by Karen Rose
“Sometimes I think the homeowners’ association sits around and makes up stuff to annoy us,” he said and Ike nodded vigorously.
“But it’ll be worth it, just to see the smiles on the kids’ faces when they pet the animals.” The old man’s face creased in a smile. “Stop by.”
“We will. Be careful getting down from that ladder,” he cautioned. “Don’t want a repeat of five years ago.” When Ike had fallen and broken a hip. Waving his good-bye, he made his way up the sidewalk, noting the icy patches. He’d have to salt.
Or use kitty litter. He kept forgetting that salt was now a neighborhood taboo. Either way, he didn’t want anyone falling on his property. One fall could trigger a lawsuit and his entire life would be on review. No, thank you.
He paused to pick up a toy truck and a mini soccer ball, then opened the door. “I’m h—” A small body launched from the middle stair, sailing through the air, into his arms.
“Daddy!”
“Oof!” He bit back a curse at the pain radiating up both arms and hoped he hadn’t popped any stitches. Dropping the toys, he wrapped his arms around the small bundle and made himself smile. “I think you’ve gained about a hundred pounds since this morning.”
Tiny hands grasped his cheeks and big blue eyes stared into his. Like looking into a mirror, every single time. “Santa,” Mikey pronounced seriously.
“Me?” It came out as a surprised squeak. Had he been outed already? He’d been enjoying playing Santa and hadn’t wanted it to end. Not yet.
“No, Daddy.” The oh-so-mature voice came from next to his elbow, and he turned his smile down into eyes as blue as Mikey’s. At seven years old, Ariel was on the cusp of figuring out the holiday myth. “Mama said we could see Santa tonight after church. Mikey’s excited, that’s all.”
Dammit. Church was not going to happen tonight. He had to get out there and find Linnea. He’d only come home to fetch his notebook. It was the only place he wrote anything down. It was old-fashioned paper and ink, unable to be hacked.
But he had a few minutes for his princess, who was always too damn serious. “Only Mikey?” he teased and was rewarded with Ariel’s shy grin. “You’re not excited at all?”
“Well, maybe a little,” she allowed. “You need to hurry. Mama says dinner’s ready.”
Still carrying Mikey, he followed Ariel to the kitchen, where something smelled good. “I’m starving,” he said, settling Mikey into his high chair. “What’s for supper?”
Rita turned from the stove with a smile. “You’re late. Is everything okay?”
He kissed the tip of her nose. “Never better.”
And though he might lie to the entire world, he did not lie to his wife. He dodged the truth like a boxer dodged a flurry of fists, but he did not lie. That way the police—or his enemies—would never be able to question her. She knew absolutely nothing.
So he would have to ensure that “never better” was the truth.
He’d have to silence Linnea before she could turn him in. That meant finding her first, and he had no time to waste. He’d make her come to him.
Which he knew how to do because he made it his business to know everything about everyone with whom he did business, including where they had dinner reservations. Except that hadn’t ended so well, and Fallon and her companion still breathed. He’d be fixing that, too. First priority, however, was Linnea.
“Good,” Rita said. “Sit down and eat before it gets cold. We have to be at church early tonight. For the cantata. You missed choir practice this morning, so you need to be there early tonight for a dress rehearsal.”
Christ. The fucking Christmas musical. He’d nearly forgotten. He’d been planning to ditch the service tonight, but he couldn’t very well do that, could he? It would look bad. Too many people would know that he wasn’t in a place he was supposed to be.
Always have an alibi was his motto, and it had worked for his entire life. So he’d go and he’d sing and then he’d make Linnea show herself.
“Right.” He smiled at his family. “I have one small thing to do and I’ll be right back.” He waited until he was locked in his home office before texting Butch. Busy tonight. Unavoidable. Keep looking for the girl.
Will do. U OK?
Yes. Hold for instructions. Moving a portrait of Rita, he uncovered his wall safe, twisted the dial, then retrieved his notebook. He locked the safe before moving to his desk. He never left the safe open. An open safe was an invitation into his deepest secrets.
