by Vella Day
Jake was about to say FBI agents didn't help people from families who kill young children, but then Jake reconsidered.
He sat on the stoop, hoping the crisp, clean Florida air would relax him. “Tell me what's going on.”
“The fucking FBI, no offense to you, came to my house. Good thing I wasn't home. My housekeeper answered. They said they were looking for me. They even had a warrant to go through my things. They mentioned the name Janet Starkey.”
“Shit.” Jake unclenched his jaw. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool February breeze. “Juror number eight.”
“Who?”
“I'm sure you know seven of the twelve people on your father's jury were recently murdered. Janet was number eight.”
“Oh, shit. Eight? Christ. They better not try to pin her murder on me—or any of the murders. You know I run a clean business. I'm not my father. You gotta help me.”
A car slowed down in front of the townhouse, and Jake stiffened. A man stared hard at him before moving on. According to Richard Thomason, they were one of the first to stay in the newly built complex. As a precaution, he took note of the Georgia license plate number.
“I can make some phone calls, but that's all. I'm on protection detail. If the Bureau ever learns I even know you, I'd get canned.”
“They won't hear it from me. Can you dig around to see what they have on me?” A car horn blasted in the background. “Look I have go. I think someone's tailing me. I need to lose 'em.”
Before Jake had a chance to ask more questions, Peter disconnected.
The front door creaked opened behind him. He straightened, not needing Susan to see him with his head down. The last thing he wanted was for her to think he couldn't protect her.
“Who was that?”
“You don't want to know.” He tossed what he hoped was a look of steely confidence.
**
The sun burned the cut on Susan's face, and she shielded her eyes. “Why don't you come inside and tell me.” She hoped her voice came out soft and not demanding.
From the minute she'd opened her eyes in the hospital, she hadn't been kind to Jake. In fact, she couldn't remember if she'd even thanked him for driving all the way to Florida.
“In a minute.”
She didn't like how his voice came out cold. “Is it about the case?”
He shrugged. “In a way.”
Which meant the call had to do with her. She waited a beat for him to elaborate. Didn't he realize she stood the most to lose in this Caravello revenge scheme? Like her life? Guess she'd have to wait for an answer. She turned and ducked inside. He'd probably tell her in his own way, in his own time.
Unable to sit, she fixed a fragrant cup of Earl Gray tea and doused the steamy liquid with more sugar than necessary. Who'd called Jake? Had another juror died? Was he trying to figure out if they were in immediate danger?
The front door opened, and a strong cross breeze ruffled the magazine she'd been reading on the counter. Shoulders stiff, Jake strode in without glancing her way.
“Want some tea?” She held up her hot cup.
He jerked his head toward her. “A beer would be better.”
While on duty? She was better off not bringing up the fact it was hours before dinner and that a drink never helped matters.
Other than large bandages, the FBI had thoroughly stocked the townhouse, but she doubted they'd provided them with alcohol. Just in case, she pulled open the fridge. What do you know? A six-pack of Budweiser sat on the shelf. Amazing. Either every safe house came equipped with something to drink or Jake was psychic.
She ripped a cold bottle from the carton and walked over to the living room. “Here.”
“I'm sorry. I should be the one to wait on you.” He twisted off the top and took a long draw.
Her stomach somersaulted. The blank look in his eyes sucked all semblance of patience from her. “Tell me what's wrong. My life is on the line here.”
When he didn't answer, she grabbed the phone from his hand and pressed two buttons to display the caller's name before he snatched the phone away from her.
Stunned, her legs weakened, and she wobbled back to where she'd been reading. She couldn't believe who'd contacted him.
3
Susan's stomach churned as the ramification of the caller struck her. “That scum sucking son called you.” Unbelievable.
Jake winced. “Yes, but it's not what you think. That's why I didn't want you to know.”
She launched off the sofa and leaned forward, pointing an accusing finger at him. “Like you could possibly know what I'm thinking at this moment.”
