by Brenda Novak
The guy looked almost green from surprise. “I-I-my name is Robbie. I-I work for Travis Hart’s campaign. He-he-he asked me to deliver Ms. Morgan flowers t-t-to thank her.”
Gabriel stepped forward and took the vase from Robbie. “Tell Mr. Hart thank you. You may go back the way you came.”
Robbie nodded. “Thank you. Thank you.” He practically ran back down the hall.
“Who’d have thought doctors were so intimidating,” Alex said.
Gabriel wasn’t smiling when he handed her the vase. “Whoever let that kid in violated my direct orders.”
“Your military service is showing,” Alex said. Gabriel had spent several years as a medic in the Army. She didn’t know much about his service record, only what Selena had told her in passing. Gabriel didn’t like to talk about it.
“Perhaps.” He opened the door into the staff garage. “Don’t be a stranger, Alex. Selena said you cancelled twice on her for drinks.”
Alex didn’t know what to say, so she shrugged.
Gabriel tapped her chin. “Hey, we care about you. The last few months have been especially difficult, I get that, but you have friends.”
“I know. I guess – well, I just feel like a failure. Unemployed. Unemployable. I want my old life back and I can’t have it.” She sighed. “I’m just feeling sorry for myself.”
“Pull yourself up, Alex. You’re strong enough. And the next time Selena calls you to meet, be there.”
“I will.”
Sometimes, it was easy to forget that she did have friends. Self-pity. That’s all it was. And she had to find a way to move on or she’d never feel good about herself again.
Chapter Five
It didn’t take much persuading for Alex to agree to spend the night at her dad’s house. She really didn’t want to go back to the small apartment she’d moved into after she left Jim. She hated the place, but she’d signed a year’s lease, and she really couldn’t afford much else. It wasn’t that it was a dump—it was anything but a dump. The building had been recently renovated, the old business converted into chic lofts. She thought she’d like living downtown—but she didn’t. She missed having a yard, missed having space, and despised having neighbors so close to her. She’d planned to move out on June 1st, when her lease was up, when she got a job and could afford a small rental house.
Of course, she didn’t have a job, her severance package was almost gone, and if she didn’t find something soon she’d have to move in with her dad permanently.
She was thirty-four years old. She couldn’t live with her father.
Still, she loved the house she grew up in. The judge had bought the modest yet stately house in the “Fabulous Forties” neighborhood of Sacramento shortly after her younger brother, A.J., was born. She’d grown up here since she was three—she didn’t even remember the house she’d been born in. Birthday parties and hide and seek and swimming in the summer ... a lot of joy was in this house. And a lot of sorrow. Her mother grew ill—cancer—and died in this house. But it was home, and the judge said he’d never move.
She liked having a home base. But she didn’t want to move back.
She was exhausted, even though it was a short drive from the hospital to her dad’s house. But she wouldn’t admit it to anyone, especially her father. Instead, she said, “I’m hungry.”
“Good. Your grandmother is preparing your favorite.”
Now her stomach growled. “Spaghetti and meatballs?”
“Of course.”
Already, she felt better.
Then she saw the car in front of the house. Not just any car, but a three-year-old black Nissan Altima with a small American flag in one corner and a small U.S. Navy seal in the other rear corner.
She knew exactly who owned that car.
“What’s going on?” she asked her dad.
“Alexandra, just talk to him.”
“Dad—” She wasn’t in the mood for an argument. She was too tired, too frustrated, too ... hell, she didn’t know. She just wanted to eat some spaghetti and go to bed. Was that too much to ask?
“Apparently, you’re in the middle of something big.”
“No, I am not,” she said carefully.
“Hear him out.”
“You set me up.”
He turned off the ignition and used the remote to close the garage door behind them. She made no move to get out of the car.
She couldn’t begin to explain how angry she was at her father. Her father and the owner of that Nissan.
