by Karen Rose
‘Nope. But you’re going in my Escalade. It’s got bullet-resistant glass,’ he added to Stevie, ‘as does Grayson’s. Not bullet-proof, but as close as you’re going to get unless you live at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.’
‘Then that’s pretty good,’ Stevie said, glad her voice didn’t wobble. ‘Thank you, Joseph.’
‘You know better than to thank me,’ he said roughly. ‘You’ve saved enough lives, Stevie. It’s our turn to help you.’
Stevie knew he spoke of the bullet she’d put in Marina Craig’s head in December. Marina’s next bullet had his fiancée Daphne’s name on it.
He opened his arms to Cordelia. ‘Come on, squirt. Let’s get this party movin’.’
She wrapped his arms around his neck. ‘Is Tasha in there?’
He snorted. ‘Yeah, right. Your mom would hurt me.’
‘Who’s Tasha?’ Stevie asked.
‘Daphne’s dog,’ Cordelia said with a tiny whine. ‘She saves lives, too,’ she added brightly. ‘She saved Ford’s life once. Ask Joseph. He was there.’
‘It’s true,’ Joseph said, giving Cordelia a wink. ‘Dogs are excellent companions for girls.’
‘God, you are so your father’s daughter,’ Stevie muttered as she slid out of JD’s back seat. She paused when he rolled down his window. ‘So you did it this way so you could honestly tell Hyatt that I had myself hijacked and you have no idea where I went? Clever. Give Jeremiah a kiss from his godmother. I’ll be by soon to do it in person.’
‘You’d better,’ JD said fiercely.
‘Gotta go. I’ll find a way to contact you when we’re settled.’
The other Escalade lowered its window, revealing Grayson behind the wheel. ‘We’re going to be working on this night and day,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry. We got you.’
‘I can see that. I’m . . .’ She swallowed hard. Overcome. ‘Thanks.’
Paige got out of her truck, helped Emma from the backseat, and escorted her to Joseph’s SUV, making Stevie frown. ‘Emma. You’re not supposed to be here.’
‘Safer this way,’ Emma said. She climbed up into the front seat, her expression grim. ‘My hotel room was broken into. Everything’s a mess.’
Stevie sucked in a breath. ‘When did this happen?’
‘Sometime this afternoon after two. That’s when housekeeping made up the room.’
All of the worst possible scenarios blew through Stevie’s mind. ‘You could have walked in on them. They would have killed you.’
‘No, I couldn’t, because I didn’t go into the room. Paige did. I’d given her my key because she was going to pack a few of my things.’
Stevie looked at Paige, who nodded. ‘It was a mess,’ she confirmed. ‘Somebody really tossed the place. I called hotel security and Clay called Hyatt to let him know. He’s on it.’
‘But what were they . . .’ The rest of the question stuck in Stevie’s throat because she knew what they’d been looking for. Who they’d been looking for. ‘You, Emma. They wanted you, because you could lead them to me. You were with me in the restaurant and now you’re a target, too. You have to get out of here. You have to go home.’
Emma was trembling, but the glint in her eyes indicated it was from anger along with the fear. ‘I’m safer here, for now.’
Clay hadn’t pushed the mommy-guilt button on her, but Stevie was more than comfortable pushing it on Emma. ‘Then what about your kids? Are they safer?’
‘Yes, they are. If someone searched my room, they might be watching me at the airports, expecting me to go home. If I do, I’ll lead them straight to my kids. Nobody knows where they are right now except their grandparents and Christopher. My parents’ Disney hotel reservations and Christopher’s travel plans were on my laptop, but the thieves didn’t get it because I didn’t bring it with me. I promised Christopher a no-work vacation when I got to Vegas, so I left it at home. I’ve notified the police in our neighborhood in Florida. Our house was untouched. I had a friend go in and get my laptop from there.’
‘She’s also hired a private security firm to guard her family,’ Paige said. ‘But her kids are pretty untraceable. Your friend is a smart cookie, Stevie.’
And stubborn to the core, Stevie knew. ‘Emma, I am so sorry all this happened.’
Emma twisted in the seat to pin her with a glare. ‘This is not your fault. Do not make me say it again, or I’ll hurt you.’