“Calm down.”
“Easy for you to say. You get a call from a guy whose father was executed for murder, and I'm supposed to calm down? What if he's the one killing these jurors? What if he's the one trying to kill me?”
Her knees gave way again and she dropped back to the sofa, her rear hitting the edge of the seat. Jake jumped up, and she raised a hand. “Don't get near me.”
He stopped and then returned to his seat. Jake stabbed a hand through his hair. “Peter is not like his father.”
“Like I haven't heard that argument a hundred times before in court.” She picked up the blue pillow again and drew the cushion to her chest. “And how do you know what he's like? Are you chummy with him?”
Jake shifted in his seat. “The Bureau is looking at Peter for the murder of Janet Starkey.”
Her pulse pounded. Could this nightmare be almost over? She dropped the pillow to her lap. “I knew it!”
“It's possible the Fed's interest is based solely on his genetics.”
“You can't really believe that.”
Jake leaned forward and balanced his elbows on his knees. “It makes sense. His dad was executed. The Bureau must have concluded no one else would want revenge except for the family.”
“Who else could it be if not Peter Caravello?”
“I don't know, but it's possible someone's framing him.”
“I repeat. You have no idea how many times I've heard a criminal say that.”
“I'm sure, but in this case, I believe someone might be after Peter.”
“Because?” Let him wiggle out of this one.
“I need time to think.”
“You don't have any facts. Why am I not surprised?” Susan inhaled a deep breath and forced herself to relax. “Why exactly did he call?”
“He wants me to help him.”
Her mouth dropped open in disbelief. “A murderer is asking for FBI help?”
“Not the FBI. For my help. Like I said, he claims he's innocent.” He glared at her. “Shouldn't a lawyer presume he's innocent until proven guilty? I know you've been through a lot, but don't forget the rules of the judicial system.”
“I don't need a trial to know a Caravello killed my best friend.” She fisted her hands against the cushion. “How long have you been in the judicial system? A week?”
His jaw clenched. “Ten years. I do know most people arrested are guilty but I believe Peter.”
She stood, her legs stronger now. “Someone in his family killed Anne-Marie and eight jurors. And now you want to collude with him?”
He narrowed his eyes. “It's hardly collusion to ask a few questions. It's not like I'm leaving you here so I can go off and investigate.” He stood too, probably just to be able to look down at her.
“If you help Peter Caravello, I'm sure your boss would consider your activity a conflict of interest.” Her lawyer self resurfaced, pumping her full of adrenaline.
This time he had the decency to lower his gaze. “I know.”
She stepped toward him. “Does he even know you're friends with a Caravello?”
His eyes widened. “Hell no. Stanton wouldn't have assigned me to this case if he suspected.”
She looked away and studied the photo above the fireplace of two pelicans fighting over a fish. It reminded her of them.
Susan faced him again. “Are you
going to call your boss and tell him a Caravello made contact?” She'd believe Jake might be on the up and up if he did.
He glanced toward the ceiling before looking back at her. “No.”
His shifting gaze sent alarms off in her head, eating away at the earlier trust she'd placed in him. Dear Lord. Was he going to help the piece of shit murderer escape the law? She rubbed her sweaty palms on her pants. “Then I am.”
Susan raced to the wall phone, half surprised he didn't sprint after her. This might be her only opportunity to make contact with anyone. She pulled the receiver off the cradle and dialed 9-1-1.
Shit. The phone was dead. Everything else about the place worked. Why not the phone? She slammed the handset back in its holder.
“Phone doesn't work,” Jake said with no remorse in his tone. “We can't do anything that would allow anyone to find us.”
She swung around. “Funny. Peter Caravello found you pretty easily.”
“He has my number.” No apology—just a cold, hard statement.
“And now you're going to lead him right to me.” Susan blew out a breath as fear drilled a hole in her temple.
