by Nina Bruhns
Her head spun. Deane? A dirty cop? “I can’t believe you’d do this.”
“Believe it, sweet cakes.” Charlie rose as Deane scooped up the photos. “Now, go pack your make-up and a bikini. Where we’re going, you won’t be needing anything else.”
Chapter Sixty-One
Bridger stood among his mother’s roses, his hands jammed in his pockets, contemplating his future.
He was already over thirty, and what did he have to show for it? He glanced over to where his dad was fiddling with a sprinkler head on the lawn. By his age, his dad had made detective, had owned this house for ten years, had his wife die, and was raising an unruly kid all on his own.
By comparison, Bridger’s own exploits—on and off the job—seemed selfish, trite, and hollow.
The past week had shown him just how empty his life really was. He missed her terribly—Mary Alice, his red-haired angel. She’d gotten under his skin as he’d thought no woman ever could. He wanted her. He needed her. Thoughts of her filled his every waking moment, leaving a black craving in his soul. Like a bad habit he couldn’t shake.
But she was no bad habit. She’d been good for him. So very good. And he knew the last thing he wanted was to shake her.
Well, maybe some sense into her…
Like a fool, he had let her walk out of his miserable life.
Oh, yeah, Mr. Tough Guy. He’d figured he could do just swell without her. He’d done fine before, and could again. Hell, there were lots of redheads whose skin was silky and body willing.
But he hadn’t counted on missing Mary Alice in every way imaginable, and some he never would have thought. From the way she brushed her teeth in the morning to the sound of her silly Snoopy slippers clicking on the floor as she cooked him dinner.
He loved her more than life itself, and he’d just let her walk away.
What a prime idiot.
She hadn’t come crawling back, either—hadn’t even phoned him. It looked as if she had every intention of staying away from him permanently, just as she’d said she would. Because of his damned job.
The hell of it was, Bridge couldn’t blame her. Hadn’t he vowed never to get seriously involved because of his job? Tipping back his head, he gazed up at the sky and groaned. Okay, so he’d made the top of the certified list and had told the captain he’d take the jump to lieutenant. But would that make life so much safer that Mary Alice would give him another chance?
Did it even give him the right to ask?
“Looks like you’ve got the weight of the universe on your shoulders, son.”
He looked over at his dad, who stood beside him, vise grips and a broken sprinkler in his hand.
“I’m up for lieutenant,” he said.
“Hey, congratulations! Finally came to your senses, eh?”
A smile tugged at Bridge’s mouth. The old man had nagged him almost as much as the cap had. “Yeah, I guess. Couldn’t turn down the big bucks.”
His dad grinned, then grew serious. “What’s the problem, then?”
Bridge scanned the horizon. “No problem.” The quick upward movement of his dad’s bushy eyebrows caught his eye.
Much too casually, his dad said, “So. How’s it going with that young woman you’re seeing? When do I get to meet her?”
Bridger chuffed out a breath. “She left me.”
His dad nearly choked in surprise. “Well, that’s a switch. Tough break, son.”
“Yeah.”
“You want her back?”
“Yeah.” Bridge shot a hand through his hair. “Hell, I don’t know. I shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve got no right.”
His dad cocked his head, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “On account of what?” Concern limned his voice. It was the old good-cop routine.
What the hell, Bridge could spill with the best of them. “Mary Alice doesn’t want to end up like Mama. Worrying herself to death waiting for me to eat a bullet, or worse.”
The old man’s face blanched.
Bridge sighed. “I understand. I’ve always said I didn’t want a woman waiting at home for me, going slowly catatonic.” Let alone a kid who had to deal with it all.
“Listen, Russell. About your mom.” His dad took a deep breath and let it out through his nose, staring vacantly at a cat that trotted along the top of the fence. “I, uh…. There’s something you should know about what happened to your mother.”
