The floor had stopped shaking, but Callie had not. Mac slid an arm over her shoulders, pulled her close, and she wrapped her arms around his waist and held tight. Like Nash, he seemed to take the explosion in stride.
“Car bomb?”
“Indeed. He tried to jack the code to get into the garage, so we trapped him in the tunnel. Seth set it up. Baffles on top of baffles. You can’t prevent the ground tremor, but you can keep the building from coming down around your ears. But we don’t have time to chat. The insulation keeps the noise down, but this is a residential neighborhood. Someone will have called the police. So, Callie, if you’ll get your purse?”
She reluctantly detached herself from Mac’s solid stability and retrieved the bag from the bedroom. Nash ran the scanner over it. A high-pitched whine indicated that it had found something, and he pressed a button on the device. A second later, the noise stopped.
“Useful,” said Mac.
“Come to work for HSE and you, too, can play with all the cool toys. But we have to get a move on. There are wigs, hats, things like that in the bags of clothes Lexie left in the bedroom. Put something on. We have to take you out of the building, and I don’t want you recognizable when you leave. There are also vests.”
It took Callie a moment to realize he meant bulletproof vests. Once she did, her teeth began to chatter.
“D-do you really th-think we’ll need those?”
Nash didn’t meet her eyes. Instead, he shared a look with Mac, who grabbed her hand and tugged her into the bedroom.
“Come on, sugar,” he coaxed, voice dark and soothing, “let’s see what lovely Lexie bought for you.”
He pulled some jeans and a T-shirt out of a shopping bag, then a pair of panties and a bra. The sight of the underwear—plain, practical, white cotton without a scrap of lace—in his large, dark, scarred hand sent a frightening shock of awareness through her. She swallowed hard and battled it back, concentrating on the mundane.
“How did she know my size?”
Mac laughed hoarsely, clearing his throat before he spoke. The sudden intimacy had obviously affected him, too. “I’d lay odds that was Trav’s doing. He’s a ladies’ man. Probably had your measurements down before you set foot on The Tramp.” He handed her the clothes, then dug back through the bag, coming up with two wigs. “You want to be black or blonde?”
Remembering Nikki’s long fall of blond hair, Callie took the black wig and retreated to the bathroom.
She shucked off the clothes she’d been wearing for what seemed like a week, then pulled on the underwear and T-shirt. Unfortunately, no matter how she tried, she couldn’t get into the jeans; Travis had sussed out her 34C bra correctly, but she hadn’t worn a size six jean since . . . well, not since she’d broken off with Theo after her father’s death. And wasn’t that just the confidence builder she needed at this very moment? The memory of Theo, the perfectionist thoracic surgeon, who’d proposed to her despite constantly finding fault with her weight, her hair, her style of dress.
“Get a move on,” she heard Nash shout. The regular lights flickered back to life, and she gave up on the jeans. Poking her head out the bathroom door, she asked Mac to pass her the shopping bag. Inside, she found a loose, ankle-length bohemian-style skirt with an elastic waist. It wouldn’t be as easy to move around in as pants, but at least it fit and didn’t rub against her bruised hip. She pulled her hair into a tight knot at the base of her skull and yanked the wig over it.
She emerged to find Mac holding out a bulky black vest in one hand and a blue nylon windbreaker with a big New York Yankees insignia on the back in the other. He was already wearing a similar set of clothes, along with a Yankees baseball cap pulled low over his forehead. She slipped the vest over her head and tightened the straps around her waist.
“It’s heavy, I know,” he said, “but you’ll get used to it.” She doubted the truth of his statement but settled the awkward covering on her shoulders as comfortably as possible. He helped her on with the jacket, and they rejoined Nash in the foyer.
“You know the city, right?” She nodded. “Good. Lexie got you two a room at the DoubleTree Suites in Times Square. You’re registered as Joshua and Kathleen Marsh.” He handed each of them a credit card with the Marsh name. “You do the check-in. Even with the hat, the scar makes Mac’s face too memorable.
