Betrayals (Black Cipher Files series Book 2)

by Lisa Hughey

  I didn’t look like myself. Which was the whole point of dressing this way. Anyone who knew me would look right over me.

  Staci Grant was always immaculate. Groomed and polished with a clear patina of money coating everything.

  “I’m really sorry.” He patted my hand again, the gesture in no way sexual. I hadn’t been touched in so long, the skin on skin contact reminded me of Jordan.

  And all that I’d lost.

  “I know.” The need to connect with another human being was strong. I thought about grabbing his hand and just holding onto his warmth for a minute. Just a minute.

  I looked at my trimmed fingernails, my skin a dried husk of what it used to be, my arms stick thin, elbows scrawny, bones clearly visible underneath the little muscle left.

  I was wasting away and couldn’t seem to stop.

  The waitress dropped off the check, topped his coffee and left quickly as if worried about contamination.

  “Why don’t you get a sandwich?” The cop’s gaze was sympathetic. “My treat.”

  “I can’t eat,” I whispered. “Nothing stays down.” I knew I’d given away too much.

  “Is there someone I could call for you?”

  Jordan. My heart wanted to call him. Touch base. My head said there were too many coincidences regarding Jordan. I had to stop thinking about him. About us.

  I had no one. “No. Thanks.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Emotion welled up inside me, more overwhelming than the waves of pain I’d endured when I’d been beaten. I slid quickly from the booth and pulled a crumpled ten dollar bill from my jeans pocket, trying to ignore the trembling in my hand before dropping the money on the table.

  “I’m good.” The answer might have been believable if my voice hadn’t wobbled. Ravini pulled out his wallet, while trying to get up and check on me.

  I had to get out of there. I grabbed my cardigan. “Thanks for your time. I really appreciate it.”

  Talking about my grandparents’ death brought it all back. They were gone. Jordan was gone. I was all alone.

  I had to leave. Now.

  As I rushed away, I glanced back and saw the concern in his eyes turn to suspicion. Hopefully I hadn’t blown it. If he started investigating, my attempts to lay low would be shot to hell.

  If he ran a check on me in the NYPD database, my cover as a college professor and sometime philanthropist should hold. Though he might not be able to reconcile those facts with the woman he’d met today, he’d let the discrepancy go.

  The bigger issue: the check could raise a red flag. The people who were looking for me would be on my ass again.

  Damage control.

  Start acting like the freaking CIA officer you are.

  I headed back toward Ravini and smiled with self-deprecation. “Sorry. My stomach still isn’t recovered from this flu. Do you know where the bathroom is?”

  His suspicion morphed back to sympathy.

  “Over there.” He gestured toward the rear, past the soda fountain and counter. “You want I should wait for you?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll be okay.” The urge to back away from his touch was so compelling, I forced myself to hold out my hand. “I appreciate your help.”

  “One last thing,” he said, in an almost offhand manner. “I found it interesting you weren’t the only one to call me about this case.”

  “Someone else called you?” A desperate fear struck at me. Why would someone else be looking into their deaths? And why now?

  “Yeah. He’s from D.C. too. I’m meeting him tomorrow.” He held my gaze. “It never sat right with me, what happened to them. I won’t mention I saw you today.”

  Protecting me. That’s what he was doing. And I did appreciate it.

  “What was the person’s name?”

  He hesitated.

  And I could tell he wasn’t going to give me that information. The panic bubbled back inside my stomach. “Never mind. Did he say why he wanted to talk to you?”

  He shook his head. “Investigating an old case was all he said.”

  He. At least that gave me a starting point. Super. I could eliminate half the population. “Thanks.”

  “Good luck,” he said quietly. His fingers curled around mine with firmness as he shook my hand.

  I hesitated, once again feeling awkward and not at all like myself.

  Staci Grant was self-possessed, self-assured, and didn’t lack for self-control.

  Somehow I’d lost that Staci.

  I had to get her back.