The District Attorney himself, Matt Elliott. The man to blame for the fact that she had no job and was considered a disgrace within the Sacramento Police Department. A man she’d trusted, and not just because he was a friend of her father’s. Not just because he was the District Attorney, or a veteran, or a good guy. But because she’d been in court with him, she’d testified for him, she’d seen how much he cared about law, order, justice, victims. She admired that. Hell, she’d half fallen in love with him. That was probably her biggest regret. She cared about him, trusted him, and got screwed.
Thank God she hadn’t slept with him. She’d never even told him how she felt. That one time when they almost ... well, they hadn’t. She didn’t really even know what she’d felt last year. But now there was no mistaking the sickening churn of betrayal.
“This has been a long day for you,” he said. “But Matt needs to talk to you, and you need to tell him about your theory.”
“I told Jim, and I told you. I don’t need to repeat it again.”
Her dad didn’t say anything, and that was somehow worse. He did that when he knew she was tired and crabby and he thought he was right. When he wanted her to believe he understood, when really it was just him giving her time to come to what he felt was the right decision.
Talking to Matt Elliott was not the right decision. Not anymore.
Yet, he was here, and she was here. Walking home wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities—her loft was exactly two point two miles from her dad’s house—but she was too tired and sore to even contemplate it. And why did she feel like crying? She was such a baby. She was going to be thirty-five at the end of the year. She had nothing. No career, no boyfriend, few friends. Gabriel and Selena. And her family.
“Fine,” she said quietly. “But dad—you don’t understand. You think you do, because you’ve made hard decisions and you run your courtroom with an iron gavel. You think because you’ve stood on your principles, even when it was difficult, that you understand what I’m feeling.” She looked at him in the dim garage light. “I did what was right last summer. I knew, even then, that I was going lose everything, but I did it anyway. What I didn’t know was how hard it would be to take the heat. I’m not as strong as you.”
Her voice cracked, and she moved to get out of the car, but her dad grabbed her wrist.
“Alexandra, look at me.”
Reluctantly, she looked at her father. He wasn’t a large man, but he was still imposing, with neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair and the same green eyes she had. He was handsome, even at sixty-two. He could have married again—her mother had been dead for twenty years. But he’d once told her that he’d loved her mother two lifetimes in the nineteen years they’d been married, and he didn’t need or want another companion.
“You’re the strongest person I know, Alexandra. I’ve always been proud of you.”
Oh, God, now she was going to cry. No. She blinked back the tears and nodded, because if she talked, she would start blubbering.
“Tell Matt I need to change.”
He nodded and got out of the car.
She waited a minute, took a deep breath, and got her emotions together. She picked up the vase of flowers and got out of the car, going directly to her old bedroom where she put it down on the dresser. There was a card enclosed.
She pulled it out.
Alexandra ~
No words are sufficient to show my thanks and appreciation for what you did for me today. You sav
ed my life, and I am in your debt. Your heroism humbles me. If you ever need anything, please call.
~ Travis Hart
***
It was the rich aroma of meat, tomatoes, garlic and oregano that propelled Alex back downstairs. Though she didn’t live at her dad’s house anymore, she and her brothers always kept a few things in their old rooms. She wished, however, that she had something better to wear than faded sweatpants and her old police academy T-shirt.
She took a deep breath and walked into the large, family-style kitchen. “It smells great, grandma,” she said and gave her petite eighty-year-old grandma Jane a hug. “I’m starving.”
Matt Elliott, stood at the counter drinking sparkling water. She tried to ignore him.
“Sit down,” her grandmother said. “I’ll dish you both up.”
“You don’t need to feed me, Mrs. Morgan,” Matt said.
“Sit down,” she repeated. “You’re in my kitchen, it’s dinnertime, you’ll eat.”
Alex would have smiled if she wasn’t so twisted up inside. She grabbed a beer and sat down across from Matt in the breakfast nook. The table had two benches on either side and could comfortably seat four, six if they crowded in. “Where’s Dad?” she asked her grandmother.
