You Can't Escape (9781420134650)

by Bush, Nancy

  She stuck her nose inside the menu, the words an indistinct blur. She and Dance had made love a number of times in the last twenty-four hours with no regard for protection. She was fairly confident that it wasn’t a time she could get pregnant, but she was a bit astonished at the way she’d thrown caution to the wind. Hell, she hadn’t even really thought about it, which was . . . well, crazy.

  “I’ve been thinking about the bombing,” Dance said, after the waitress had come by and taken their order for a beer and a Diet Coke. “I’m going to give this detective the audiotape, but I don’t think that’s why Saldano Industries was hit. I gave Max the tape. He was concerned about what was on it, worried something was going on through the warehouse they knew nothing about. I’m sure he told Victor about it, and maybe the word got out . . . but for someone to deliver a bomb? That’s hard-core. And let’s say they knew the tape was in the safe in Max’s office, which is where Max said he put it, would they really bomb the building for it?”

  Jordanna shook her head, dispelling the remnants of her own thoughts. “I’ve never thought the bombing was about the audiotape,” she told him. “You didn’t, either, in the hospital.”

  He smiled faintly. “What I knew in the hospital was that Max wasn’t there when he was supposed to be. That’s about as far as I got.”

  “But you felt threatened. That’s why you came with me. Maybe it was at a gut level, but you knew something was wrong.”

  Dance reached across the table and clasped her hands. “Maybe I was just weak . . . injured.”

  “I think the bomb was meant for you,” Jordanna told him. “That hasn’t changed.”

  “But why? I didn’t have anything on the Saldanos. I was looking into their operation, but it was low-key. No big investigation.”

  “Yet. You were going to be ramping up, because that’s what you do,” she reminded him, “once you have some evidence.”

  “But the audiotape doesn’t really give anything. It’s two guys maybe planning to smuggle in some illegal product, or maybe it’s just two guys bullshitting. The point is, it was never enough evidence of a crime on its own. That’s why I gave it to Max.”

  The waitress appeared with their drinks. Dance let go of her hands and sat back. When they were alone again, he said, “Logically, an attack on me doesn’t make sense.”

  “But you felt it, too. The danger. And it wasn’t just because you were hurt.”

  “Yeah . . .” He frowned.

  At that moment, a tall, dark-haired man pushed through the saloon doors. Lean and rugged in jeans and boots, he looked like he fit right in to the Rock Springs cowboy crowd. Spying them, he came straight over. His eyes were blue, a bit grayer than Dance’s, and he thrust out a hand to him, which Dance shook.

  “August Rafferty,” he said, pulling out his ID for them both to examine. As he tucked it back, he shook Jordanna’s hand as well, and said, “You’re Jay Danziger and Jordanna Winters.”

  “Yes, we are,” Dance said, as Jordanna slid her Coke to Dance’s side of the table, then took a seat beside him, inviting the detective to sit down across from them.

  “Let me start by saying I’m not on the Saldano case any longer,” the detective jumped right in. “The feds have taken it over, and starting tomorrow, I’ll likely be assigned to something else. As far as I know, the feds are concentrating on the Saldanos and their business.” He looked at Jordanna. “They haven’t focused on you yet, but they will. Camera footage from Saldano Industries puts you there at the time of the bombing. They’re going to want to know what you were doing.”

  “I was following Dance,” she said.

  “My nickname,” Dance supplied.

  “Why were you following him?” he asked Jordanna.

  “Because I’m a reporter, and I guess you’d say an admirer,” she admitted, after a brief hesitation, “and I thought he was in danger.”

  “You thought he was in danger prior to the bombing?” he asked, brows lifting.

  “Just an intuition. Maybe a wrong one.” She shrugged.

  “Did you feel like you were in danger?” he asked Dance.

  “Some, maybe. There’s always a level of danger when you’re investigating a possible smuggling operation. . . .” Quickly, he explained about the audiotape and the fact that he’d given a copy to Max but another was in his safe deposit box. He finished with, “The man who made the tape had already left Saldano Industries by the time he gave it to me. He didn’t want the repercussions of being a whistleblower.”