The notebook itself would be useless to anyone other than himself. Every entry was written in code and the key was locked away in his brain. He flipped pages until he found the one titled “Linnea Holmes.” Twenty years old, she’d grown up in the Indiana foster care system, her best friends Andy Gold—born Jason Coltrain—and Shane Baird. Andy had been the most useful leverage against her, but he was useless now. Shane, on the other hand . . .
Shane Baird, he texted. Lamarr Hall. Kiesler Univ, Chicago. ASAP. Bring him to me. Alive.
He waited thirty seconds for Butch’s reply. Will take me 5 hrs to drive. ASAP enuf?
No, that was not ASAP enough, not if Linnea had contacted Shane already. Shane might run and his best leverage would disappear. Mike knows a pilot, he texted back. Can get u there in 90 min out of Lunken. Call him. The guy owned his own small jet. He’d flown with him a few times and he’d always been discreet.
Will do.
It would have to be good enough. If all went well, he’d have Shane Baird in his hands by the time the cantata was finished. Shane would make good bait and Linnea would give herself up, just as she had for her precious Andy.
He also knew that finding Linnea would only snip a loose end. There was the bigger, original problem of the botched job in the restaurant. He needed to fix that, ASAP.
He washed his hands and returned to the table to find his little family waiting patiently. “Ariel, do you want to say the blessing tonight?”
She folded her hands. “Yes, Daddy.”
Cincinnati, Ohio
Saturday, December 19, 6:25 p.m.
Meredith shook her head as she entered her house, her grandfather closing the door behind them. A video gaming system, complete with controllers and cords, had taken over her coffee table. “Are you planning on moving back in, Papa?” she asked lightly.
“No way in hell. It’s too cold up here.” He pointed to Diesel, who sat on her sofa reading a manual. “Your bodyguard here is a gamer. I was showing him mine.”
Meredith gave Diesel a weary smile. “Hey, Diesel. You didn’t have to come sit with me, but I’m grateful that you did.”
“Don’t even mention it,” Diesel said. “I mean, seriously, I had to fight the others to take the first shift and I didn’t even know Clarke Fallon was your grandfather. He’s a fucking legend.”
It was true. Clarke Fallon was a superstar among game designers. He’d created a blockbuster game “back in the day,” as he called the 1970s, and had continued creating for decades. Now that he’d retired, he kept busy consulting and mentoring younger designers.
“Do not build his ego,” she teased, then stood on her toes to peck Clarke’s cheek. “I’m going to make some tea. You two want some?”
“Depends. You got any whiskey for it?” Clarke asked.
Diesel snickered. “I really like him, Merry.”
“Of course you do. He’s an oversized middle schooler—just like you,” she said to Diesel, then turned back to her grandfather. “Of course I have whiskey. I was expecting you, Papa. Just not today.”
“I found a cheaper flight,” he said. “I thought I’d told you I’d moved my dates up.”
“If you did, I missed it. Diesel, do you want to join us for tea?”
“Do you mind if I drink it in here?” He gestured at the screen. “He’s beta-testing it. It’s brand-new. I’ve
only read about it so far. I want—” He broke off, blushing.
“You want to play.” She smiled at him, genuinely charmed by his enthusiasm at a new game. He looked younger than she’d ever seen him. “I get it.” And she did. “Go ahead. Play is good for the soul.” She’d built her counseling practice on that belief.
And it was just as well that Diesel sat in the living room for a while. She needed time to settle, to arrange her thoughts before she asked the man to commit a felony for her.
“Smart girl,” her grandfather murmured as he followed her into the kitchen. “I think that boy needs to play more than anyone I’ve met in a long, long time.”
Meredith smiled at the thought of Diesel being called a boy, then her smile dimmed. She wasn’t sure what kind of childhood he’d had, but suspected it had sucked royally. “I think you’d be right. What kind of tea—”
Shit. Meredith’s step faltered. Her refrigerator was covered with pages carefully cut from coloring books and colored in with equal care. Adam’s pictures. She always took them down when she had company, but she hadn’t anticipated today’s events.
