No Law (Law #3)

by Camille Taylor

  Her apartment wasn’t big. She had no dining area, which was fine by her since she didn’t require the room, always eating at the kitchen counter, sitting on one of the stools the rental agency had provided. Sometimes she sat on the white leather sofa to eat, the basic black coffee in front of her. Everything other than her clothes and linens were either rented or had come with the apartment.

  When she had returned home from abroad, taking the job at Hamilton’s, she had still been somewhat disheartened. At the time, she hadn’t cared where she lived or how for that matter. Owning nothing more than the clothes in her suitcase and the money in her bank account. She had found the listing in the Post, a fully furnished one bedroom, and had taken it. Even now she had found no reason to change her décor or create a nest. In a way, she supposed she was waiting for the other shoe to drop, when she would have to pack up and move. Since Moscow, she had learned to travel light, fitting everything she owned into a suitcase she could easily handle.

  In the year she had lived in St. Petersburg after the Moscow Incident, she had moved every couple of months, never bothering with a land line, carrying around an unlisted cell number instead. She had been unsure if the mafiya would return to put her down. The first time she had believed she was being followed was the first in a long line of sleepless nights and endless moves.

  She had learned quite quickly to be afraid and had inevitably become somewhat paranoid. Her weight plummeted, putting her health in danger. She had been a nervous wreck and had no desire to become one again. While she tried to believe she wouldn’t allow it a second time, she doubted she had any choice in the matter. It hadn’t been until a few years ago when she had truly believed herself safe. She had let her guard down, finally decided to get on with her life.

  Now, she was back on the mob’s radar. She hadn’t liked it when the boss had pinned her with a look and had flatly asked her if they’d previously met. She had never felt so relieved when after racking her brain had realized that no, she had never met him. But had he been one of the top members of the Bratva privy to the Kremlin Incident, it wouldn’t take much for him to remember.

  Her name had been widely published in The Moscow Times and The Moscow News but thankfully it had been as Carey Thomas, not Madigan, although she admitted it wouldn’t be difficult for him to find out whatever he wanted to about her. She shuddered to think of the results she’d get just by typing her name into Google.

  She turned on the television and bypassed all the news channels. She didn’t want another reminder of Brian’s death or to see any of the footage the cameraman had shot. After all, she saw Brian every time she closed her eyes. She located a comedy and stuck with it, moving into her bedroom with her glass of wine, kicking off the torture device known as her shoes. It would be a long time before she put on that particular pair again.

  The laughter from the television filled the apartment, making her feel less alone. There was nothing worse than being able to hear the building settle at night, or hear the laughter or shouting coming from the neighboring apartments. Turning on her shower, she stripped down as she waited for the water to turn hot.

  The water rained down on her, wetting her hair. She planted the palms of her hands on the cold tiles beside the faucet, allowing the wall to hold her up as she practically melted under the spray’s relaxing motion. Half an hour later, with her hair washed and her legs shaved, she stepped out and began her nightly ritual of moisturizing.

  She dressed in a comfy pair of cotton shorts and oversized t-shirt that had once belonged to Alan. It was one of the only things she had left of him. She finished her wine and refilled her glass in the kitchen before sitting down at her desk, ignoring the fact that just beyond the thick fabric lay a balcony with a magnificent view.

  She had hidden it, pretending it didn’t exist, since it was a constant reminder of the times she and Alan would sit on their balcony in Moscow. It was a bittersweet memory, just as all her memories of her husband were. She preferred not to dwell on them. Pulling out a notepad, she set to work listing all the things she could think of that Brian was privy to that might make him seem valuable to the Russians.

  She doubted the detective would look into the matter, having set his sights on her, and Carey knew she didn’t want to be blindsided again or in a vulnerable position surrounded by Mikhail or his men. Of course if she going to avoid it, she needed to know why they had been interested in Brian in the first place. If he’d done something stupid and made off with the mob’s money, she needed to know. The more confrontations she could avoid, the better.

  An hour and a half later, no more enlightened than she had been earlier in the evening and more than just a little frustrated, she collapsed on her bed. Her eyelids were too heavy to remain open any longer and sleep invaded her mind.

  Chapter 5

  Mikhail’s informant told him that the woman’s name was Carey Madigan. Her vibrant red hair and blue-green eyes seemed so familiar, yet Mikhail couldn’t place her. He leaned back in the soft leather chair in his office, his fingers steepled as he stared forward and pondered the situation.

  She didn’t seem the type to frequent his nightclubs in Alexandria nor did she seem the type to be mixed up with one of his many illegal activities. He had lucked out with Brian, until the man’s luck had run out. But he knew he should know her; somewhere deep down in his subconscious he did. It was only retrieving that knowledge that was frustrating.

  He was certain he’d never seen her before at the museum any of the times he’d met with Brian. There were no photos of her in her office but the gnawing sense of familiarity was embedded deep within him. He would have to do some research on the woman, just to bring peace to his mind. It would also be wise to keep tabs on her and if she became an obstacle he would simply remove her.