Bridge’s cop instincts perked up when his dad swiped a hand over his face and looked around—at anywhere but at him. Bridge waited silently, his pulse notching upward. What the hell?
“I loved her, you know that,” his dad said.
Bridge nodded. “Of course.”
“There were some things you were just too young to understand. And, somehow, over the years, well… I’ve just never found the right time to talk about it.”
It was Bridge’s turn to fold his arms over his chest. He peered at his father, waiting for the boom to fall.
“It’s true, she worried when I went out. And when I was gone for days on end. But it wasn’t because she was afraid I’d be gunned down.”
Bridge scowled in confusion. “What are you saying, Dad?”
“I—”
His dad let out a groan and turned away, as if unable to bear meeting his eyes. “I cheated on her. Every time I did, I swore it wouldn’t happen again. Then, I’d walk out the door and it would. She wouldn’t leave me, because of you, but she couldn’t handle it. When she got sick, she must have figured it didn’t matter if she got better. She just let the depression take over. And I’ve had to live with myself ever since.” He looked down. “It hasn’t been easy.”
Bridge watched, stunned, as his dad took several steps into the rose garden, away from him, and swallowed.
“You’re telling me…?”
When his father turned back, his eyes were wet with tears of regret. “I’m telling you it was my own damn selfishness that wore her down, not my job. Me being a cop had nothing to do with it.”
Chapter Sixty-Two
An hour later, Bridge was storming down the sidewalk a block from the station, still trying to walk off the betrayal roiling in his stomach. He stopped in mid-stride in front of an old-fashioned plate glass storefront. Involuntarily, his eyes were drawn to a display of gold bands against a blue velvet background.
Oh, God.
His heart hurt so much he unconsciously reached up and rubbed it.
All these years his own father had lied to him.
Lied to him.
Lies that had caused Bridge to push away love and relationships because he was too afraid of what might happen should any woman get too close.
He didn’t want to think about the untold regrets that might have been in store for him if his father hadn’t found the courage to confess his lies. And he knew the reason he’d done it, too.
Mary Alice.
As long as Bridge had been happy, his father had kept up the pretense, the deception. But when he saw that his only son was miserable, and all because of his deception, he’d owned up to what he’d done—regardless of the consequences to their father-son relationship. Bridge knew eventually he’d have to find the strength to forgive his dad. But he’d deal with those feelings later.
Right now, he had to fight his way through the morass of emotions clutching at his guts, and figure out what to do about Mary Alice.
Not that there was any question in his mind.
He refocused his gaze on the gold rings displayed in the window before him. Deep down, he’d known all along what he wanted. This new information just eliminated any reservations he’d about trying.
He’d get down on his knees and beg if he had to. Then it would be up to Mary Alice whether she could accept the risks.
Before he had a chance to change his mind, he strode to his car and drove to her house. He was in luck, her car was parked in the driveway.
“Mary Alice!” he shouted as h
e burst through the unlocked door. “Where are you?”
The house echoed with silence.
Odd.
Uneasiness crawled up his spine. He would’ve heard if the Watson case had been solved, so Officer Deane should be here, at the very least. “Deane?” he called hesitantly, his inner alarms screaming.
Instinctively, he drew his weapon.
The answering quiet coiled about his nerves like a venomous serpent. The skin pricked at the back of his neck.
Throwing caution to the wind, he pounded through the house, pitching open doors and calling Mary Alice’s name.
He found nothing and nobody.
Ice slowly filled his veins and he made a calmer search, checking every possible place of concealment. There were no signs of a struggle, but Mary Alice’s dresser drawers had been left open, their contents disheveled and hanging over the sides. The closet door was gaping wide. In his time with her he couldn’t accuse her of being a neat freak, but she would never have left her room this messy.
He hurriedly checked the FBI equipment in the spare room. It had all been shut down or disassembled. His laptop sat on the desk, its lid closed.