  FIFTEEN

  October 18

  4:45 pm

  New York City, Times Square

  Jordan wandered around Times Square, figuring he’d gone totally over the edge. Yeah. Come to New York City and just walk around hoping to find your pretty much ex-girlfriend who happened to be with the CIA and could probably hide for years without being found.

  Fuck.

  He leaned against the cold brick siding of some store and let his gaze skim over the chaos of the streets. A bright multi-story panel projected the NASDAQ.

  Further up the street, a layered sign stacked Hershey Bars on top of french fries on top of Cup of Noodles complete with steam rising from the giant cup, all glowing in bright 3-D neon. America’s homage to commercialism in a few square blocks. Nike, NBA, Sephora, Element, Ann Taylor Loft, GAP, Roxy.

  He fought the urge to check his six. He couldn’t shake the feeling he was being followed. Jordan snorted. Right. Followed by the other twenty gazillion tourists in this little slice of Manhattan.

  The aroma of boiled hot dogs, the tang of mustard, the smog from the constant chug of cars on the congested streets, and the grime of daily exhaust streams assaulted his senses. On the sidewalk, bags of garbage waited for pickup.

  A crisp fall wind swept through the tunnel created by the buildings and blew out the scents for a moment.

  Jordan let the honk of horns and the chatter, English, French, Spanish, German, Japanese, Hindu, Mandarin roll through his consciousness, not tracking any one conversation but filtering the snippets.

  A massive stream of humanity in all colors and sizes flowed on the sidewalks. Intermittently a group of Japanese tourists would stop to snap pictures of the spectacle and foot traffic would break and flow around them.

  A bicycle delivery guy with spiked black hair, studded belt, skin tight black pants, bulging black messenger bag, and a Bluetooth receiver clipped to his ear zipped by and turned the corner.

  Through it all, Jordan watched. And waited.

  For nothing.

  He should probably go back to the hotel. He’d been insane to think coming to New York would work. This was a total goatfuck.

  It had been six weeks since he’d seen the report of Staci’s death.

  She was alive.

  She was clearly hiding from someone. She was in trouble. Yet, she hadn’t contacted him, hadn’t asked for his help. If she’d wanted to talk to him or see him, she would have.

  If he could walk away, he would. There was just one little matter. She needed that damn antidote.

  The scientist, Susan Chen, had been adamant that the drug injected into the espionage agents needed to be reversed. Jordan needed to find Staci and get her the antidote.

  But she didn't know she'd had the drug and clearly didn't care that she was evading him.

  Hope that wouldn’t quite die came up with alternative scenarios for why she hadn't contacted him. Maybe the drug had skewed her thought process, maybe she wouldn’t come to him because of the drug. Maybe she was trying to protect him.

  And maybe he was insane.

  She’d been with him before she left for Afghanistan. She’d had the drug in her then, even though he didn't know it and neither did she.

  She’d re-appeared back in the U.S. at least four weeks ago, based on when she got John Wishbone out of the hospital. If she was in trouble, she sure as shit wasn’t coming to him.

  More than anything, that hurt.

&nb
sp; He wanted to be the one she turned to for help. Dammit.

  His mother and his aunt had raised him. But he’d known from age nine, he was the man of the house. The caretaker.

  That was his role.

  With Staci, she’d changed the rules by refusing to let him take care of her. In fact, that was one thing that had attracted him. She could take care of herself.

  Wasn’t that a fucked up reasoning? Did he want to take care of her or did he want her to take care of herself?

  Jordan found himself in front of one of the glittery Broadway theatres. He had no idea which theatre Staci’s grandparents had gone to on the night they died. He wondered if there was some way to find out which theatre they'd attended the night they died. Then he could just stake out that venue. Tomorrow when he met with Detective Ravini he could ask.

  Jordan wandered along Broadway. Remembering the last time he’d been here with Staci, she’d been distant and melancholy throughout their trip. They had been strolling down Fifth Avenue, buying out the sales. She’d been teasing him, “I’m not sure I’ve ever met a man who likes to shop as much as you do.”