She didn't know anything about Jake. He was almost too handsome in a rugged sort of way. She had a lot of experience dealing with criminals who looked good enough to con the habit off a nun.
He'd been assigned to her, but what if he was actually one of the killers? She walked slowly past him toward the stairs before turning back around. “You give your number to all the criminals?” Catty, yes, but she needed an answer.
“Only four people have my cell. My boss, Richard Thomason, a college friend who works at the Bureau, and Peter.” He straightened, his mouth set in a grim line.
“Why would a mobster's son have a direct line to an FBI agent?”
“It's a long story. You don't need to know.”
“Like hell.”
“Peter is not a threat to you. Let's leave it at that.”
She turned her mind back to the courtroom, trying to remember who had come to support Charles Caravello. “If my memory serves me right, Caravello had a younger brother and two sons.” One of them could be guilty.
“Nicki is Charles Caravello's younger brother, and James is the son who now heads the family business, not Peter. Nicki isn't well though. He can't be behind any of this.”
She had to admit one of the others could be guilty. Nicki and James had come to trial every day. The third, Peter, had rarely showed.
Her pulse slowed, but something didn't settle with her. “What reason did Peter give for calling you? Aren't you the enemy, so to speak? The FBI testimony was what got his father executed.”
He crossed his arms. “I can't talk about it.”
She wanted to strangle him. “You can't or you won't.”
He finally made eye contact. “Both.”
A cold chill raced through her veins. Jake stepped toward her and Susan edged backwards, her feet bumping the bottom step. He might be an FBI agent, but his allegiance seemed to have swung toward the Caravello family.
“I see. Then I'll be in my room.” Away from you.
With as much poise as she could muster, Susan turned back around and climbed the stairs, wincing as the stitches pulled in her chest.
Footsteps sounded behind her.
Stay calm. Show no fear. Heart pumping hard, she reached for her bedroom doorknob.
A hand planted firmly on the door above her head, preventing her from entering. “I located something you need.”
Too close for comfort, she stepped back and looked up at Jake, his brown eyes close to black. When his gaze locked onto hers for a beat too long, her stomach seized up. She cut the connection and stared at his gun wedged beneath his shoulder. “What?” Blood pounded in her ears. A bullet to the head?
“Go see. It's in the bathroom.”
She wasn't sure of his game, but if she didn't go along, who knew what he might do. “Sure.”
Jake dropped his arm and opened the bedroom door. Susan sidestepped him and strode into the en-suite bathroom.
“It's under the counter,” he said with a hint of satisfaction.
It was the one place she didn't look when showering. On the bottom shelf sat a package from the hospital pharmacy. She opened the innocuous looking plastic bag.
“Where did you get these bandages?” They were the ones the nurse had given her.
“From your suitcase.”
Her hands flew to her hips. “You looked through my stuff?” Her breath came out ragged.
“Yes.”
“That's an invasion of my privacy.” How dare he.
“I had to search your bags to make sure you hadn't hidden a cell phone.”
Her jaw tightened. “You could have asked.”
He chuckled. “I never believe what people tell me. I needed to see for myself.”
“When did you have time to put the bandages in my bathroom?” He'd been downstairs after she finished her shower.
“When you were showering.”
Blood drained from her body. “You spied on me?”
He held up a hand. “I didn't look. Besides, the place was so filled with steam I couldn't see anything. I knew you wanted the bandages, so I put them away for you. I'm sorry if I caused you any embarrassment.”
Likely story. She snatched the bandages to her chest, and with her head held high, ducked around him. Her shoulder brushed his chest. Darn. Being in such a confined space with him sent her senses on high alert. He was too broad shouldered, too tall, too strong.
Heart still in overdrive, Susan hurried across her room and pulled back the door, gesturing for him to get out. Not only might he be involved in the jurors' murders, he had little character if he'd walk into her bathroom without her knowledge.
He strolled past her with an amused look. She had no idea what he thought was funny. Oh shit. Had he lied about not seeing her naked? Bastard. It didn't matter the shower curtain was opaque.
