by Kylie Brant
His prediction was depressing but most likely true. “I overheard Dawson talking about the security tapes. I’m sure they’re comparing the surveillance footage to that in the other robberies.”
Dace straightened. “And cross-checking for glimpses of the hostage taker or his accomplices prior to the robbery attempt. Someone had to scout the location. Plant the explosive devices.”
Jolie dropped her pen, leaned back in her chair. “Maybe we’re overlooking the obvious. This guy is something of an anomaly because we can be positive he wasn’t working alone. Eighty percent of bank robbers are solitary offenders.”
“And he’s smart,” Dace put in grimly. He propped his hips on the table next to her, crossed his arms over his chest. “Takes the time for subtle disguises. Does his homework beforehand. Most guys go to knock over a bank, they’ll choose the end of the week, midday, when the bank is full of customers.”
“Shows he’s a professional,” Jolie agreed. “Monday morning he’s hoping for the weekend deposits to up his take. Earlier in the day means fewer customers, a crime scene that’s easier to control. Dawson said he always filled the bag himself, so he knows enough to avoid the die packs a fast-thinking teller would put in a cash bag.”
“From the surveillance footage Fenholt showed us, the HT looked too young to have done time for a previous robbery.”
Nodding, she picked up the list she’d been working on. “But maybe someone he knew was in the system. Father, uncle, brother…he had someone in his life he was close to. That much was clear from the conversations we had.”
Dace frowned, considering. “You think he was talking about his accomplice in the bank heists?”
“It’s possible. Any of these guys sent away in the early nineties could be out by now. The robberies started six months ago. What if we focus on the ones released in the past twenty-four months and see what we come up with?”
He lifted a shoulder, clearly not excited at the prospect, but Jolie was already picking up her pen, ready to pore through the notes she’d taken.
“What do you suggest we do once we get the list narrowed down?” Dace jerked his head to the closed door. Their FBI protection was outside it. “Take our watchdog with us as we go hunt the guy down?”
Not put off by his less-than-eager response, she started circling names that fit the parameters of their search. “No. I’d suggest you use the department computer over there and contact prisons where these guys did their time. See if you can get copies of their visitor lists. Oh, and it wouldn’t hurt to get the names of their cell mates, while you’re at it.”
She could sense his gaze on her but refused to look up. His task would put him on the far side of the room, and she was honest enough to admit that she’d welcome the distance.
“All right,” he said finally. He held out his hand and she handed him the first sheet of names she’d underlined. “Guess you’re calling the shots.”
There was something more than a bit caustic in his tone that made her think he wasn’t referring only to the present. She knew better than to respond. If she was calling the shots, their relationship would stay on this exact footing. Strictly professional with no hint of personal involvement.
Because when this was over, she had no doubts that they’d both walk away without a backward glance. Neither of them was in any hurry to make the same mistake all over again.
* * *
Jolie entered the restaurant ahead of Agent Michael Hawkins, the fed assigned as their driver and chief watchdog away from the apartment. Scanning the interior, she quickly saw Agent Hart and Trixie near the back. They appeared to be arguing, and she stifled a sigh. Maybe the agency would recommend the man for a commendation after this assignment. Certainly he’d have earned it after putting up with Trixie’s theatrics for the duration.
“Detective Conrad.” Hart rose lazily to his feet as Jolie approached their booth. He looked over her shoulder, past Hawkins. “Where’s Recker?”
“He and Dawson stayed behind to discuss the case.” And it had taken some fast-talking to make that happen. She’d told Dace that it would be helpful if he could pick Dawson’s brain regarding the course of the investigation. And though he likely saw through her attempt to leave him behind, he hadn’t objected. He’d only warned her to stick close to Hawkins.
She’d left, relieved. Dace had emotionally backpedaled since that first devastating loss of control, and his distance helped her maintain her own. They could do this. They’d take part in the investigation, as much as the feds would allow. See this thing through. And then they’d go their separate ways. Metro City had a half-million people. Surely she and Dace could coexist within its confines without causing each other too much trouble.
