by Beverly Long
She did not want to be in the same city with Malone. She’d made a terrible mistake in trusting him. And had almost paid the ultimate price.
She rubbed her ribs. He’d cracked three of them with a well-placed kick after he’d dumped her blindfolded on the floor of his squalid apartment. The doctor had told her that the bones would knit back together quickly but it might take months for the bruising to heal. Every night when she rolled over in bed, it woke her up.
Not that she was sleeping a whole lot anyway.
Maybe that would change in St. Louis. Maybe she could sleep away the next month until she had to testify at the trial. Leaving her job pained her more than anything. She loved her work.
Her clients, most of whom came from disadvantaged circumstances, wanted to work but for one reason or another had trouble securing employment. The assistance she provided took many forms. She taught basic communication skills to some. Took others shopping so that they understood what to wear to work. She’d helped with table manners, organizational skills and conflict management.
It made her day when a client showed up with his or her first paycheck. It made her week when they were still working at that same job three months later. She was over the moon when they celebrated their first anniversary.
Now Harry Malone had taken that away from her. That and more.
She jumped when there was a light tap at the door. “Ready, Ms. Taylor?” the officer asked. Luis had been with her since day one of her captivity and he’d been unfailingly polite.
“I don’t understand why I have to go to St. Louis,” she said for the twentieth time. “This is a big city, a big state. Surely you have other safe houses.”
The older man shrugged. “All I know is that you need to be on the nine-fifteen flight to St. Louis. Maybe it won’t be as hot there.”
In late September, Miami was still stifling hot. Not that she’d been outside much lately. It would be wonderful if they stashed her someplace where she had access to a balcony or a porch.
“Fine. Let’s just get this over with,” she said.
* * *
CHASE MET DAWSON in the front lobby of police headquarters and they rode the elevator in silence. “How’s Mary?” Chase asked as the doors opened.
“She said her ankles have swelled to the size of cantaloupes and her back feels as if a small army of angry men with sharp knives have taken residence.”
“Damn. Want to stay at my place for a few days?”
Dawson shook his head. “I’d have to stay thirty-six days, and if I did that, I don’t think I’d have a happy home to return to once the little princess is born.”
Chase pulled open the heavy door that led them to the interior office. “I don’t like coming here,” he whispered.
Dawson shrugged. “Then, quit doing crazy things that get you noticed by the top brass.”
“I don’t do crazy things,” he denied.
“Five weeks ago, you took a bullet in your thigh and still managed to return fire. You pushed your recovery, got the doc to release you early and came back to work last week. A day later, you walked through a wall of fire. And it was all caught on a cell phone. The newspaper called you a hero and the video played on the evening news—both the six o’clock and the ten o’clock,” he said. “And you hadn’t even clocked in for the day,” he added, sounding exasperated.
It had been early and the two young men had been drag racing on their way to work. He’d just gotten the first guy out of his car when the second car had exploded, potentially trapping the young driver. “You wouldn’t have left that kid to die.”
Dawson smiled at the young woman behind the desk. “Detectives Roy and Hollister here to see Chief Bates.” When she picked up the phone, he turned to Chase. “I wouldn’t have wanted to,” he said, his tone serious. “But I’m not sure I’d have had the guts to do what you did,” he added. “You had to have been concerned that your leg might not hold up.”
He’d considered the possibility. Then ignored it. Those kids were going to have a future. That was what mattered.
The chief only made them wait ten minutes. When they were ushered into his office, Chase was again reminded that Chief Bates was one tough dude. While he was close to sixty, he was six-five, with a barrel chest and a handshake that could bring a man to his knees.
He extended his arm to Dawson. “Detective Roy,” he said. “Good to see you.” He turned toward Chase. “Detective Hollister. How’s the leg?”
“Fine.”
The chief nodded. “Saw you on the news the other day. Nice work.”
Behind the chief, Dawson made a big deal out of rolling his eyes. Chase ignored him.
“Sit, please,” the chief said, pointing to the leather chairs in front of his big cherry desk. “You know what our situation is?”
Chase nodded. “There was a second attempt on Lorraine Taylor’s life.”
“Yes. Malone has access to considerable resources. It’s possible that he managed to organize a hit on her before the Florida police got him picked up. It’s also possible that he did it from jail.”
The words lingered in the air. Good cops hated that there were dirty cops but it was a fact of life. Palms got greased and instructions often made it over the prison wall. Or maybe it had been a visitor who carried messages back and forth. The possibilities really were endless.
Chase leaned forward in his chair. “Could Malone have had an accomplice? Somebody who knew Lorraine Taylor. Knew her because it wasn’t an accident that she was the victim. Maybe she was cherry-picked and when things went badly for Malone and he was picked up, the accomplice slipped into action?”
“It’s possible. But Taylor didn’t see anybody else while she was with Malone or hear him refer to anyone.”
But Malone was smart—nobody was disputing that. He’d managed to kill three women and hide their bodies.
The chief steepled his big fingers together. “It’s even possible that we’ve got some crackpot who somehow managed to find out Taylor’s identity and he or she has decided to finish what Malone started.”