Recovering, she put the kettle on. “What kind of tea would you like?”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s just a prop so that I can drink the whiskey without reproach.” He sat at her kitchen table, not saying another word as she worked, but she could feel his eyes on her. Every second. Until she couldn’t take it anymore. She folded her hands on the counter, staring at the kettle, willing it to whistle, her stress building faster than the pressure in the kettle. She was headed straight for a panic attack. She’d already taken one of her antianxiety pills, right before she’d showered in the hotel, because she’d gotten her first good look at her own face. And her soiled hair. She’d nearly lost it right then.
She was about to lose it now. Hands shaking, she reached into her cupboard for the medicine bottle she kept there. She popped another pill and prayed she wouldn’t need more. She’d already taken her limit for the day. She hated taking them at all, but this time of year it got bad. That, and seeing a young man murdered in front of her, she thought bitterly.
And seeing Adam again? That hadn’t helped at all.
She could still feel her grandfather watching her. “What?” she asked petulantly.
“I didn’t say anything, Merry,” was his carefully quiet reply.
“You never had to,” she muttered. “Just like Dad.” Her father could just look at her and make her confess to whatever wrong she’d committed, from breaking a window to sneaking out after curfew. I miss you, Dad.
She could hear the pat-pat-pat of her grandfather’s palms on his sweatshirt and knew what he was searching for. She got his pipe and tobacco from a drawer and put them on the table. “You forgot them the last time you were here.”
“I didn’t forget them. I left them here in case I forgot to bring my kit in the future.”
She went back to preparing the tea, calmed by the pill and the scent of his pipe. Her hands didn’t tremble too much when she took a pot of tea and a glass of whiskey to Diesel, then set one up for Clarke.
She placed her own teapot and cup on the table, then sighed to herself. She couldn’t pretend Adam’s colored pictures weren’t there. He’d sent them for her eyes only. He’d never said so, but Meredith knew it was true. Without a word, she pulled them off the refrigerator, one at a time, stacked them carefully, and placed them in the drawer of the desk where she clipped coupons and organized recipes.
When she sat at the kitchen table, her grandfather was sipping his whiskey, his pot of tea left untouched. “Go ahead and ask,” she said. “I know you want to.”
Clarke shrugged. “Seemed remarkably well done for Hope.”
Hope was her cousin Bailey’s nine-year-old daughter, but Meredith considered the child her niece. “That’s because she didn’t do them.”
“Who is he?”
She blinked at him. “What makes you so sure a man colored those pictures?”
“I wasn’t, till just now.” He puffed on his pipe. “He’s important to you.”
Meredith’s heart hurt. She’d yearned for Adam since she’d first laid eyes on him more than a year ago. She dropped her gaze to her tea. “Yes.”
“But he doesn’t feel the same way.”
I have to explain some things. “I don’t think so. Can you ask me something else?”
“Fair enough,” he said mildly. “Who tried to kill you today?”
Meredith’s chin jerked up in surprise. “I don’t know.”
“But you have a very good idea. Anyone bothering you at work?”
He knew about some of the more blatant threats in the past and she knew they had worried him. But he’d never asked her to stop providing therapy to the kids who so desperately needed someone in their corner. She’d always loved that about him.
“One or two,” she admitted.
“But you didn’t tell the police their names.” He lifted his shaggy gray brows. “Wendi whispers loudly. She wanted me to hear.”
“I couldn’t give names. They haven’t made a specific threat to me.”
Clarke gulped the whiskey, his swallow audible. “But you can tell me their names.”
Her heart stuttered in genuine fear. She didn’t want him to be her human shield and she especially didn’t want him going after the shooter. “I don’t want you anywhere near them. If one of them is responsible for what happened today, it’s a matter for the cops.”
Clarke’s eyes flashed with temper. “Yet you’ve given them no leads.”
