by Ryan, Jenna
“You think Maco—or whoever—would be on Lugo’s contact list?”
“No, but it’s a place to start. No one’s found his client list yet.”
“I assume the police have searched his office.”
“Office and home. My former client—his former partner—still vouches for him.”
As the number of shops and restaurants around them began to dwindle, Darcy pointed to a park entrance across the street. “Come on. We can check out the painters’ exhibit and the flea market. There’s also a band shell, a carousel and, if we’re lucky, a puppet show.”
When he didn’t respond, she sighed. “Enterprise to Captain Kirk. Are you still running swiped laptop info in that overactive brain of yours?”
He sent her a sideways glance. “For your information, it was Spock, not Kirk, who had the overactive brain.”
“You don’t give us Earthlings much credit, do you, Marlowe? The rise to captain in any field of endeavor takes a great deal of brainpower.” She regarded him in profile. “As a point of interest, how high did you rise in yours?”
“Lieutenant in the homicide division.”
There was a rough edge to his voice that intrigued her. Before she could question it, he gave a humorless laugh.
“Yeah, I was all about murder once. Gang related, random, premeditated, crimes of passion—you name it, I investigated it.”
She tread carefully. “In New York?”
“New York, Chicago, L.A. That’s where I met Val.”
“You met Val in Los Angeles?” For some reason, a chill danced along her spine. She shook it off. Almost. “When was that, exactly?”
He gave her another shrewd sideways look. “I know what you’re thinking, Darcy, but Val’s a good cop. Screwed-up, sure, but that’s a personal thing.”
“Uh-huh, and no cop has ever sold out for personal reasons—She stopped herself and shot him an apologetic look. “That was totally out of line. He’s your friend. You know him. I’m just looking for—well, anything, really. Give me another twenty-four hours, and I’ll start questioning the principles of my godmother.”
“Who’s out of the running because…?”
She laughed. “To start with, Nana lives in Geneva. She fosters abused pets and troubled teens, and she’s an ordained minister.” Darcy turned away from the cluster of flea market tents where couples and families wandered. “Uh, Marlowe? There’s a guy back there, wearing a Yankees cap. I think I saw him when we bought our hoagies.”
“You did.”
“Is he following us?”
“Let’s keep walking and see. What’s that flickering through the trees?”
Setting trepidation aside, she smiled. “Let’s keep walking and see.”
She noticed that he stayed half a step behind her now.
“I still think it’s Frankie Maco who’s after me,” she said over her shoulder. “If it isn’t, though, and someone else wants me dead, that might be an even creepier prospect.”
“Beware the enemy you know. Beware more the enemy you don’t.”
“Well, there’s a comforting cliché.” She led him through a stand of chestnut and willow trees to the source of the flickering.
An amused brow rose. “An outdoor movie?”
“Like a mini drive-in, without the steamy car windows and bad sound.”
As she spoke, the screen exploded with action. Guns blasted, bodies dropped, blood flowed. Darcy looked back, but saw nothing except shadows and trees.
As more gunfire erupted on-screen, she swore she heard a bullet zing past her ear. But that was impossible. Wasn’t it?
Six feet ahead, a woman on a blanket jumped to her knees. More shots rang out, and this time, Darcy heard a thwack as a bullet hit bark.
She twisted her head. “Where—”
It was all she got out. A second later, she was on the ground with Marlowe on one knee beside her.
“Stay down,” he ordered. His eyes scanned the deep areas of shadow beyond the screen.
A moment later, everything went crazy. Rapid gunfire burst from the speakers. Darcy couldn’t distinguish between terrifying reality and clever Hollywood magic.
“There.” Marlowe had already yanked his own gun from his waistband. He kissed the top of her head. “Don’t move,” he said and took off.
The woman who’d jumped up pivoted awkwardly. Several other people did the same.
A shot ricocheted off the tree behind her. The woman screamed. For a moment, Darcy met her terrified brown eyes.
Then the woman screamed again—and dropped like a rag doll to the ground.