Chase nodded. “I guess the only thing we really know for sure is that we need to keep Lorraine Taylor alive to testify at Harry Malone’s trial.”
“Alive and unintimidated,” the chief corrected. “I’m worried that she’s not going to be a good witness if she’s frightened that her life is in danger. We need her confident. Relaxed,” he added, then had the wherewithal to look a little sheepish. “As much as one can be at a murder trial.”
“What can we do to help, sir?” Dawson asked.
The chief looked at his watch. “Lorraine Taylor’s plane should be touching down in forty-five minutes and nobody has given me an option that I’m happy with.”
Chase took a sideways glance at Dawson. There were a number of safe houses that they used in the city, even a few in West County. Those were the ones he knew about. The chief probably knew of others.
“Her location was compromised in Miami,” Chief Bates said. “I can’t have that happen here. She’s already not happy about coming to the same city where Malone is sitting in jail. I’m thinking of stashing her downstate, maybe Springfield.”
Chase could see the concern on Dawson’s face. He would not want to be hours away from his wife if the baby decided to come early. He waited to see if Dawson would say something. But he didn’t. Chase understood. Turning down an assignment that the chief personally handed you was career suicide.
Chase leaned forward in his chair. He was going to regret this. “My brothers and I own a house in Ravesville. It’s sitting empty right now. It’s a mile and a half outside of town. Only a couple neighbors on the same road. Brick...uh, my stepfather just died.”
The chief’s eyes lit up. “Did you grow up there?”
Chase nodded.
“When did you move away?”
He’d left the day Calvin had turned eighteen, when both of them were legal to be on their own. He’d been twenty-one. “Thirteen years
ago, sir. I went back once, about eight years ago.”
The chief tapped his middle finger on the wood desk. He stared at it. Finally, he looked up. “I like it. We’ll have your file reflect that you’re on personal leave. If anybody asks,” he said, looking at Dawson, “Detective Hollister is dealing with family stuff. Nobody besides the two of you and the few people that I personally involve will have any knowledge of the truth. Nobody else.”
He switched his laser-sharp gaze to Chase. “Congratulations, Detective Hollister. You just got married. Lorraine Taylor can pose as your wife.”
Chapter Two
By the time the plane had landed and Luis was hustling her through the airport, Raney had a headache that wouldn’t quit. They exited into a wall of very warm, humid air.
“I thought the Midwest was cooler than Florida,” she said.
Luis didn’t respond. He was busy looking at his phone. Then he signaled for a cab.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, sounding irritated. “I just got a text with a street address from my contact.”
“That makes me feel very secure,” she said drily. Sweat was gathering between her breasts and the hot sun made her feel sick to her stomach. “You’d think they’d at least spring for a car,” she said grumpily.
Again Luis did not respond, which surprised her. In Florida he’d been polite, almost chatty. He’d been quiet on the plane. Now he seemed edgy. It made her feel off balance.
The cab drove for about thirty minutes before finally pulling into an empty spot behind a brown UPS truck. The driver was out of the vehicle, stacking boxes high on a cart.
It dawned on her that she was just another kind of package. She’d been wrapped up and sent halfway across the country, to be handed off into someone else’s care. And they were going to cart her somewhere else and put her on a shelf for a month.
She looked at the sign in the nearest store window. It was a frozen yogurt shop. At least things were looking up. “Is this it?”
Luis didn’t answer. He was watching the street closely. They got out of the cab and hadn’t walked more than three feet before a big man, probably close to the age her father would have been, fell into step next to them. He had a plastic bag looped over one hand.
He nodded at her and spoke quietly to Luis. Luis extended his hand and the men shook. Luis turned to her. “This is police chief Bates. He’ll take over from here.”
“Great,” she said.
“We’re happy to have you in St. Louis,” the man said. “Thank you, Officer Vincenze.”
Luis nodded at the chief and looked at her. “Good luck,” he said before turning quickly away. He got back into the same cab they’d arrived in. Chief Bates waited until the cab had pulled away from the curb before turning toward her.
“Rest assured that we’re going to keep you perfectly safe,” he said. “Right now we need to get a few things taken care of.”
“What things?” she asked.
“I’ll answer all your questions,” he said. They walked past the frozen yogurt shop. Turned a corner. Walked another block. Turned another corner. Second store in, he stopped. “But first, let’s just step inside here.” He opened the door to what appeared to be a hair salon. The lights inside were dimmed and there were no customers. Just a woman standing behind the high counter.
“Morning, Marvin,” the woman said.
“Ms. Taylor, this is my sister, Sandy. Work your magic, honey,” the chief said to the woman.
The day was getting stranger by the minute.
An hour later, Raney’s shoulder-length brown hair had been chopped off and she was a platinum blonde. Without the heavy weight, her hair had a natural wave that surprised her. She liked that she could tuck the wispy strands behind her ears. She also had to admit that the new hair color made her light blue eyes pop in a way that eye shadow had never managed. It was a startling change and she had trouble taking it all in.
“She’s done,” Sandy said. They were the first words she’d spoken since she explained that she was going to lighten up and trim her hair. Sandy was clearly a master of understatement.