  He had more bags than Staci. “I was forced to endure hours of shopping with my mother and aunt.”

  “Really?” She laughed in pure delight. “Bet you hated every minute of it.”

  “Some of their...enjoyment must have rubbed off.”

  “Tell me more.” She threaded her fingers with his.

  “They used to dress up in their best clothes. Me too.” Had to look like they were serious shoppers or the stores would have kicked them out. “My mom and my aunt would try on every fancy dress they could.”

  “Did they buy out the store?”

  “Ah...no. We couldn’t afford it.” His Mama and Tía would be appalled at the amount of money he’d spent in the last two hours. “After spending all day at the mall, they’d buy one small thing, usually on super markdown clearance.”

  And frequently for him. Shit. Why had he never realized that?

  “You didn’t buy anything on super markdown clearance today,” Staci teased.

  “Yeah, and I’ve never seen anyone power shop the way you do.” He gestured toward the bags she was swinging back and forth.

  Staci stopped to check out the window display at Takashimaya. She glanced back from looking at the display of satin-covered hat boxes to throw him a provocative look.

  “I know what I want and I go after it.” Her eyes had sparkled with the most joy he’d seen since they’d gotten to New York.

  He leaned down, his front crowded against her back, invading her personal space. He brushed his cheek against hers, then rubbed his nose in her hair and inhaled the scent of her deep inside.

  The lotion she religiously smoothed into her skin surrounded him and he wanted to drown in scent. “How do you always smell so amazing?”

  “Female stuff.” She laughed again and twirled away from him, heading into the next store without even looking.

  As soon as she got through the revolving door, Staci stopped dead. Right behind her, he saw the hesitation, the sudden dejection in her posture.

  So he moved closer and did the only thing he could think of. “You know, few places strike fear into the heart of a happily single man, but a jewelry store does the trick.”

  She’d laughed, as he’d known she would and grabbed his hand. He let himself be dragged over to the display cases of silver, gold, platinum and precious stones.

  Staci traced a finger over the glass case of delicate platinum bands with aquamarines. Once again her expression turned reflective.

  “Everything okay?” He rested his hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently.

  “My grandmother loved Tiffany’s.”

  She fingered the anniversary band on her right ring finger. “Every time we came to the city, we’d come in here and my grandfather would bitch and complain. And every time we’d walk out with a blue box, and my grandfather would have the biggest....”

  She paused, swallowed. “Smile. The biggest smile on his face.”

  The sadness on her face tore him apart. He’d give anything to get back that silly mood. So he leaned down and growled in her ear, “I know what would put a smile on my face...and it won’t cost a thing.”

  She’d laughed again and they’d raced for the door. Their hotel, the Pierre, was only a block away....

  Someone bumped Jordan’s shoulder, bringing him back to the present. As Jordan looked around Times Square, he realized he’d seen the same bicycle delivery guy at least three times in the last hour.

  Could be this was his delivery territory, but as Jordan mentally flipped through the times he’d seen the guy, he realized that the shape of the bag hadn’t changed.

  Suddenly the Bluetooth took on a totally different meaning. He was communicating with a partner.

  After bicycle guy zipped by, he must hand surveillance off to someone else. That someone must still be around. Jordan slowed, then stopped to look in a store window with the ubiquitous ‘I heart NY’ t-shirts and mugs. Pretending to look over the merchandise, he checked the reflection in the glass for anyone paying too much attention to him.

  Shit.

  He strolled casually along until he came to a tiny noodle shop. Wandering inside, as if he had all the time in the world, he looked over the menu, thought about his options, and wondered who the hell could be following him.

  If the CIA had learned he’d been asking discreet questions about Staci, they could be doing surveillance on him.

  The senator?

  That reasoning made a twisted sense. If so, the man was certifiable. Following Jordan wouldn’t get him the information he wanted. Our tax dollars at work.

