocks away. He could go there and drown his sorrows. But that’d accomplish nothing except a headache in the morning and a higher parking fee. He probably already owed the parking garage the cost of a winter’s firewood.
Cort turned left toward Dupont Circle.
His cell phone chirped. When he looked at the screen, he recognized Mara’s number. His pulse skipped. Did she change her mind? He pushed the button to answer. Before he could speak, the voice he heard kicked him in the gut. Not Mara but a man’s rough voice.
“You bitch. You’re lying.”
Then a whimper, and Mara’s voice. “That’s all. I swear! Don’t hurt me. Let me go.”
His adrenaline spiked like a jet streaking for the sound barrier. He swung around and raced toward Mara’s building.
The voice growled out of the cell again. “The Jeweler’s rings, you got one of ’em?”
Cort dropped the phone in his pocket and stretched his legs, pushed harder. Ignored the rain soaking through his jacket and dripping into his eyes.
Reaching the building, he took the steps two at a time. Where was she? Did the rat bastard hurt her? He yanked at the door handle. Locked. Ma
ra’d used a key. He cursed the building security that let in her mugger but not her rescuer. His hand shaking, he jabbed a call button beside the door.
Nothing.
He jabbed another.
Still nothing.
He pressed more buttons. Leaned on them.
Finally some trusting fool buzzed the door lock.
Cort barreled through the two doors into darkness. Flattened against the wall and fished in his pocket. Flicked on the mini-flashlight attached to his keys. Swept the thin beam over the stairs, then the hallway.
“Who’s there? Look out!” Mara called out.
A heavy weight slammed onto the side of his head. He toppled like a load of mahogany.
Chapter 4
“Cort?” Panic edged her voice.
“Stay put. Call the cops.” Cort’s head spun. Pain fractured out from where the creep hit him. He heard footfalls down the hallway toward the back of the building.
Shaking off the blow, he pushed to his feet and started toward the sound. Was it running feet or did he hear only the pounding in his skull? He blinked at the gloom ahead, stumbled on the uneven floor. His tiny flashlight scarcely penetrated the darkness and he groped the rest of the way along the wall.
A door banged shut and he surged ahead but smacked into cold metal.
He tore open the heavy door. Rain drenched his face. He sucked in the cool, damp air. Still dizzy, a gong ringing inside his head, he stumbled down metal steps into an alley, dimly lit by windows in surrounding buildings.
Three cars, one of them Mara’s, sat in lined spaces beside a couple of trash containers. Cascading water from a downspout churned a stack of newspapers into a sodden mess.
Nobody.
Dammit, he’d been too late to nab the mugger. Gingerly he touched his aching head and felt a lump beginning to bloom above his left temple. In the bad light, he couldn’t tell blood from rainwater. He searched the alley further, then tromped back inside.
Light spilled from Mara’s apartment onto the tiled floor. She stood in the doorway, hair damp and disheveled, hands knotted in front of her.
Ring of Truth (Devlin Security Force Book 2) Page 3