“A crowd is gathering, so it’s time we joined the party on the sidewalk.” Nash handed Callie a MetroCard, the ticket to the New York City subway system. “Slip away when you can. If you can get a taxi, it’d be safer than the subway, but have them drop you at the TKTS booth or something, not the hotel, just in case anyone asks.” He led them out of the apartment and down the hall. They jogged down the stairs, Nash’s voice echoing slightly as he spoke to Mac.
“Call me when you get checked in. Before this guy showed up, we found an interesting connection between the Steeles and your in-laws, but I don’t want to get into it until we have plenty of time to hash it out. Despite Seth’s setup, I’m not certain we can hide the fact that the explosion came from here, so I suspect I’ll be tied up for a while.”
Callie stumbled, her sore hip knocking into the railing, but Mac caught her before she fell. “The guy who did this,” she coughed, almost unable to voice the words. “Is he alive?”
“Unfortunately not.” They reached the landing for the second floor, the public access area, and Nash pulled the door open. “Step off here for a minute. We can’t talk privately in the stairway.” When the door closed behind them, he held up a hand to silence Callie’s questions.
“Guy breaks in, expecting to park the car under the building, get to a safe distance, then detonate. No idea yet how big a blast he expected. Maybe the bomb was designed to bring down the whole building, maybe just to send all the residents running into the street, where you’d be easy prey. Either way, when the gate came down behind him and the one at the bottom of the ramp didn’t open, trapping him in the tunnel, he panicked. Lexie has that part on video. When I came to get you, he was standing outside the car, trying to figure out what to do. That tunnel has other . . . features. If he’d been alone, he’d have been unconscious in a couple minutes and we’d have gone in after him. Unfortunately for him, he had a partner, or an employer, who was willing to sacrifice him so he couldn’t answer our questions.”
“The partner smelled the trap and detonated with him still in the tunnel,” said Mac.
“Looks that way.”
Callie could feel hysteria bubbling through her system, emerging as a tiny squeak of sound in her throat.
Mac grabbed her shoulders, turned her to face him. “Look at me. Callie. Look at me.” She did, focusing on his eyes. Once searing hot, they were now utterly cold. “That man would have killed you, killed every innocent person in this building just to get to you, to us, without hesitation. You have to remember that.”
But she couldn’t seem to. “W-what if h-he h-had a w-wife? A f-family?”
Some of the chill left Mac’s gaze, and his voice went low, soft, persuasive. “Then they’re better off without him. A man who’d blow up an entire city block for money, he couldn’t be a good husband, a good father. He wouldn’t have it in him. Right?”
She found herself nodding.
“So shut him out. We have to concentrate on getting you somewhere safe, where we can figure out exactly what is going on.”
She nodded again, which Nash took as his cue to open the stairway door and begin hurrying them downstairs once again. They exited the stairway into a small lobby, no different from hundreds of others in Manhattan. A man in a doorman’s uniform stood chatting with a young couple near the street entrance while several others milled around. Police cruisers and fire trucks had pulled up outside, and multi-hued flashes of light strobed through the plate-glass windows.
“Any problems, Ted?” Nash asked the uniformed man.
“
No, sir.” Pale green eyes flashed over her and Mac in a single, comprehensive glance. Doorman, my ass, Callie thought. Ted was another HSE operative.
Lexie approached them. “Seth is still in the tunnel,” she said with a brief nod of greeting. “There’s no damage visible from the street, so if we can keep people out of the building, no one has to know this was the source of the blast. With enough manpower, Seth can get the damage hidden within six to eight hours, completely repaired with no trace left behind within a couple of days.”
“Good enough. Get him whatever he needs. Let’s go outside and make ourselves available. Mac, Callie, hang behind and take off when you can. I’ll catch up with you later.”