“Trixie.” She summoned a smile for her mother and slid into the booth across from her. Flicking a glance toward the agent, she said politely, “I hope she hasn’t been giving you any trouble.”
Hart stood. “The day I can’t handle a babysitting detail is the day I’ll hand in my badge. Hawkins and I will sit at the table over there.” He jerked his head to indicate an empty table for two kitty-corner from the booth. “Give you two some privacy.”
She gave a short nod, and the two men moved away. Shifting her attention to her mother, she did a quick survey. Although Trixie didn’t look the worse for wear, there was a peevish cast to her expression that didn’t bode well for the evening.
Jolie picked up a menu. “Have you ordered yet? I’m starved.”
“How much longer do I got to have that guy hanging over my shoulder?” Trixie demanded. “He’s like a damn ghost the way he’s always lurking ’round. I can barely take a leak without him following me into the can.”
Since her mother had made no effort to keep her voice down, there was no doubt that Hart overheard her. As did every occupant in the restaurant within twenty feet. “Lower your voice.” The layer of steel in Jolie’s tone made it an order, rather than a request. “You and I can have a discussion without everyone in the restaurant listening in.”
Trixie shot her a glare but her next words were a subdued whine. “Least you’d go to work most days and give me some alone time. I need my space, y’know? That guy gives me claustrophobia, he sticks so close.”
“That’s his job. The explosion outside my apartment complex was meant for me.” She’d explained this to the woman over the phone once already. “If the subject knows where I live, it follows he could still strike out at you even if I’m not there anymore. This is for your own protection until he’s caught.”
“I can take care of myself.” The door of the restaurant opened and the woman flicked a glance at the newcomers. “I’ve been on my own since I was fifteen. Didn’t need no one watching over me and telling me what to do then. Still don’t.”
There was truth in her words. At fifteen, Trixie had run away. She’d been doing exactly as she pleased ever since.
“It won’t be for long.” Neither the department nor the Bureau had unlimited resources. Their efforts would have to garner results soon, or the investigation would be turned in a different direction. Financial considerations were a daily reality of law enforcement work.
“They have some Southwestern dishes.” Determinedly, Jolie shifted topics. “Are you still in the mood for Mexican?”
Trixie lifted her bony shoulders, bare above the red tube top she wore with her black painted-on capris. “Don’t have much appetite these days with the kiddie fed hanging over my shoulder every minute.” She raised her voice a little. “Never liked cops. Haven’t changed my mind the past couple days.”
And it wouldn’t occur to the woman that Jolie was included in that assessment, as well. Even if it had, she doubted it would alter Trixie’s opinion. Knowing that didn’t bother her. There had never been any pretense between them. Trixie had never bothered to act like she gave a damn. Jolie didn’t have to pretend tender feelings for the woman who’d borne her. There were no surprises when each knew exactly where the other stood.
“I’ll have a cheeseburger, plain, with fries and coffee.” Jolie closed the plastic-coated menu and slipped it back into its holder. “Trixie? Are you getting anything?”
“May as well get a bite.” The other woman sent a lingering glance toward the front door of the place before returning her gaze to the menu. “Not really hungry, but I suppose you’ll rat me out to Baxter if I don’t eat something.” Despite her words, she rattled off an order that would feed a very hungry truck driver on a cross-country run.
The waitress moved away and stopped by the agents’ table. Jolie watched as the two men halted their conversation to order. Hawkins looked to be about Hart’s age, but the similarities stopped there. So far she’d found Hawkins to be quiet, but helpful and friendly. He lacked the other man’s cocky manner.
When she looked back at Trixie, she again found her watching the front door. Jolie followed the direction of her gaze and saw a lone man approaching a stool at the counter. “Are you expecting someone?”
“Just people watching.” The other woman returned her attention to Jolie, her eyes narrowed. “Haven’t been getting out much,” she said pointedly.