  “You should have told us this immediately,” he said.

  “Yes, I should’ve,” Dance conceded. “But, I don’t think it’s the reason for the bombing.” He then related to Rafferty what he and Jordanna had just discussed.

  “I’d like to listen to the tape,” he said.

  “I’ll give you my copy, once I get it from the safe deposit box. I can get it to you tomorrow, after my bank opens.”

  “I’m driving him back,” Jordanna put in. “He doesn’t have a car here.”

  Rafferty mulled that over and said to Dance, “I thought the reason you hightailed out of the hospital so fast was because you thought you were in danger.”

  “I’m ready to get some things straight with Maxwell,” Dance said, by way of an answer.

  “If part of getting things straight includes telling him that you and Carmen are legally divorced, he and Victor already know,” the detective admitted. “I told them.”

  “Carmen was the one who wanted to keep that a secret. Wonder how it went over.” Dance was faintly amused. “She’s back now, I take it.”

  “Yep. And in case you’re wondering, she had your vehicle towed back to your house. She’s unhappy with how we’ve handled the investigation, specifically that we didn’t put out an APB on you. The last I spoke to her, she said she was hiring a private investigator.”

  “Well, I guess I’ve got to do some straightening out with her, too,” Dance said, his long-suffering tone drawing a smile to Rafferty’s lips.

  He sobered rapidly, however. “You’ll have to talk to the feds, too.”

  Dance nodded slowly, accepting the inevitable.

  “Is there anything else you can tell us about the investigation into the bombing?” Jordanna asked.

  He said carefully, “I can only tell you what’s already been reported.”

  “We haven’t really been keeping up with the news,” Jordanna said, thinking of their rustic living arrangements.

  If Rafferty wondered why, he didn’t ask. “The investigation’s proceeding. Progress is being made. I can tell you that the bomb was simple, but effective, and triggered by a remote.”

  “Remote,” Dance repeated. “There was no timing mechanism?”

  “Whoever deployed it, did it wirelessly. It still may have been set up for a certain time, or it may have happened instantly, at the push of a button. We don’t know that yet.”

  “It wasn’t the audiotape,” Jordanna broke in. “Dance could have made ten copies, a hundred, thousands . . . so what good would that do to bomb the building to remove the tape? Dance said there wasn’t that much on it anyway.” She looked at him for corroboration, and he shrugged and nodded, so she plowed on. “You want to know what I think?” she asked the detective. “This is about Dance. I’ve said it all along, and I’m saying it now.” She turned to Dance once again. “This is about you. You’re the threat. The investigator who won’t give. The terrier with a reputation for uncovering deep corporate secrets. Whoever it is isn’t trying to get rid of evidence. They’re trying to get rid of the man who seeks that evidence.”

  There was a moment of silence as the waitress came to take their food order. As soon as she was gone, Rafferty gave Jordanna a long look.

  “I’m kinda thinking you’re right,” he said.

  Rafferty ordered the Longhorn’s Sunday breakfast—bacon, eggs, hash browns, and toast—while Dance had another Reuben and Jordanna picked at a green salad with limp-looking vegetables. They wen
t over the case for another hour, with Rafferty still careful to give them only what had already been reported, and Dance only half-convinced he was the bomber’s ultimate target. The more they talked, the less comfortable Jordanna became.

  “I don’t want you to go,” she finally said to Dance, when Rafferty took a trip to the men’s room.

  “I don’t intend to stay long. After I get Rafferty the audiotape and meet with Max, I could be back by tomorrow night.”

  “What’s all this ‘I’ stuff? I’m going with you.”

  “I thought I might catch a ride with Rafferty. Bring back my own car.”

  She was taken aback. “That’s what you want to do?”

  “I want to stay with you,” he said. “But I want to take care of this, too.”