The chief, who had looked ridiculous perched on one of the small chairs in the waiting area, stood up. “Everybody else should be here soon.”
He was right if “everybody” was three men. She could see them through the glass window. One was in his midfifties with a camera around his neck, carrying what appeared to be a big bag of dry cleaning. The second was a handsome black man dressed in a nice gray suit. The third man, and the one who held her attention, was in a tux and carried a small suitcase with him. He was tall.
If Sandy planned to trim him up, she didn’t have much to work with. His dark brown hair was already cut short, maybe not military short but pretty close. It showed off his chiseled good looks.
The chief opened the door and locked it behind them. The room was suddenly filled with testosterone. Raney, who was still sitting in the stylist’s chair, felt at a disadvantage. She stood up quickly, tried to take a step, got the heel of her sandal caught in the lower rung of the chair and pitched forward.
Tuxedo Guy caught her before she landed on her face. His grip on her bare upper arms was secure but light. He gently pushed her upright and she passed within inches of his body.
He smelled delicious, an earthy citrus that evoked images of a tropical rainforest.
“Okay?” he asked, his voice low, sexy. His skin was very tan and his eyes were an odd shade of brown, almost amber.
“Ah, sure,” she managed. She’d been off balance since leaving Florida and the past fifteen seconds hadn’t helped. Who was this man?
“Ms. Taylor,” Chief Bates said. “You need to get changed.”
Huh?
The man with the camera extended his dry cleaning in her direction. She automatically reached out, noting the bag was heavier than it looked.
Sandy pointed to a door. Raney stood her ground. “Maybe you’re thinking that someone has explained to me what’s going on, but nobody has. And I don’t think I’m changing my clothes or anything else until somebody does.”
The black man looked at Chief Bates. Tuxedo Guy was staring at her, and she thought she caught a glimpse of appreciation in his eyes.
“Of course,” the chief said. “I apologize. I’m just anxious to get you to a safe place. This is Officer Henderson. He’s a photographer for the police department. This is Detective Roy and Detective Hollister.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Why do I need new clothes? I have my own,” she said, inclining her head toward her suitcase, which was still sitting near the front door.
“There’s a wedding dress in there,” the chief said. “You need to put it on and Officer Henderson is going to snap a few pictures of you and Detective Hollister as the happy bride and groom. He’s assured me that he’s managed to manipulate the date on his camera so if anyone digs into the pictures, they’ll believe they were taken several weeks ago, on August 15. We’ve filed a license with the county clerk’s office dated that same day in case someone bothers to check. Under a different name, of course.”
She felt her face grow hot. What was this guy smoking? Wedding dress? Marriage license? Different name? “I’m not getting married,” she said. She’d been married. It hadn’t gone well.
Chief Bates looked as if he wasn’t used to people disagreeing with his plans. Detective Roy stepped forward. “Of course not,” he said. “Your cover for the next month while we await Harry Malone’s trial will be as Detective Hollister’s wife. You’ll be living at Chase’s parents’ home in rural Missouri, about two hours from here.”
Her head, maybe feeling light because she’d lost a lot of hair or maybe because she was in an alternate universe, swiveled on her neck. She stared at Tuxedo Guy. “We’re going to be married,” she repeated. “Actually, we’re already married, if the wedding was August 15,” she said, rather stupidly she thought, the minute the words were out of her mouth.
“I guess that’s right,” he said.
“And we’re going to live with your parents?”
He shook his head. “They’re dead. The house is empty.”
She rubbed her forehead. “What’s my new name?” she asked.
Chief Bates stepped forward. “In these types of situations, it’s better if we can keep your first name the same. Less confusion for you. In the event of an emergency, you’ll react to it better. We’ll list your maiden name on the wedding certificate as Lorraine Smith. It’s common enough. Then, of course, you’ll be Lorraine Hollister for the duration of this assignment.”
“Somewhere in Missouri,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Chief Bates said.
She clutched her wedding dress tighter. “I swear to God, if I ever get a chance at Harry Malone, I’m going to kill him myself.”
* * *
THE BLOND HAIR had set him back because it was such a dramatic difference from the picture he’d studied on the way over to the hair salon. In the photo, her brown hair had hung past her shoulders, her face had been pale and her eyes had been dark with fatigue. It had likely been taken the morning that she’d first been interviewed by the Miami police after her ordeal with Harry Malone had ended.
Today, she looked amazing. The hair was sexy, her skin was clear and fresh and her blue eyes were gorgeous. She would make a pretty bride.
Once Chief Bates had determined the plan, they’d swung into action. The chief had left to intercept Lorraine Taylor. Chase had been dispatched home to pack a suitcase and then to the mall to get a tux. He had met Dawson back at the police station and they’d picked up Gavin Henderson, who’d been busy in his own right. He’d been sent home to get his daughter’s recently cleaned wedding dress. All of them, including the chief, had been at her wedding five weeks earlier.
Dawson had managed to pull him aside before they’d piled into the car. “I know why you offered up the house in Ravesville,” he’d said. “And I appreciate it.”
“It’s no problem,” Chase had replied, lying. He hated the idea.
“Newlyweds?” Dawson had needled. “You going to be okay with that?”