Pursing his lips, he fingered the black plastic. He flipped up the lid and turned on the computer, frowned, and quickly punched a few keys. The hard drive had been wiped clean. There wasn’t a byte of data or software left on it.
He scowled. Thinking furiously, he walked back to the living room and carefully scanned it for any clue as to what had gone down. The question kept screaming inside his brain, over and over.
Where is Mary Alice? Where the hell is she?
He would not panic. He would not.
He’d be calm and professional about this, methodically eliminating the possibilities one by one, so he wouldn’t look like a fool or an hysterical paranoid when he called Grayson.
Like hell.
He was a fool and a hysterical paranoid, and he couldn’t afford to waste a second.
He whipped out his cell phone.
Suddenly, his frantic gaze snagged on a photo that sat half-concealed under the vase of roses in the middle of the coffee table. Reaching for it, he examined the printed photo. Miss Beadle of the Historical Rose Society beamed back at him. He pushed out a frustrated sigh and was about to toss it back onto the table when his eye snagged on something in the picture’s background.
Oh, shit.
Oh, holy fucking shit.
Chapter Sixty-Three
Mary Alice swallowed down another bout of nausea. She was locked up in the cabin of Watson’s boat. It was rocking, and she could hear the sound of waves sloshing against the hull. But it wasn’t seasickness causing her stomach to roil.
It was blind fear.
How had he managed to haul the boat from Pasadena to the marina and launch it without the police noticing? Surely, someone—
But of course, with Officer Deane in his pocket and assigned to watch him, no one would ever find out.
She looked frantically around the boat’s small salon, hoping to find something that would help her out of this mess. A phone, a baseball bat, hell, at this point she’d even welcome a gun. Anything that would allow her to escape the clutches of her neighbor and Jason Deane in one piece.
Charlie had promised he’d let her go when they reached Mexico, that he only wanted a little insurance for the trip. But she didn’t believe him. Not for a nanosecond. And even if he did eventually let her go, his eyes told her he had other plans in mind for her before he did.
She’d just as soon skip the whole unpleasant ordeal.
The cabin was depressingly bare. The boat’s long stint in Watson’s garage must have rendered things such as spear guns or even forks and knives unnecessary. She fought a rising panic.
She still couldn’t believe what was happening. Deane had always seemed so straight and narrow. Even Bridge had trusted him.
Bridge.
Tears sprang to her eyes. Where was he now? Did he know she’d been spirited off to parts unknown, against her will?
No. How could he? He’d gotten himself taken off the task force, and he had no other reason to call her.
She’d made sure of that.
A tear slipped over her lashes and trailed down her cheek. Why, oh, why had she pushed him away?
She had made a terrible mistake. On so many levels.
It didn’t matter if Bridge was a cop, or an accountant, or a test pilot, or a zoo keeper. She loved him and would worry about him regardless of what job he had. He could be an ice cream man and she’d worry about him getting frostbite.
It was too ironic that it was now her own life in danger—and specifically because she’d refused to be involved with a cop.
She drew a hand across her wet cheeks and bit her lower lip. Without Bridge, her life was empty. She knew that now. Denying their love had nothing to do with being strong, and everything to do with hiding from pain and uncertainty. Ben’s fatal prognosis had shown her there was no point in hiding. Death could find you anytime, anywhere.
Just look at her present situation. Wasn’t she the poster child for safe and secure—a nursery school teacher with a carefully constructed Master Plan For A Perfect Life? Just look at that awesome plan now. It didn’t mean shit, when push came to shove.
Hugging her canvas tote to her chest, she rose on wobbly legs and scrutinized the cabin. She had to get out of there. There must be a way.
She had to get off the boat, because she needed to find Bridge and beg him to forgive her and come back.
After what she’d done, he probably wouldn’t want to see her, let alone hear her apology. But somehow she had to make him listen. Show him she’d changed. Sure, she’d still worry when he was out on the streets chasing bad guys. But she felt certain she could handle it now—sure she would no longer feel the irrational, uncontrollable terror for his safety she’d experienced last week while he was gone. She trusted he could handle whatever was thrown at him.