  He was well aware that the police had already spoken with her, although his informant had told him the detective was looking towards her as the perpetrator. Which suited him fine, because he had little interest in having the cops show up at his door. There was also little evidence of him in Nichols’s office. He’d always taken pains never to touch anything, but Ms. Madigan had seen him, certainly well enough that should she be called upon, could positively I.D. him. He had no doubt whatsoever she’d noticed every detail about him, because a woman in her line of work was paid to spot little inconsistencies.

  She was an unknown factor and he hated not being in control of every situation. It had taken more than blood and sweat for him to ascend to his level and knew that his position was never stable. If he messed up, he would be dealt with and another would take his place, which brought him back to his current dilemma. He had been wrong to involve Nichols. Sure, Brian had been hungry enough to take the money but just not smart enough to finalize his part of the deal.

  It really shouldn’t have surprised him. He had been told by his informant that Nichols’s assistant did everything for him. The one time the woman hadn’t done his job for him, and he fucked up. His mind once more returned to Carey. She was Brian’s assistant, so she might know where the shipment is. If not, she certainly had the ability to find it for him.

  His buyer was running out of patience. Such merchandise didn’t come on the black market often. He was willing to pay three times the amount he would pay in a legal auction. He had to get it soon. His boss in Moscow wouldn’t be happy to learn he had failed.

  His men knocked lightly and stepped into the office. They were both burley and mean as snakes. They could put some fear into Carey Madigan. He knew from experience it wouldn’t take much. Women were more susceptible to his men’s charms. By the time he got round to talking to her, she’d be singing like a canary—wasn’t that the colloquialism Americans loved to use?

  He gave his instructions to his men, Vasily and Grigori, to find Carey Madigan and bring her to him. He wanted to know exactly what the fire-haired woman knew. He remembered how she reacted at the museum, her eyes watchful, her face composed.

  What else does s
he know? Did that no good Brian Nichols confide in her? Was he sleeping with her and let something slip during pillow talk? Was that why Brian had been so determined she leave, that she knew nothing? That she was nothing but a glorified assistant?

  He had recently learned it was her who had demanded the police be called so close after they left. They had almost found themselves in a difficult position with the museum’s guards.

  She was unlike any woman he had ever met. He didn’t know her, had only spoken a few words with her, but he sensed there was more there than what met the eye. He was looking forward to getting to know her, in exquisite detail.

  Chapter 6

  Special Agent Lucas Gates smiled into the phone as he listened to his wife excitedly tell him what his rogue of a child had gotten up to that day. He looked across his desk at the recent photo of his family that his brother-in-law had taken a few weeks ago. He still couldn’t believe he had been so fortunate to find Elena and to hold onto her. He was still surprised that Elena had wanted him in return, especially since he wasn’t the easiest man to get along with.

  His job in particular was dangerous and he often had to put in long hours, sometimes getting home long after his wife had gone to bed. Her only stipulation had been that he woke her up the minute he did get home. He heard the baby gurgle, obviously being held on Elena’s hip as she spoke with him. His smile grew and he no doubt resembled a grinning idiot.

  How he loved them.

  “I shouldn’t be too late tonight,” he said in response to Elena’s question. “I have a couple of things left to do then I’ll be coming home.”

  His eyes widened as Elena said something not appropriate for any child to hear. “You kiss our child with that mouth?” he asked as he fought for control over his body which currently had a mind of its own. He had found over the years that he needn’t be in the same room as Elena for him to get hard. Just the mere thought of her was enough to send him spiraling into desire. It had been four years since he had first met her. He had loved her then and loved her even more now. They had seen their fair share of ups and downs, some more exotic than others such as government agencies chasing them or family members that required saving, not to mention the more domestic tasks, but they had muddled through.

  He was particularly glad with the way he had handled things, having had no experience in long-term arrangements in the past. Elena had experienced a happy previous marriage until her husband had died. He knew she loved him with everything she had, so he had never once felt jealous. He knew it was possible for someone to love more than one person, just in different ways.

  “I know,” he replied. “I love you too. You go bathe the baby and I’ll see you soon, I promise.”

  Hanging up, he contemplated his life. Their relationship had started off rocky, not counting the several thousand miles between them with Elena in Russia and he in the U.S. It wasn’t long after Elena’s husband had died that they had worked a case together, but it hadn’t been until Dmitry had found himself in hot water, another eighteen months later, that he’d seen her again and when he had, their emotions had run riot with both of them concerned that maybe the other had lost interest. Instead, feelings and emotions had intensified, almost burning them up when they had finally become one.

  Even after that, Elena had been somewhat reluctant to take the plunge to marriage. It had taken more than convincing her on his part, it had taken perseverance and persuasion. The promise never to leave her. He’d known the futility of that, even without the odds of his job, the likelihood of preventing such a thing was nonexistent. In the end it had been her decision, her faith in him and what they had that made her take the leap and ever since then, he was thankful for bringing Elena into his life.