  “You’re going to run into Carmen,” she said, then was shocked and slightly embarrassed that she’d mentioned that fear aloud.

  “She’s my ex for a reason,” he assured her.

  Yeah, but does she really feel that way? Jordanna had no claim on him, and these past few days had been unreal, fraught with tension and danger. She didn’t want to have him face the Saldanos without her, but she also sensed he’d already made up his mind.

  “You’ve got a lot going on here,” he said, “and I intend to be a part of it, when I get back. Somebody moved that body, and if the police are dragging their feet, I want to get on it and find out who.”

  She nodded. He was right. She knew he was right.

  “Don’t take any chances, while I’m gone,” he said suddenly.

  “That’s my line.”

  He smiled. “Hey, I’m going back with the law.”

  “Yeah, but Rafferty’s not going to be with you the whole time.” She drew a quick breath. “How will I get hold of you?”

  For an answer, he pulled his phone, wallet, and keys from his pocket. “I’ve kept all my stuff together. I’ll pick up a charger at the house and call you as soon as the phone’s up again. We’ll get Rafferty’s cell number. You can call him if you need to reach me.”

  “He called my cell, so it’s on my phone already.”

  “Good.”

  Again, she’d barely touched her meal, but she had no appetite. “While you’re gone, I’ll talk to my father,” she told him. “I should’ve before, but after what Mrs. Fowler said, I’ve got a ton more questions.”

  “Think of him as a source,” Dance said softly, sliding his arm around her, his chin on the top of her head.

  She leaned into him and closed her eyes. What was happening between them felt so fragile. She was afraid this separation would break it. “You’re coming back.” It was said as a statement, but she heard the pleading in her voice, whether he did or not.

  “Yes,” Dance said firmly, as the detective returned to the booth.

  Her cell phone rang and she thought about ignoring it, but she plucked it from her purse and looked at the caller. Rusty. She let it go to voice mail, not wanting to miss a moment of Dance and Rafferty’s conversation. When Dance asked him if he could cadge a ride back to Portland with him, Rafferty was more than willing. As she processed the fact that he was really leaving, she heard the ping that announced she had a text. She ignored the text, but it hardly mattered as Dance and Rafferty’s conversation had moved right on by, decisions made, the deal set. She felt left out, and it frustrated her, especially when it looked like Dance was planning to take off immediately, not even go back to the homestead. “I’ll pick up some more clothes at home and come straight back,” he assured her.

  Jordanna nodded, but a cold feeling had settled in her gut. A sense of impending doom. Everything was happening too fast, and she was powerless to change anything. As they walked out of the restaurant in a group, she forced herself to swallow back her fears and misgivings.

  “I guess this is it,” she said, then was surprised, gratified, and half embarrassed when Dance suddenly gathered her close and gave her a long kiss by the hitching post outside the Longhorn’s entryway.

  “Don’t sound so final,” he told her. “See you tomorrow. . . .”

  He watched the kiss from across the street, feeling both disgusted and sexually thrilled in a way he knew he shouldn’t. Temptation. That’s what the Treadwell women were. Satan’s little joke. But he wasn’t going to give in again. With curiosity, he watched the two men climb into a Jeep and head one way, and Jordanna move to her own vehicle and go the other. The Jeep was aimed north, but Jordanna was heading south, the same direction as the Treadwell homestead. She and her lover were separating? Now what was this about?

  Opportunity, he realized.

  He eased his truck onto the main street and began following her. Had to be careful. Couldn’t let anyone see. God loved the patient man.

  Jordanna was halfway back to the house, her energy on a slow downward spiral, when she concluded she needed to go back to town. She’d put off talking to her father for most of her adult life, and now that she’d told Dance she was going to speak with him, she wanted it done. She wanted closure on her past.

  She turned around, her face set. The truth was, she’d balked about facing her father because deep down, she felt guilty. Guilty about firing at him, blaming him for everything, including her mother’s death. After all this time, she didn’t know what she’d really seen between Emily and her father. Maybe in truth she’d just wanted someone to blame for everything bad that had happened in those years.