Stevie took one look at her tiny friend and rolled her eyes. ‘As if.’
‘Don’t dis the doc,’ Paige said. ‘Girl’s got some skills. I’ll see that you get some clothes, Emma. And I’ll pick up your husband from the airport tomorrow. Don’t worry.’ She caught Cordelia’s eye and bowed. ‘I’ll be expecting you back in class next week. Okay?’
‘Yes, Sensei Holden,’ Cordelia said respectfully.
Paige leaned into the Escalade. ‘VCET found the red Chevy,’ she said in a low murmur.
Stevie frowned again. VCET was the Violent Crimes Enforcement Team, an FBI/BPD joint task force, led by Joseph Carter. ‘When did they take the case?’
‘Probably while you were in the ER.’ Paige frowned back. ‘Which is when you should have called us. We would have been there for you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Stevie said, dropping her eyes. ‘I should have. I wasn’t thinking.’
‘I know. You get attacked and your brain fritzes. I thought Hyatt told you about VCET.’
‘He should have, but he didn’t. Nobody’s told me anything. Which is not okay.’
Paige shrugged. ‘They’re trying to take care of you, trying to make sure they don’t upset you further. It’s making them stingy with the information. I disagree with their tactics.’
‘So do I.’ And she’d confront Clay about it whenever they got to wherever the hell it was they were going. ‘Where did they find the red Chevy?’
‘About twenty miles from your house, along a side road.’ Paige winced a little. ‘Burned.’
‘Shit.’ Any forensic evidence went up in smoke.
‘I know.’ Paige looked over her shoulder. ‘Clay’s coming. You can yell at him about keeping secrets from you later.’
‘I will. Thanks, Paige. I appreciate it.’
Clay got behind the wheel of Joseph’s Escalade and their little convoy began to move, all the vehicles turning around, jockeying for position so that their SUV was again in the center. ‘What’s the plan, Clay?’ Stevie asked firmly.
‘We drive until we get there. We catch the bad guys. We stay alive. The end.’
‘Funny. You need to stop keeping information from me for my own good. Please.’
‘Fine. We’re going east. I’ve got a safe place for us to hide Cordelia and plan our next steps. It’s located in a little town on the Eastern Shore you’ve probably never heard of. The property is accessible by land via one gravel road and by sea via a single dock.’
‘Defendable,’ she murmured.
‘That’s the idea.’
‘Who owns it?’ she asked.
He hesitated. ‘My father.’
Stevie blinked, surprised. She’d never heard Clay speak of his family. ‘And your mother?’
‘She died,’ he said quietly. ‘A few years ago.’
‘She liked yellow flowers,’ Cordelia whispered. ‘Mr Maynard bought some to put on her grave. But he didn’t get to.’
Because somebody shot at us in my front yard, Stevie thought, the flowers Cordelia had held now making a lot more sense. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said and he shrugged.
‘Happens.’ He cleared his throat. ‘As for the rest of the plan, most immediately, when we get to the main road, we separate. Paige will return to Emma’s hotel. She’ll stay in the room in case whoever tossed it comes back, hoping to find you there.’
‘She’s bait?’ Stevie asked, horrified.
‘She’s trained bait,’ Clay replied. ‘If any person can take care of his or herself, it’s Paige.’
‘Grayson knows about this?’
‘It was
his idea.’
‘Actually, Paige made him think it was his idea,’ Emma corrected.
Clay shrugged. ‘Whatever. The result is the same.’
‘What about Alec?’ Stevie asked.
‘We dropped him off at my office,’ Clay said. ‘We may need him to run searches for us once we start digging deeper into this situation.’
‘Doesn’t he have a laptop?’
‘Of course, but he can run searches faster from the computer in the office.’
‘I’m worried about him. He was there when the shooter drove by, just like Emma was. What if they target him?’
‘Alec’s tougher than he looks,’ Clay said mildly. ‘Grayson and Joseph will go to your parents’ house. Hyatt gave them a protection detail, but we’re taking no chances. JD’s driving to the safe house Hyatt arranged to let him know you aren’t coming.’