  Jordan gave the guy behind the counter a twenty, and asked for the back way out. Easing through the kitchen, he passed the chef, bent over a giant pot of steaming soup. The aroma of chicken broth, egg drops, and spicy peppers gnawed at his gut. He hadn’t eaten since early this morning.

  Jordan ignored his stomach’s complaint, slid out the back, and crouched next to a dumpster.

  No one followed.

  Didn’t mean they weren’t behind him. If he didn’t spook out of here soon, whoever watched the front would be inside and bribing the counter guy just like Jordan.

  He came out the alley, hugged close to the buildings, and tried to make his silhouette smaller while keeping a lookout for bicycle guy.

  He’d thought if he’d hung around Times Square he’d have a better chance of seeing Staci.

  Jesus, what had he been thinking?

  Too many possible routes, too many theaters to keep track of, too many people, too many options. Guess the manzana didn’t fall too far from that tree. He was insane.

  This endeavor was futile.

  He’d have better luck staking out the lobby of the Waldorf than wandering aimlessly around Times Square. Jordan headed back toward the hotel.

  His heart stopped.

  Staci.

  Ba-bump. Ba-bump. His heartbeat double-timed. Babump-babump-babump.

  Ridiculous. He couldn’t possibly just run into her on the street, could he?

  The woman wore faded jeans and a worn sweater in a shade of green Staci wouldn’t be caught dead in.

  Her shoes were dirty Converse high tops. Staci wore Italian leather.

  The woman’s hair was in a ragged, black pony tail, over-processed with split ends and streaks of wildly contrasting blond and red. Staci was always perfectly groomed, her hair a shiny, healthy mass.

  Besides, the woman was thin to the point of starvation. Staci had at least fifteen pounds on her.

  Yet Jordan couldn’t shake the hope it was Staci.

  You’re losing it, man. He was so desperate, he was seeing her everywhere.

  He wanted to run. But he wasn’t sure if he wanted to run toward the woman or away. Unable to help himself, he sidled closer.

  He checked his six constantly, looking for the tail. On the streets, bicycle guy was conspicuously absent. No o
ne else raised suspicion.

  Of course, he’d only spotted the first tail after forty-five minutes.

  Jordan continued to follow the woman, moving at an even speed, slowly gaining.

  Jesus, she was thin.

  Within five feet of her, he knew he’d gone totally insane.

  The closer he got, he could see the jeans practically hung off her frame. Her hair was wrong. Everything about her was wrong.

  Except the gentle curve of her neck.

  He stared at the curve and the feeling in his gut intensified. His heart pounded in his chest, a primal drumbeat. And right up there on the weird-o-meter, he caught the edge of the scent of gardenias.

  The woman stumbled slightly, caught herself.

  She was drunk.

  She wove back and forth, nearly falling, until a crack in the sidewalk finished her off. Jordan lunged forward to catch her. He scooped his arms around her stomach, and she flopped forward like a rag doll then started to struggle.

  “Leggo o’ me.” The woman’s harsh curse echoed in his ear.

  He pulled back to find his own balance before letting her go.

  Alcohol fumes poured off her enveloping him in a suffocating cloud. Or maybe reality was suffocating him.

  Not Staci.

  Not even fucking close. The curve of her neck. Jesus, he really was losing it.

  “Sorry, ma’am.” He released her. “Just trying to save you from falling.”

  “Pervert.” She stumbled away, muttering.

  Save her.

  That’s what this trip was all about. Saving Staci.

  But the truth was evident. She didn’t want or need to be saved. She didn’t want or need him. If she needed him, she would have contacted him.

  What a total waste of time.

  Jordan headed toward the Waldorf, his steps slow and heavy. About two blocks from the hotel, he saw the sign. Murphy’s Irish Pub in gold scrollwork across a small, cheerless window.

  But the light behind the window was warm, and the place reminded him of Staci. When they’d been in New York, they’d stopped in at this exact pub for a drink. He remembered thinking the tavern, a little bit run down, an odd place for her.

  But she’d insisted.

  And been a little bit melancholy the entire time.