“Upstairs.” Nothing more. Great. Her dad had abandoned her with the D.A. “You’d better not be drinking while taking medication.”
“I’m not on pain pills,” she said. “After today, I need this beer.”
Alex looked everywhere but at Matt. Her grandmother put two plates full of spaghetti and homemade sauce with meatballs on the table in front of them. Alex’s mouth watered.
“Where’s your plate?” Alex asked, half panicked. She really didn’t want to be alone with Matt.
“You don’t need me to eavesdrop,” her grandmother said. She put a beer in front of Matt, fresh grated parmesan cheese in the middle of the table, and warm sourdough bread next to the cheese. “I’m leaving, so I’m counting on you, Mr. Elliott, to make sure my granddaughter eats.”
Alex kissed her grandma on the cheek. “I love you, Mimi.”
Her grandma squeezed her uninjured arm. “I’m relieved you’re okay, sweetheart.” Then she left.
Matt Elliott stared at the plate. It was clear he wasn’t expecting food.
“Eat it, or you’ll hurt her feelings and then I’ll have to kill you,” Alex said.
“I’m sorry your dad put you on the spot, but I really need to talk to you.”
“Whatever.” She avoided eye contact.
She ate because she was hungry. She wasn’t going to ask why Matt wanted to speak with her. She was curious, but wasn’t going to let him know how curious she was, so she kept her mouth full.
At first bite, she remembered that she’d been too nervous about the interview to eat more than a couple bites of a muffin with her coffee this morning. And then came the assassination attempt, getting shot, chasing the suspect, talking to Jim, and then being stuck at the hospital for hours. Thankfully, Matt kept his mouth shut—except to eat.
She eyed him discreetly. He looked good. Of course he did. He was born to wear a suit, even though he’d taken off the jacket and loosened his tie. He always dressed well when in court, but she’d also seen him during his free time. He looked just as good in jeans and a T-shirt. Maybe better.
He was smart. Alex had always liked smart guys. They just didn’t always like her. She was street smart. She could hold her own in a conversation, but she wasn’t like her dad. She wasn’t what people called “well-educated.” She didn’t do fabulous in school—good enough to get into UC Davis, but she had a feeling that was more to due with the fact that her father was an alum. And, she was an athlete. She’d played soccer in college, not because she wanted to but because it made the four years bearable. She didn’t graduate with any honors, but she’d done okay.
The police academy—that was another story. She excelled, because she wanted it. She didn’t ace every test, but she scored well and graduated in the top ten percent. Because she’d played soccer since she was five, the physical tests were easy. She didn’t love running, but she was good at it. She’d been a goalie, which meant she wasn’t afraid of getting dirty or getting hit.
Matt was smart. Not just a lawyer, but a top lawyer, graduating from a top law school after serving a few years in the Navy Seals. He’d been elected to the State Senate at one point, but left after one term. He’d been the elected D.A. for the last three years.
She’d trusted Matt. Not just because of his background, but because he was her father’s friend. He was a prosecutor who thought the same about justice as she did. He was, basically, a good guy. When she was confronted with Tommy Cordell’s corruption, she didn’t know who else to go to. Internal Affairs? Absolutely not. Her boss? Hell, no. Her dad? She’d considered that ... but he would have either told her to talk to Matt or to go to IA. Matt seemed like a good idea at the time.
It wasn’t completely Matt’s fault that she’d been burned. She’d let herself be used by Matt and the FBI. She’d sought Matt out in the first place and told him about her partner. She’d been willing—reluctantly—to work with the FBI when Matt brought them in. She hadn’t told him no, keep them out—because his argument about why they needed to be involved was valid. And they’d already had an open investigation into Rykov, so she was just part of something that already existed.
It was your choice, your decision. Live with it.
At least she was alive. Her life might be a mess, but being dead would have been a lot worse.