And so could she.
But if she didn’t escape this damn boat, she’d never get the chance to plead her case.
So, by God, she was going to escape.
The boat’s floor rolled gently under her feet as she rechecked the portholes, the drawers and cabinets, the tiny bathroom, the extra blankets on the bunk. There was a closet with a padlock that wouldn’t budge, but other than that, there was no hint of anything useful, and no way out other than the hatch door up to the deck, which was bolted shut from the outside.
New tears of frustration clouded her vision, and she dug into the bottom of her tote for a tissue. As she blew her nose, her disheartened gaze landed on the contents of her canvas bag. Miraculously, they’d let her keep it. Maybe there was something in it she could use.
She picked up the make-up kit she’d hastily packed on Charlie’s orders, and after a thorough inspection she discarded it, followed by everything else in the tote.
Nothing she could use to escape.
Damn!
Sniffing, she finally pulled out the recorder with Bridge singing that she’d forgotten to take out at school today. Well, at least she could die hearing his voice.
She pushed the power button. As she did, something tugged at her memory. She set aside her wadded up tissue and grasped the recorder with both hands, fingering the volume knob thoughtfully.
What was it Bridge had done to capture those hoods at the convenience store up on Orange Grove?
Chapter Sixty-Four
Sam Grayson glanced incredulously at the photo Bridge thrust under his nose. “A little old lady? That’s who you think is in cahoots with Watson?”
Bridge fought back his mounting frustration and sense of urgency. “No, damn it! In the background. Look at what Watson’s gardener is doing.”
Gray took the photo and stuck it under the desk lamp. In it, Enrico was standing knee-deep in Watson’s lily pond, furtively pulling something out of the water. Something that looked suspiciously unlike plant matter. In fact, it looked like it cou
ld be a small storage drive in a Ziplock bag.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Gray looked up. “This must be how Watson’s been passing on the data. While he fiddles with the lilies in the morning he slips the bag into the water. Then the gardener fishes it out on Friday and passes it along. No wonder we never saw the exchanges with the Chinese. We’ve been watching the wrong people. You say you found the photo at Miss Flannery’s?”
Bridge nodded. “She’s gone, and so is Deane. The FBI equipment is ruined and the hard drive with all the logs on my laptop has been erased. I checked Watson’s place before I left, and the house is locked up tight as a drum. His boat is gone, too. The son of a bitch has taken her, Gray. I just know it.” His skin crawled at the very thought.
“Seems you may be right.”
Bridge slammed his fist on the desktop. “If he so much as breathes on her, I swear I’ll—”
“Calm down. Deane’s with them. Nothing will happen to her as long as he’s alive.”
“How do you know he’s with them?”
“Well, let’s see.” Gray pulled out his cell phone, punched up a text message, and turned it so Bridge could read it. “Here we are.” Deane’s text was short and to the point.
Exchange slip 17. Marina del Rey. Heading Mexico. MAC hostage.
Bridge felt his blood boil. “Fuck! He’s really got her.” He pulled his Kevlar and PPD windbreaker out of his bottom drawer. “Let’s go.”
Gray ran after him, grabbing his own vest and slipping it on as he went. “She’ll be okay.”
“I can’t believe Deane managed to get captured, too. Come to think of it, how did he get a message through?” Bridge asked, gunning the engine of his truck and slapping a cherry flasher onto the roof through the window.
Grayson snapped on his seat belt. “He’s my informant, working from the inside. We put him in Watson’s way a while back and he fell for it. Thinks Deane’s young and greedy, and has used him to keep tabs on our investigation.”
Bridge’s hair rose on his arms. “My God. Double-agenting the Chinese? The kid’s barely out of diapers! He could be killed.” The tires squealed as he peeled the truck out into traffic. “Hell, she could be killed.”