And apparently that was cramping Trixie’s style. Despite herself, amusement bloomed. Jolie kept as tight a rein on her as she could, but as Trixie had mentioned, she was at work much of the time. And her SWAT rotation called for after-hours training every third day. If this assignment could have any unexpected benefits, having Trixie under round-the-clock surveillance was one.
“Hear you’re living with your old boyfriend. Recker.”
Humor was replaced with wariness, even while something inside her reared away from the word. Boyfriend. Whatever Dace had once meant to her, the word sounded foreign. Jolie reached for her water glass. “Where’d you hear that?”
“I ain’t stupid.” Trixie jerked her chin toward Hart. “Overheard him on the phone, that you were at Recker’s place. Hope you aren’t thinking about dancing to that tune again.”
Since Jolie had never mentioned Dace’s name to Trixie, it was obvious the woman had overheard more than she’d let on. “We’re working a job together, and there’s a federal agent staying there, too. I’m hardly ‘living’ with him.” Movements careful, Jolie set the glass down again. The last person she wanted to discuss Dace with was Trixie.
“Like I said, I ain’t stupid.” Trixie lit another cigarette, let her gaze wander around the interior of the restaurant. “Had more than my share of men trailing after me over the years. I know what’s what. You got my looks. Men are gonna hang around you, too. Just be smarter this time. Don’t let him knock you up again.”
There was a vise in her chest, squeezing the breath from her lungs. It took a moment to manage speech. “A little late to be dispensing maternal advice, isn’t it?”
The sarcasm was wasted on Trixie. “We’re not much alike, you and me.” She tilted her head back, blew a perfect smoke ring. “But we’re the same in one way. Neither of us was meant to be mothers. Don’t make us bad people. Just makes us realistic.” Abruptly, she lowered her hand to stub out her cigarette. “I gotta pee.”
She slid out of the booth and reached for her oversize bag, hitching it over one shoulder before sauntering away, an exaggerated swing to her skinny hips. And Jolie was left to deal with the quick verbal jabs she’d landed before leaving.
Trixie’s words carved a hollow through her center, filling the void with ice. She knew better than to listen to them. The woman was merely projecting her flaws onto Jolie. She didn’t know her daughter. How could she? Jolie hadn’t spent any significant time with her mother since the age of five. Trixie was hardly in the position to render a character analysis.
And yet…hadn’t she told herself exactly the same thing, over and over in the past year and a half? She’d known nothing about mothers. Nothing about acting like one. Nothing about being one. She’d recognized that fact from the first. It was why Dace had had to work so hard the moment she’d told him of the pregnancy.
With trembling hands, she reached for her water glass and took a sip.
She almost hadn’t told Dace at all. They’d been together less than three months. After the first positive test result, she’d bought two more home pregnancy kits, sure that there had been a mistake. But the stick had turned blue, not once, but three times.
There’d been a mistake, all right. Forgetting that the Pill was only ninety-nine percent effective had been hers.
She’d lined up an appointment for an abortion before it had even occurred to her to tell Dace. And she wasn’t particularly proud of that fact. Belatedly the realization had struck her that if she withheld that information from him, she was no better than Trixie had been, all those years ago.
Recognition of that fact had been enough for her to swallow her fears, and her pride, and give him a chance to agree with her. Of course an abortion was the best option. The logical choice. They’d make the decision together. They’d been a couple. That’s what couples did.
But Dace hadn’t agreed.
I know it’s supposed to be a woman’s decision. The hell with that. It’s our decision, Jolie. Yours and mine. Let’s not think about what would be easiest. Let’s think about what could be. We could be a family. You just have to give us a chance.
It’d taken him weeks, but he’d worn her down. She shook her head numbly. Useless to wonder how he’d shattered defenses a lifetime in the making. Dace Recker was a bulldozer when he wanted something, and as a negotiator he’d been well versed in the art of persuasion.
And if she were honest she’d admit that Dace could undermine her guard the way no one else had ever managed. He’d hit on the one thing she’d long ago stopped hoping for. A family.