She was about to get up to clear the plates, when Matt put his hand over hers. “I’ll do it,” he said.
She almost objected, but decided why volunteer to rinse dishes if there was someone else willing to do it?
Matt cleared their plates, rinsed them, and stacked them on the counter. Alex went back to the refrigerator, retrieved two beers and handed one to Matt. “Okay, spill, because I’m tired, have a full stomach, and plan to crash as soon as I can get these clothes off.” She shut her mouth. That was not an appropriate thing to say.
He smiled at her. “Let’s sit somewhere more comfortable. The den?”
She’d rather have put him in the stuffy living room with the hard sofa and ugly portrait of some disapproving old general. But she nodded and led Matt to the back of the house, which overlooked the tree-framed yard and small swimming pool. Her grandma’s cottage was on the other side of the pool, an eight hundred square foot one-bedroom guest house. Alex would never forget the battle her dad had when her grandma insisted that she live out there, rather than the house. Judge Morgan always expected to get his way—and he wanted his elderly mother to live in the main house, especially since all the kids were gone. But Jane had insisted she wanted her own space, and stubbornness definitely ran in the Morgan genes. As it was, the arrangement had worked out well for everyone.
Alex sank into one of the over-sized chairs and sat with her legs outstretched. She and her brothers, Aiden and AJ, had watched many football and baseball games in this room. Good memories. She missed those days.
She shifted, trying to get comfortable. She was stiff and sore, but tomorrow would be worse.
“Are you really okay?” Matt asked, concern in his green eyes. “I almost went over to the hotel after I saw the news.”
“I’m fine,” she snapped. “Don’t coddle me. I’m tired, so if you would please just tell me whatever it is you think I need to know, then go, I’d appreciate it.”
Matt tensed, and she almost felt guilty for snapping at him. Almost.
“I need to know that whatever I tell you stays between us. If you don’t agree to help, you can’t say anything to anyone.”
“Got it.” She crossed her heart, then sipped her beer. “Help with what?”
“I’ve known Travis Hart for a long time, since we were both prosecutors together. I never liked Travis, didn’t trust him, and thought he’d intentionally screwed up a couple cases. When Sandy Cullen retire
d, she recruited me to run for District Attorney, so I did—and Travis ran against me. He lost. It was a bitter fight. He left the D.A.’s office shortly thereafter and took a position in a corporate law firm, then was appointed Lieutenant Governor when the former LG died in office last year.”
“What are you really saying? That you don’t like Hart and you’re the one who took a hit out on him?”
He stared at her as if he hadn’t heard what she said. “Excuse me?”
“I still don’t understand why you’re here. I’m not a cop anymore, remember? I don’t know Hart from Adam.”
“Sergei Rykov is one of Hart’s major donors.”
Her heart skipped a beat, but she didn’t say anything.
Matt continued. “The FBI has opened an investigating into Hart for racketeering and political corruption, but they haven’t found anything solid. There are a few gray areas, but the FBI hasn’t been able to get anyone on the inside. One of Hooper’s informants said Rykov and Hart are tight, but just because Rykov is a known criminal we can’t pin that on Hart. Rykov also has some legitimate businesses, and you know we’ve never been able to pin anything on him.”
“Because of me,” she said. “Just say it.”
“It’s not because of you.”
“Yes it is. Because I acted too soon, I couldn’t get in.”
“No one blames you, Alex. You can’t possibly think that.”
“It’s true. I was so close ... but I don’t know why you’re telling me this. You think Rykov put the hit out on Hart?”
“I honestly don’t know—Hart has made a lot of enemies, but as far as we know, he’s still tight with Rykov’s people. It could be a power play by another faction, or something unconnected.”
“I still don’t see what you think I can do.”
“Feel him out.”
“Excuse me?”
“You saved his life today. He’ll reach out to you. Probably give you an accommodation or something. It’s news, Alex. Hooper and I would like you to use that—any in he gives you, take it.”