MARLOWE CUT BETWEEN the shooter and Darcy. Two more shots flew by him, so close that he heard the air move as the bullets rushed past his head.
Grainy film light dissolved to black and the trees morphed into grotesque silhouettes. Marlowe’s eyes adjusted. Adrenaline pumped through his veins.
Ahead and slightly to his right, a row of lights illuminated a narrow path. He spied the man in the Yankees cap and knew the man had spotted him.
Bringing his gun up, he fired. Missed. The man leaped out of the glow and pounded along a second path, presumably toward the heart of the park.
Marlowe concentrated on the burn in his shooting arm where the first bullet fired had grazed him. Better him than Darcy, he reflected. If blood was some kind of payback, he’d take it. Then he’d catch the bastard who’d pulled the trigger and dump his sorry ass on Val’s doorstep.
It would be over. Another name change, another lifestyle shift, and Darcy would be safe. Val would be back in his captain’s good graces, and Marlowe could return to Soho where he belonged.
He heard a grunt ahead and veered toward it. He was running blind, nothing to go on except sound.
No more bullets whizzed past, no more shadows stirred.
His only option was to stop. And wait. Listen.
Something rattled to his right. It didn’t sound like keys or feet on a grate, but there was metal involved, and it struck a familiar chord.
Keeping his eyes in motion and his gun angled skyward, he moved forward.
The rattle reached him again. This time it didn’t stop.
Whipping around, he saw a large, heavy object barreling toward him out of the darkness.
HE LEFT THE PATH TO run across the grass, swearing with every angry step. He’d hiccupped when he’d pulled the trigger. His muscles had gone spastic and he’d missed.
It was supposed to be simple. Sneak in, fire, fade to black. But it hadn’t gone down like that.
He spied a shape ahead, moving like a turtle and pushing something with wheels. Was it a woman? Hard to tell, but whatever it was, it looked old and dirty.
Sorry, lady, he thought, but in the words of The King, I’m gonna leave you all shook up. No fear, though, it’s for a good cause. Gotta get Darcy, shake her up, too. Gotta do what it takes to make the dream come true.
With a song thumping in his head, he moved to intercept the shape, frozen now on a rough patch of grass. She didn’t know it, but for tonight at least, this filthy old woman was going to be his good-luck charm.
Chapter Five
“Someone shot at you Saturday night? Seriously?” Elaine stared at Darcy across her antique cherrywood desk. “Are you sure the bullet wasn’t a stray?”
Although she wanted to pace, Darcy settled on the arm of the sofa. “I’m sure.”
“Yes, but…Oh, crap.” Elaine grimaced as someone approached her office. “I recognize those footsteps.”
Darcy refused to laugh at her editor’s expression. “Trace?”
“Wanna bet he heard about your little adventure?”
On cue, a gangly man in his mid-twenties threw the door open. “I heard you got shot.”
When he set a hand on the back of the sofa, Darcy fought the urge to lean away.
“We’re busy here, Trace,” Elaine called out from her desk. “I suggest you go back to the art room and work on stunning me with some innovative concept for whatever
issue you people are currently working on. Assuming you’re actually working and not frittering away your time playing PartyPoker.”
Ignoring Elaine’s glare, Trace edged closer to Darcy. “Are you sure you’re not hurt? I could, you know, come by your place later.” He winked. “Give you a thorough going-over.”
“Oh, God.” Darcy hid the softly uttered words behind a smile and got ready to intercept his hand. “That’s…thoughtful of you, Trace, but I have plans tonight.”
“With a man,” Elaine put in, then blanked her expression at Darcy’s vexed look.
Darcy slid from the sofa. “I need coffee. Anyone else?”
“Nine’s still my morning limit, kiddo.” Elaine folded her arms while Trace struggled with an unbecoming blush.
It was one of those awkward life moments, Darcy reflected, closing the door behind her. She didn’t want to go out with Trace, but she didn’t want to hang around and watch Elaine grind him into dust, either. Especially when the grinding related to her.