Nash opened the front door, and everyone in the lobby began to drift outside. Mac took Callie’s hand and towed her along, exiting the building behind the couple who had been with Ted when they’d arrived. Mac kept them close to the building, moving from one cluster of people to the next. Callie spoke a few words every time they shifted groups, Mac remaining silent, his right side toward each new group to prevent his scar from drawing unwanted attention.
Minutes seemed hours, but eventually they reached the subway entrance. Even sitting on the train, however, Callie could not relax, and when a transit officer entered their car, seemingly intent on memorizing the faces of all the passengers, panic welled up in her chest. Mac had seated himself to her right so he could hide his ruined cheek by facing her, but the window behind their seats acted as a mirror—should the officer glance at it, he’d notice the unmistakable scar.
As nonchalantly as she could, Callie raised her right hand and laid it along Mac’s face, carefully masking the scar tissue. His body tensed as she used her hold to urge him toward her. His mouth met hers and she whispered “Cop” against his lips, hoping the single word would suffice as explanation.
Whether it did or not, she had no time for more, as Mac took control of the kiss, and the same hungry heat she’d felt earlier rushed back through her. The man could kiss. His left arm, which had rested along the seat back behind her shoulders, now cinched her against him, his hand cupping the back of her head. His right hand mirrored her own, sliding along the side of her face, both hiding her features and holding her in position. He sucked her lower lip between his teeth and bit down gently, and Callie felt a rush of wet heat soak her new panties. She wanted to climb into his lap then and there, take the ride all the way to the end, but he drew away.
“Our stop, I think.” His voice was as low and uneven as the rumble of the train itself. How he’d managed to catch the announcement she had no idea.
Shaking with embarrassment and need, unable to look at him or any of the other passengers, she allowed him to take her hand and help her off the train.
As Nash had recommended, Callie checked them in while Mac ducked into the men’s room in the hotel lobby, where he would not be noticed. By the time he met her at the bank of elevators, Callie had managed to regain some of her composure.
“We’re in 706,” she said, handing him a key card as they let a crowd of tourists sweep them into the elevator car. They remained silent while the car rose, disgorging passengers on both the fourth and fifth floor before opening onto the seventh for them.
The moment they entered the room, Mac used his cell to call Nash, who would ring them back, Callie assumed, from yet another prepaid cell so no record would exist tying him to the hotel.
“Why don’t you take a shower,” Mac suggested as he hung up. “It’s been a long day.”
“It has. I just wish we’d brought the new clothes your friend organized for us.”
“He’ll bring them. Checking in with only shopping bags looks too suspicious, and we didn’t have time to round up suitcases.” At her puzzled expression, he explained. “We talked it over while you were changing.”
“So he’ll be here tonight?”
“If he can get away. With the escalation, there doesn’t seem to be time to waste.”
Callie shook her head. “Don’t you ever sleep?”
“Adrenaline.” Mac smiled wryly. “You may be exhausted, but if you were to lie down on that bed right now, I doubt you’d be able to close your eyes.”
“I’ll just hop in the shower, then,” Callie replied, hoping he wouldn’t notice the blush that had begun to rise the moment he’d said the word “bed.” What was wrong with her? So the guy was sexy as hell. She had more important things to worry about.
***
When the bathroom door closed behind Callie, Mac drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to ease the tension in his muscles. What the hell was the matter with him? He’d lost control on the train, so intent on the woman in his arms he’d barely heard the conductor announcing their arrival at Times Square.
And that after he’d admitted to her things about himself—and his relationship with Nikki—he’d never admitted to another person. He’d barely recognized the thrill-seeking behavior that had drawn them together himself. He paced the room for a couple of minutes, flipped on the TV, then sat at the desk to make a list of the things he wanted Nash to get him.
The knock at the door came sooner than he expected, not even twenty minutes after their arrival. Callie was still in the bathroom, though the shower had cut off and he could hear the hair dryer buzzing. He took the sack of women’s clothes Nash had with him and tapped on the bathroom door. When Callie peered out, shielding her towel-wrapped body as much as possible behind the door, he handed her the bag.