  His brother-in-law, Dmitry, knocked briefly on the door to his office before entering. It had become Dmitry’s custom not to wait for an answer. He sauntered confidently over to him, dropping a manila folder on his desk. “Can you let Elena know the Harper file has been closed?”

  He raised a thick blond eyebrow at the interruption, not that he would’ve expected anything less from Dmitry, who like him tended to believe he owned the place or at the very least had more than a right to be there, calling the shots.

  “Already? I’m sure she’ll be pleased to know that. You know how she gets involved in her cases.”

  “Sure, didn’t want the grass to grow beneath my feet. Oh, and by the way, Fitzgibbon wants you to start on the Duncan file straight away.”

  He groaned. Special Agent in Charge James Fitzgibbon, his boss, had taken him under his wing as a green agent and had changed his entire outlook on life. He was more than grateful to him for offering both Elena and Dmitry jobs within the CIA which allowed them to stay in the country with him. Not that they both didn’t deserve the jobs they received, each of them being more than qualified for the positions, Elena in the Liaison Unit and Dmitry in Cyber Tech.

  Lucas leaned back in his chair, putting his hands behind his head as he thought. “Elena’s going to kill me. She expects me home within the next few hours,” he said.

  He reached over, lifted the phone handset and began dialing a number from memory. Dmitry stepped forward and hit the release button before the line could connect. “Go home, Lucas,” Dmitry said. “Elena needs you now more than ever. I’ll do the initial workup of the file and if I find anything that requires immediate attention, I’ll handle it. Trust me. You go home and be with your wife. Besides, she will kill me if I let you stay here.”

  He chuckled. “That she would. But she’d also understand if it’s something that needs to be done.”

  “Yeah, but it’s something I can handle so go before I change my mind.”

  Lucas studied him for a minute. “Are you sure?”

  Dmitry grinned. “Absolutely. I have no life.”

  Lucas found it hard to believe the good-looking man with the cool grey eyes, so much like his sister’s, would ever be lacking female company. He tried to remember the last time he’d seen a woman on Dmitry’s arm and came up blank. Was the poor man in a slump? He could certainly understand if any of them took a look at his apartment. One wall was nothing but ceiling to floor computer hardware. The man could be a real nerd at times, which of course had helped Lucas out once or twice in the past, so he wasn’t about to complain. He could barely manage to get his cell phone to work let alone anything else.

  “What you need is to get a woman. They’ll suck up all your free time, not to mention—” He glanced around as if expecting to find Elena standing there. He turned back around to face Dmitry and gave him a sheepish look.

  “Yeah, well, as soon as I meet one who interests me, believe me, I’ll be holding onto her,” he stated matter-of-factly.

  He could see that. Dmitry was hardly the type to play the field, preferring to spend his free time working on the next big computer software program than bar-hopping. He also knew it took the whole package to interest Dmitry and get him away from a computer. He prayed that the woman who did eventually fall for Dmitry would be able to hold her own against him. Russians seemed to be a stubborn lot, or at least the ones he knew were. He smiled at his brother-in-law with gratitude and stood, collecting his suit jacket from the back of his chair.

  “I owe you, man, big time. Anything you want, you got it.”

  “Don’t you worry, Lucas, one day I’ll collect,” Dmitry replied as he left the office.

  Chapter 7

  Detective Robert Harrington flicked through the crime scene photos. It seemed so cut and dry, but he knew it wasn’t, and as much as he would like to pin the murder of Brian Nichols on Carey Madigan, the woman had an airtight alibi. Still that didn’t exonerate her of having hired someone else to kill her boss. She was the only one at the museum with a clear-cut motive to kill the man. The fact that she was now acting in his position was suspicious, yet not proof enough.

  So he continued to search, looking into other possible motives and people of interest. Many people believed police
work—particularly a detective’s job—was exciting. Firing a gun, chasing down the bad guys, and all that jazz. What they failed to see was the tedious job of talking to people whose first instinct was to lie and the alibis that needed to be checked and verified. He was constantly buried beneath a pile of paperwork and had to write reports for every time he drew his weapon, not to mention the never-ending forms should he happen to fire that weapon.

  The murder of Brian Nichols was simple. It had only taken one bullet and the man was dead. The murderer a master shot. He doubted the academically inclined Madigan had a chance to hone her firearm skills at the local gun club, and due to the mess, it was clear someone was looking for something. Had it been Carey, surely she would’ve known where to look or could have spent some time periodically going through the files.

  Unless she wanted it to look that way. He wouldn’t put it past her. Carey had the intelligence to put such a plan together, and he knew he shouldn’t underestimate her.

  Her financials should be able to shed some light, though he wasn’t counting on it. He didn’t see her making such a foolish mistake.

  Despite this, he would keep an eye on her, track her movements and check into her contacts. Though he believed that somehow she was responsible, even indirectly or as a co-conspirator, he wouldn’t focus entirely on her. He’d known cases to go cold because every avenue hadn’t been investigated, the right buttons not pushed. It was easy to overlook an important fact or key piece of evidence when you were focused on one train of thought, desperately trying to prove what wasn’t there.