She shut the door, locked it, and plastered her back against the wall until the sound of his footsteps faded and the television switched on. She breathed a sigh of relief, hoping he'd stay downstairs—for good.
With a light tremor in her hands, she reapplied her bandages, thankful her clothes no longer rubbed against her lacerated skin. She purposefully didn't wrap her injured hands since she needed full mobility if she had any chance at escape tonight.
Susan checked the clock. She had a few hours before dinner. Her body ached and her mind raced. A short nap would help her regroup, think, and plan. Fully clothed, she lay on the bed and rested her eyes.
She must have been more exhausted than she realized, because she fell asleep. A loud knock jerked her awake.
“Dinner is ready.”
She wet her lips and sat up on the bed, her mind going full speed. “I'm good. I'm not really hungry.” She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping he'd buy her story, but the man had a way of seeing through all her lies. Maybe with the door between them, his second sight would falter.
“Mrs. Chapman, you have to eat.”
She didn't like being called Mrs. Chapman. The name reminded her of her failed marriage. And why not call her Taylor? She'd have to get used to the name soon enough—unless he was convinced she wouldn't be here long or else she'd be dead soon. Her body trembled. “Please call me Susan.” If he felt a connection to her, he might be less likely to harm her.
“All right. Susan, you should eat something to keep up your strength.”
“I'm really not hungry. My pain meds took away my appetite.” That wasn't true, but lack of appetite was one possible side effect according to her prescription bottle. “I'm going to hit the hay early. I'll see you in the morning.” She crossed her fingers in front of her—something her father used to do.
He didn't respond, but the loud pounding of his feet on the stairs as he went back to the living room told her he wasn't happy. Tough.
She raced to the window overlooking the backyard and studied the cement
patio below. No way could she jump the ten feet and not injure herself, especially with the metal chairs and glass top table directly below.
Her stomach grumbled, but she ignored the discomfort. Being hungry was better than being with the traitor, Jake Yarnell. She was sure once she explained her situation to the FBI, they would provide her with a different bodyguard.
While she waited for nightfall, she packed a few of her belongings. She left most of the case empty because she needed to fill her suitcase with food. Being on the run would take all of her strength.
Tonight, when Jake was in bed, she'd slip out. With no phone and only the twenty-dollar bill he'd given her, she wasn't sure how far she'd get, but any destination would be better than being locked in with a man in cahoots with a killer. For all she knew, he'd already invited Peter Caravello to their townhouse. She wished she could have listened to their conversation this afternoon. He'd been smart enough to step outside so she couldn't eavesdrop. What did that tell her?
Just as she'd settled into bed, a muffled voice floated through her door. She froze. Was Caravello downstairs? She placed her ear to the wood paneled door. The tone didn't sound like it came from the television. Wait. That was Jake's voice. He was probably on the phone. To his boss? Or to the killer? She peeled open the door and strained to hear the conversation. Suddenly, it turned silent. Damn. He must have hung up.
As she eased the door close, a shiver raced up her spine. There would be no sleeping tonight since she had no idea what was on his agenda.
Susan sat on the bed and waited for her time to escape. Her only entertainment entailed watching the numbers change on the alarm clock.
Around midnight, she heard Jake's door down the hall open and close. At two, she decided he must be asleep. Sneaking into the hallway, the pressure of the suitcase handle bit into her injured fingers, but she didn't care. Pain could be tolerated if it meant her freedom.
She slipped off her shoes and tiptoed down the stairs, stopping every time the step creaked. With her breath held, she inched her way to the bottom floor, constantly listening for Jake's door to open.
Once in the living room, she let out a breath and placed her suitcase on the kitchen island. The light from the full moon shining in the kitchen window provided sufficient illumination to find what she wanted. Susan grabbed three apples, two oranges, the remaining four power bars, a few slices of bread, and two bottled waters.