As well as clothes, Nash had brought a laptop-computer setup complete with printer, and two large thermoses full of coffee. While they waited for Callie to finish up, Nash poured mugs full of the steaming brew for all three of them and laid them on the table in the sitting room of the suite, and Mac set up the laptop on the desk.
When Callie emerged, she was wearing the same outfit she’d had on earlier, minus the vest, which reminded Mac to take off his own. Some cops he knew complained that the things were hideously uncomfortable, but he’d never noticed. Perhaps it was because of the Army training, where he’d become accustomed to wearing and carrying far bulkier, more awkward items.
Nash settled in the armchair next to the small coffee table, leaving Mac and Callie the couch.
“So tell me about the Steeles and the Lewises,” Mac said as soon as everyone was seated. “What kind of deal did they have going?”
“Do you remember what the press dubbed Ed Steele before he was arrested?”
“The gift rapist,” Callie said promptly.
Nash looked at her in surprise. “Do you remember why?”
“Because he told the women they should be happy that he’d selected them, that he was a gift from God.”
What a sick fuck. Mac hadn’t had a chance to read through all the papers himself, and he’d forgotten that aspect of the rapes.
“Ed Steele grew up believing himself to be special. His parents repeatedly told him he was, literally, a miracle child, a gift from God. Financial records show payments to three separate fertility clinics before his conception, including—at the end—Mark Lewis’s Miami office.”
“Hell,” said Mac, a sick feeling settling in his gut, “I know where you’re going with this.”
“Mark Lewis wouldn’t have been the first fertility doctor to use his own sperm to inseminate a woman if her husband’s wasn’t doing the trick, nor would he have been the last. Probably the most famous was Cecil Jacobson, in the eighties. He was convicted of many crimes, but there was only one case where they found the genetic evidence he’d substituted his own sperm for a patient’s husband’s. In most of the cases, the women had signed up to receive sperm from anonymous donors. Since he claimed that one instance to have been a lab mistake right to the end, never admitting that he did it on purpose, we have no way of knowing the psychology behind the act.”
“You’re telling me that Mark Lewis might be my bi
ological father?” Callie’s voice was strained, and lines bracketed her lips. Without thinking, Mac reached for her hand and warmed it between his own.
“It’s a good possibility.” Nash kept his tone matter-of-fact, but Mac could see the anger seething below the smooth mask. He knew his own expression mirrored Nash’s.
“John Lewis said his father was a name-dropper,” Callie offered. “If he wanted famous clients, he’d have to keep up a good success rate.”
“And Lewis would be reluctant to tell a famous client like Ephraim Steele that his sperm wasn’t viable, which is likely what the other doctors the Steeles saw said. So when Polly got pregnant, they called Ed their miracle baby.”
“And Lewis their miracle doctor,” Mac remarked, slotting the various pieces into place.
“The Masters family hasn’t spoken to the police about fertility treatments,” Nash continued, “but the incidence of fraternal twins is high in IVF, as it is when women take fertility drugs.”
“What does any of this matter, though? Mark Lewis is dead.” Callie shook her head. “So he was a criminal, and he conned a lot of people; his good reputation might have been enough for him to kill for, but surely not for anyone else to?”
“If you’re all his biological heirs, you all have claims against his estate. Unlike ours, the French legal system specifies exactly how much of the estate has to be held for biological heirs. And when an estate is worth hundreds of millions of dollars, which Lewis’s was by the time he died, that’s a damn good reason for murder.”
“So John Lewis could be killing off his father’s other children.” Mac watched Nash closely. “But you don’t think that’s all there is to it, do you?”
“No.”
“Finish it, then.”
“Thirty years ago, adoption services focused on ‘matching’ a child to parents of the same religious, ethnic, and cultural background, and they liked to keep track of adoptees. So your parents, Callie, with their traveling and the fact that they came from different backgrounds, much like the Corys, would have been considered unstable and bad bets as far as legal adoption went.
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