“Where’s your mother?”
Jolie’s head jerked at Hart’s question. She glanced over at the agents’ table. “Bathroom.” How long had the woman been gone? She looked toward the back, where the restrooms were housed, then did a quick scan of the room. But her mind wasn’t really on what she saw.
Trixie’s voice resonated in her mind. Neither of us was meant to be mothers. The words only wounded because Jolie had feared the same thing all along.
Something nagged at her, finally making its way through her misery. She looked around at the occupants more carefully, lingering at the empty stool at the counter. A moment later the man she’d seen sitting there made his way from the back. But he bypassed the place he’d sat. Left the cup of coffee he’d ordered and headed out the front door.
Jolie slid out of the booth and strode rapidly to the restroom. Suspicion bloomed quickly where Trixie was concerned. And in most cases it was warranted.
She pushed open the door, saw no one standing at the sinks. But a quick glance pinpointed Trixie’s location. Her brightly colored handbag was on the floor near the closed door of the stall. Without a word, Jolie crossed to the door and reached beneath it, snagging the bag.
“What the hell? You picked the wrong woman to steal from, bitch!” The stall door was flung open and Trixie hurtled from the opening, nearly stopping in mid-motion when she saw Jolie emptying her bag onto the vanity counter.
Lipsticks. Three of them. A set of keys, maybe to her old apartment.
“Gimme that!” Trixie screeched, making a grab for the purse.
Jolie easily deflected the movement, continuing her inventory. Crumpled receipts, yellowed with age. A list of phone numbers. A billfold with—surprisingly—fifty dollars in it. A wallet. Flipping it open, she was not surprised to see Agent Hart’s unsmiling visage staring back at her from the ID. And finally—what she’d been dreading, but expecting. A small clear baggie filled with white crystals. Enough to keep Trixie in a drug-induced haze for the next forty-eight hours.
“That’s mine!” The older woman launched herself at Jolie, grabbing at the arm holdin
g the baggie aloft. Her grip was amazingly strong, the invectives that spewed from her mouth amazingly imaginative. “You got no right to take my stuff. I paid for that!”
“I suspect that Agent Hart paid for it. Indirectly.” Jolie dodged the fist Trixie swung at her, but didn’t manage to evade the kick sent to her leg. Her sutured wound screamed at the impact.
“You think you can take over my life? Who asked you? Who wanted you?” The woman screamed the words as she struck out wildly, biting, hitting, kicking. “I don’t need no one telling me what to do. I don’t need you! Too bad that bomb didn’t blow you to hell and back!”
“Yeah, too bad.” Unable to subdue the woman any other way, Jolie finally wrapped her arms around her in an unbreakable restraint. Trixie’s wild struggles didn’t lessen, and Jolie adjusted her stance, ready to take her down if necessary.
She caught sight of their reflection in the mirrors over the vanity and stilled. A part of her shifted away, allowing her to view the scene objectively. The slight short-haired blonde with grim eyes. A bleak expression. The X-ray-thin haggard older woman screaming obscenities, her face and body a silent testament to her lifestyle.
It occurred to Jolie that this was the first time she’d touched her mother since she’d been a child. And the sadness that swept over her nearly made her weep.
“It’s my life, ain’t it?” Worn out by her struggles, Trixie sagged in Jolie’s arms, her breathing heavy and raspy. “Damn cancer’s going to kill me anyway. I got a right to choose how I wanna die, don’t I?”
Mesmerized by their reflection, Jolie couldn’t look away. “I don’t think so,” she murmured achingly. “I think we get to choose how we’re going to live. Dying is out of our hands.”
CHAPTER 8
Special Agent Anthony Dawson took his beeping pager from his pocket and looked at the screen. “Special Agent Truman will be here any minute.” Dace glanced up from the surveillance pictures he had spread across the coffee table as the agent rose, stretched and crossed to the kitchen to retrieve his suit jacket from the back of one of the stools.