“Not true. I told Ad—Detective Kimble that a person existed. And I told him exactly where the person had followed me and when. All the places have surveillance equipment.”
Understanding lit his eyes. “Good girl.”
“Had to tell him twice,” she grumbled. “I wasn’t obvious enough the first time.” The moment that Adam finally had understood might have been comical under other circumstances. She cast a look at the living room. “I might give him a hand.”
“How?”
“I was going to ask Diesel for help.”
“Finally!” Diesel bellowed from around the corner. He appeared in the doorway, the mug of tea she’d given him looking like a child’s cup in his huge hand. He’d tucked his laptop under his arm, his expression even more eager than it had been over the new game.
“I thought you were playing,” Meredith said.
“I was. I was going to give you time to drink your tea before offering my assistance.”
Meredith chuckled. “Sit with us, Diesel.”
He did, casting a quick look at the fridge, which made her cheeks heat. He’d seen them, too. “I liked them,” he said simply. “Especially the waterfall picture. Who colored them?”
“Maybe we can color some,” she said, dodging the question. “It calms me.”
“Huh,” was all he said. “I like lions and tigers myself. I can probably download a few to color, if you’ve got the colored pencils. It calms me, too.” He flexed his big hands. “Kate’s even teaching me to knit.” Opening his laptop, he arched one brow. “I’m ready to investigate anybody who’s bothered you. Names, please.”
Meredith was still staring at him openmouthed. “You knit? Really?”
Clarke’s lips twitched. “Your stereotypes are showing, Merry.”
She closed her mouth with a snap. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Diesel, that was wrong of me.” She eyed his laptop. “This can’t be traced to you or me, right?”
Diesel snorted. “Give me some credit, Merry. I’ve poked around in other people’s servers for Marcus for years and haven’t gotten caught. Not because of anything I did, anyway.”
Her grandfather looked curious, so Meredith explained. “Diesel works for Marcus O’Bannion, who owns the Ledger.”
“The newspaper.” Clarke nodded.
“I subscribe. Read it online every day. Good stuff. Never seen your byline, though, Diesel.”
“I stay in the background,” Diesel said uncomfortably. “I’m IT.”
“Diesel is too modest,” Meredith said, giving the big man’s hand a pat. “The Ledger . . . well, let’s just say they creatively investigate people who should have been punished but who’ve slipped through the legal system. They expose them on the front page. Diesel digs for the dirt. Sometimes he doesn’t get permission before he starts digging.”
Clarke’s eyes widened in open admiration. “You’re a hacker?”
Diesel’s cheeks reddened. It was really kind of cute.
“A very good one,” Meredith confirmed, “or so I’m led to believe. I need this to be discreet, Diesel. And I need you to forget anything you see. No telling Marcus or Scarlett.”
“Who’s Scarlett?” Clarke asked.
“Detective Scarlett Bishop. You met her last time you visited. Tall cop with long dark hair. She’s partnered with Deacon Novak, the FBI guy.”
Clarke nodded. “The one with the really cool eyes?”
“That’s him,” Diesel said. “Scarlett’s cozied up with my boss, so I see her a lot. And I keep a lot of secrets from her, because she’s a fuckin’ cop and I don’t want to go to jail. And no, Merry, I won’t tell you which secrets and I’ll deny I said it if she asks.”
Meredith had opened her mouth to ask exactly that. “Nobody tells me anything,” she muttered instead, making Diesel chuckle.
“You don’t want to know. I don’t snoop on anyone who doesn’t deserve it, but you’re so squeaky clean, you’d feel guilty about not telling the cops.”
“What about me?” Clarke asked. “Aren’t you worried that I’ll tell the cops?”
Diesel shook his head. “You want Meredith safe. I don’t see you turning me in.”
Clarke nodded. “You’re right. I won’t. In fact, I’ll buy you a bottle of twenty-five-year Lagavulin,” he said, but Diesel shook his head.
“You don’t have to do that. I don’t like bullies. Homicidal bullies are even worse.”