‘Hyatt’s gonna be pissed,’ Stevie said, biting her lip. ‘I don’t like deceiving him. But I don’t know who he’s brought into the loop on this.’
‘JD’s prepared to take whatever Hyatt dishes out.’
‘I know, but . . .’
Emma sighed loudly. ‘You’d do the same for JD, Stevie, and you know it. So hush.’
Yeah, she’d do the same for JD, but he wouldn’t like it any more than she did right now. Which was not at all. ‘What about the red SUV, the one with Joseph’s people?’
‘They follow us all the way and stand guard,’ Clay said.
‘For how long?’
‘For the weekend, at least. They volunteered for the job.’
‘But . . .’ She frowned. ‘They’ve never even met me.’
‘They didn’t need to,’ Clay said quietly. ‘They have Joseph’s back, and Joseph has yours. These two will take the night shift. Two more will take days. They don’t know you, either. You’ve got a lot of friends, Stevie. You don’t have to do this alone.’
Her throat closed, emotion overwhelming her. ‘Oh,’ was all she could manage.
‘Any more questions?’ Clay asked. Kindly, she thought.
‘No. Not at the moment.’
Chapter Seven
Baltimore, Maryland, Saturday, March 15, 9.45 P.M.
Sam Hudson had finally been able to get his mother to sleep. Her chest rose and fell evenly, but her cheeks were streaked from the tears she’d shed as she’d cried herself to sleep.
How many times had he lain in his own bed as a kid, hearing the sobs she tried to muffle? Far too many. He’d covered his ears when he was younger. Then later, he’d forced himself to listen, forced himself to picture the bruises on her face. And he’d fantasized about all the ways he could kill his father and make it really hurt.
Staring at the ring his mother had laid so carefully on her nightstand, Sam remembered every single one of those fantasies. When he’d been younger, they’d brought a kind of hollow satisfaction. Tonight, though, they filled him with panic. He’d desperately wanted his father dead. Based on the contents of the package he’d been sent, it looked like his wish had come true.
But how had his father died? Drug overdose? Murder? Who’d done it?
The panic shot through him again along with the vivid memory of waking alone in a dirty hotel room next to a recently fired gun. His father had disappeared at the same time. Eight years as a cop had taught Sam the unlikelihood of coincidences.
Me? Could it have been me?
No, I couldn’t have. His mother had loved the bastard, for reasons Sam had never been able to understand. Sam wouldn’t have taken his father away from her. But something . . . someone? . . . had. Uncertainty rattled him. God help me, could it have been me?
Stop panicking. Stay calm and think like a goddamn cop.
He pulled his mother’s door closed and crept down the stairs to her living room. His hand trembling, he drew the matchbook from his pocket, placed it on the coffee table, then sank to the sofa, staring into space.
The Rabbit Hole. The matchbook brought back the memory of that evening in stunning detail – the first hour of it, anyway. He’d only gone to the bar because an old buddy was having his bachelor party there. But when he’d arrived, he hadn’t found the party. No one was there.
Well, lots of people were there, but no one he knew. No one he wanted to know.
He’d figured the party hadn’t yet arrived, so he ordered a beer. If his friends hadn’t shown up by the time he finished his beer, he was leaving. He kept his eyes to himself, not wanting to look at any of the other patrons whose eyes were glued to the strippers on the small stage.
He’d looked up only once. A waitress had served him his beer, then asked him if he wanted to buy a dance. When he’d looked at her face, he’d felt a confusing mixture of lust, pity, and revulsion. She was maybe eighteen years old and already she had the look of a used-up old whore. He’d given her a twenty and told her to go away.
The next thing Sam knew it was thirty hours later and he was waking up, freezing cold, and reeking of sour booze.
Just like his old man. It had been his first thought. I’m just like my old man.
Then his gaze had lighted on the gun on the floor next to him and his self-disgust had changed abruptly to fear. Oh my God. What have I done?
The delivery of that matchbook was a message, one that felt distinctly like a threat. To me.
What had he done? Sam drew a deep breath and came to his feet. It was time he found out.