At lunchtime on a sweltering August afternoon, the magazine offices were virtually devoid of workers. Given the circumstances, Darcy wished she’d joined the exodus. But who’d had time for food? Elaine had been on a rampage, and the morning had been a mad jumble of police questions, postponed interviews and, unfortunately, injury checks.
The first and most significant had been the bullet graze on Marlowe’s bicep. Thankfully, not serious. The second involved a homeless woman who’d sprained her ankle and bumped her head when she’d attempted to stop someone from stealing her overstuffed shopping cart. The third was the woman watching the outdoor movie who’d fainted when she’d realized what was happening.
Darcy brewed a fresh pot of coffee and tried not to hear the conversation taking place across the room. But even with the door closed, Elaine came through loud and clear.
As always, she went straight for the throat.
“Unlike you, Trace, Darcy doesn’t eat, sleep and breathe video games. Take the hint. She’s not interested.”
Trace bumped up the volume. “You might be my boss, Elaine, but that doesn’t give you the right to insult me.”
“It does when you burst into my office unbidden and unannounced.”
Darcy could almost see the anger crackling in the air between them.
“You’re saying I shouldn’t care if she lives or dies?”
“I’m saying you should look at her and every other woman in this establishment as a coworker and nothing more.”
A whiny note crept in. “I’m not a bad person, Elaine.”
“Bad, no. Screwed up, yes.”
“I’m not…”
Elaine’s exasperation was unmistakable and made Darcy wince. “For God’s sake, Trace, you shook your mother until her teeth nearly rattled out, then spent the rest of the night sobbing in a jail cell. Don’t you crumple your face at me. You shook her because she went out with a man who wore a pin-striped suit and two gold rings. Somehow that made him a pimp in your eyes. I swear, if you weren’t somewhat valuable to this magazine, you’d be long gone. Now get back to your cubbyhole and leave Darcy alone. She has enough problems without you adding to them.”
When Trace emerged, he looked as if he wanted to do more than shake Elaine. But then his breath heaved out and his shoulders slumped. His footsteps slowed but because his focus was off, he didn’t notice the door open and Marlowe come in. A collision was inevitable and had Trace fumbling to apologize. Until he realized it was a stranger. “Who are you?” he demanded belligerently.
Darcy snagged his arms. “Trace Grogan, Damon Marlowe.” After the introduction she steered Trace out. “Deadline’s looming, Trace, and lunch break ends in ten.”
Clearly suspicious of the new arrival, Trace nevertheless let her bulldoze him into the corridor and point him toward the elevator bank.
As he plodded away, she shuddered in revulsion.
“He’s got a record.”
She nearly jumped at the sound of Marlowe’s voice. “Who does?” Then she did a double take. “Trace? What did he do?” She knew his mother hadn’t pressed charges after their incident.
Darcy set a palm on his chest. “Please tell me Trace isn’t some crazed freak who might decide to go postal one day.”
“Nothing quite so dramatic.” Removing her hand, Marlowe ran a light thumb over her knuckles. “He assaulted a man at a picnic.”
The lower half of her arm tingled. While the sensation fascinated her, she kept her focus. “I know he’s volatile and really messed up, but I’ve never actually seen him challenge a man before.”
“This particular man criticized a layout he did for an ad campaign.”
“That must have been for a previous employer.”
“He’s had several. This was three back from the magazine.”
“I’d like to say I’m surprised, but I’m not. Anything else?”
“The guy who got pounded happened to be involved with Grogan’s cousin.”
“Let me guess. The guy he assaulted was a cop, right?”
Marlowe shook his head. “CEO of a statewide fast-food chain. It’s not the guy Grogan hit who’s significant. It’s the cousin.”
She felt a sucker punch coming, but couldn’t deflect it. “Who’s the cousin, Marlowe?”
“Trace Grogan’s cousin is your boss, Elaine.”
TRACE AND ELAINE. COUSINS. The word yuck came to mind and stuck, even after three long hours of repeat interrogation at police headquarters.
Darcy spent most of the afternoon downtown. Which was probably a good thing, since it gave her time to absorb what Marlowe had told her.