  Wasn’t that what Dr. Eggers tried to tell you? Transference, she said. Shifting blame to someone or something unrelated because you can’t blame the responsible party.

  She was heading down Rock Springs’s main street, toward the housing development where she knew her father and Jennie had moved, but when she passed the Garrett Hotel, she spied her father himself, his hand on the small of Jennie’s back, holding the door open for his bride. They were undoubtedly having lunch at the hotel restaurant.

  Well, okay. She’d meet them there. She took a left at the next intersection, which put her on the street that ran right in front of the offices of the Pioneer. Turning through their lot, she drove back to the center of town, sliding into a parking spot across from the hotel. The street was near empty, as most of the shops on either side of the street were closed on Sunday.

  She was conscious of the fact that her father had been in slacks, a dress shirt, and a navy blazer while Jennie had been put together in a white dress with a matching bolero, piped in scarlet, her heels the exact shade of red as the piping. She glanced down at her own jeans, sweater, and boots. What the hell. This was a cowboy town, right?

  “Welcome to the Garrett Hotel,” a young woman with a ponytail and perfect white teeth greeted her from the maître d’ stand. In her arms was a stack of leather-bound menus, the little tassels sticking out from their bottom edges swinging jauntily. “Do you have a reservation?”

  “Um, no, I’m joining Dr. Winters’s party,” Jordanna said.

  That threw her. “We have Dr. and Mrs. Winters at a table for two, but we could move them to that one?” She pointed to a table nestled in the bowed space created by three windows.

  “Sounds great.”

  The Garrett Hotel was modeled after the original structure, which was built circa 1890-ish. It had been demolished nearly a century ago and rebuilt at least twice since. Jordanna had been inside the main-floor restaurant several times, and though she suspected the brown short-pile carpet was new, the white gauzy curtains, the bell-shaped light fixtures, the gatherings of oak tables and chairs, and the cabbage rose mauve wallpaper were just as she remembered.

  She followed after the maître d’ to the rear corner of the room, where her father and Jennie had just been served champagne glasses filled with orange juice. Knowing their tastes, she doubted there was any champagne involved.

  “Jordanna,” her father said in surprise, half rising from his seat.

  The girl with the menus said, “We have a table for three in the front, if that’s okay?”

  Her fat
her blinked once, and Jennie’s mouth dropped open in silent query.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Jordanna put in.

  “Thank you,” Dayton said to the girl, recovering quickly. He held out a hand to his wife, who gathered up her glass of orange juice and his, and then moved ahead of them to the new table, shooting an anxious look back at Jordanna.

  Once they were all seated and the girl had deposited new menus, Jennie asked, “Where’s your friend, Mr. Danziger?”

  “Dance was called back to Portland,” Jordanna said.

  Jennie looked from Jordanna to Dayton, clearly thrown by Jordanna barging in, but she said, “I’m so glad you joined us.”

  “Yes,” her father said, his blue eyes a bit careful, as if he was afraid of what might be coming next. She could hardly blame him.

  “We just came from church,” Jennie said, trying hard not to stare too pointedly at Jordanna’s clothes.

  “I figured.” Now that she was here, Jordanna hardly knew where to start.

  Her father took the reins. “I talked to Greer at church this morning. He said you found a woman’s body in the old Benchley Cemetery, but that the body was later missing.”

  Greer Markum. Jennie’s father. “That’s true, but he didn’t believe me.” Jordanna was curt.

  Jennie fussed with her napkin, and her father said, “He questions your judgment, Jordanna. But he did say something had been buried there that was removed.”

  “Well, goody.”

  “Daddy’s very thorough,” Jennie murmured.

  Jordanna addressed her father. “Did he also tell you I think it might be Bernadette Fread, and that she had an upside-down cross branded onto her buttock, just like the ‘homeless’ victim three years ago?”

  Lines formed between her father’s brows. “Branded?”