He made his way down the basement stairs, past his mother’s laundry room, his steps unerring even in the pitch black. He’d walked this path enough times in his life to know the way by heart. He stopped at the old crawl space his family used for storage. Somewhere, in all the boxes, were memories of better times. Photographs of Sam as a baby, as a toddler, as a kindergartner. All taken before his father had become an addict.
The boxes in the crawl space were empty of anything valuable. His dad had scavenged the boxes for years, hocking the family’s belongings to buy drugs.
Sam hadn’t been exempt. His baseball card collection had disappeared from one of these boxes, along with the pocket watch he’d inherited from his maternal grandfather. His father had even stolen the jar of cash he’d earned mowing lawns. Bitter, Sam had become inventive.
He moved between the boxes in a crouch, feeling his way along the bricks that formed the back wall of the crawl space. Tugging at the fourteenth brick, he pulled it out from the wall and carefully set it on the floor. Four bricks joined the first, revealing the small hole he’d dug in the dirt at age thirteen, determined his father would steal from him no more.
His father had never found this hiding place. Neither had anyone else.
The metal box was cold to his fingertips as Sam drew it out. It was heavy, filling him with both dread and relief. Taking out his cell phone, Sam shone its light on the box’s lid as he carefully lifted it and looked inside. Wrapped in newspaper was a revolver, its six chambers empty. The four bullets he’d found loaded were in a small baggie, also in the box.
A rookie cop at the time, he’d checked the daily police reports avidly for weeks after waking in that hotel room for any incidences of gunshot wounds in which the weapon hadn’t been found, but nothing had come up. He’d finally concluded that the gun hadn’t shot anyone.
But now, with the timing of this delivery . . . He had to wonder if he’d concluded correctly.
He’d hated his father so much back then. His secret fear had always been that he’d killed the sonofabitch in a drunken rage. And if you did? Will you tell your mother? Will you tell anyone?
Sam let out a breath. Yes. No. Hell, I don’t know.
He didn’t know the answer to any of those questions. Right now he needed one specific answer – what, if any, crimes had been perpetrated by this specific firearm.
He made his way up the stairs and outside to his car, storing the metal box in his trunk. Tomorrow he’d start the wheels in motion. He prayed the outcome wouldn’t ruin his life.
Saturday, March 15, 11.
30 P.M.
Teeth gritted, Henderson focused on the dull painting of a landscape on the hotel room wall and managed not to scream. ‘Dammit. That needle hurts.’
Fletcher looked up with a grimace that was both harried and angry. ‘You want painless, go to a hospital. You called me to stitch you up, remember?’
Because Henderson hadn’t known who else to call. ‘I’m surprised you showed up at all.’
Fletcher was focused on Henderson’s shoulder, and if the expression on Robinette’s lead chemist’s face was any indication of prognosis, it didn’t look good. ‘I guess once a doctor, always a chump,’ Fletch muttered. ‘You put me in a shitty spot by calling me.’
‘I couldn’t get Robinette to answer my calls. I was getting desperate. I tried to get to my apartment, but there was a fire nearby. Too many emergency vehicles to risk getting closer.’
‘Robbie went to an awards dinner. It ran late.’
‘Oh. I forgot about that. Anyway, I figured you still knew how to sew a straight seam. You stitched us all up more than once.’ Being confined to the medical tent was one of Henderson’s better memories of the war. The pain had been horrific, but the tent had offered . . . sanctuary. A little peace, some time to regroup before picking up their weapons and going back out again.
‘And look where it got me,’ came Fletcher’s icy reply.
Fletcher was one of the casualties of the war – but the kind the brass liked to sweep under the rug. After putting too many torn bodies back together, Fletch had suffered a mental breakdown. A bad one. The kind that came with a medical discharge for ‘mental disorder’, keeping Fletch from practicing medicine as a civilian for years, maybe forever.
‘I didn’t think the boss would appreciate me skipping into a hospital,’ Henderson said, changing the subject when Fletcher began to stitch again. ‘They’d have to report the bullet hole.’
Fletcher’s chin came up, their eyes met. And Henderson’s gut twisted in a knot.
‘What?’ Henderson demanded. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’
Fletcher’s gaze dropped, again intent on the stitching. ‘Robinette was very angry with your . . . execution of his orders.’