Val and his partner went over her responses twice. They compared her description of the man with Marlowe’s and that of several other witnesses. So far, he told her, only the homeless woman had refused to cooperate. She was now in a shelter.
With task one complete, he switched his attention to Umer Lugo’s e-mail contact list. He rattled off twenty unfamiliar names and finished with a frustrated sigh. “I have a copy of the client list we obtained from Lugo’s paralegal. We’re still working with his laptop. Every damn file in it is encrypted.”
“Cyber gold mines usually are.” Darcy used her hand to cool her face as they returned to the larger room.
“Central air’s on half power.” Val wiped his forehead, rummaged through the clutter on his desk for a copy of Lugo’s client list. “How about I swing by your place tonight, after you talk to Whistler’s great-grandmother?”
“Her name’s Matilda.” And Val seemed to think she’d open up to Darcy.
To her right, a small man with a heavy beard called out past the officer hauling him. “S’at you, Marlowe?” He tried to wave his tattooed arms but he was cuffed. “Over here.”
“Hey, Comet.” Marlowe preceded Val’s captain out of his office. “Decided to relocate, huh?”
“Wore out my welcome up north. No sweat. Food’s better in Philly.” He leered at Darcy. “Ladies aren’t bad, either.”
“Ignore him,” Val said.
While Marlowe talked to Comet, Val rocked his head from side to side. “Man, I’m tired. You know, some days I’d sell my pension plan to do it all again. Marlowe, too, I’m betting, especially where Lisa’s concerned.”
Darcy’s brows went up.
“Damn.” Val waved his hands. “Forget I said that.”
“I’m a journalist, Detective. No cat could be more curious.” She let him sweat for a minute while she fanned her cheeks serenely with the printout. “Now come over here and tell me everything you know—” a smile blossomed “—about Comet.”
THE LAND ROVER’S AC couldn’t keep up with the record-breaking heat. Darcy plucked at her sleeveless cotton top and visualized cool waterfalls.
“You’ve gone quiet,” Marlowe remarked. He was slouched down on the passenger side using a New York Giants cap to cover his face. “I thought you said you were used to driving four-by-fours.”
She leaned an elbow on the window w
ell, regarded him at an angle. “I am. And I’m being quiet because you closed your eyes as soon as we left the station, so I assumed you wanted to sleep.”
“Contrary to popular belief, I can converse with my eyes closed.”
“Oh, good.” Her smile came fast and lethal. “Let’s jump right in then, shall we? You have a friend who’s an informant, another who’s a serious alcoholic and a BFF wannabe in Val’s cranky captain. You go out drinking until all hours with the alcoholic, closet yourself in a stuffy little office with the wannabe, and relive old times for forty minutes with an informant who’d sell his grandmother for a three-hour high. You do all that with them, and yet you won’t tell me anything about a case that, technically, you have less right to be involved in than I do. If you didn’t kiss like Casanova, I’d swear you prefer a man’s company to a woman’s.”
If she was hoping to get a rise, she was disappointed. All he did was chuckle and make a slight head motion at the windshield. “Red light.”
“I see it.”
“You’re pissed off at me, aren’t you?”
“No…Yes…Maybe.” She knit her brow. “I’m not sure. I think I just want you to talk to me.”
“What do you call what we’re doing?”
“I want you to share, Marlowe. Something of yourself and of this so-called police investigation.” Hot and angry, she swiped at the AC control.
“It’s already on High.” He surprised her by trapping her hand and lacing his fingers through hers. “It isn’t personal with Comet or Blydon or even most of the time with Val. We talk about guy things. Sports, cars, women.”
“And criminals?”
“Like women talk about shoes.”
She smiled, then sighed. “I’m being bitchy. I’m not sure why because it isn’t as if I haven’t encountered adversity before. I usually just roll with it.” Slowing, she peered through the windshield. “This is it. Home sweet temporary home for Matilda.”
Marlowe’s gaze climbed the dirty brick structure of the homeless shelter. “I’ve seen better.”