by V. R. Marks
* * *
At last he had a destination. He felt like a jerk for prying it out of her that way, but she'd just handed him a solution and he meant to use it to her advantage. "Then we'll be on our way as soon as Doc releases you."
"What about my vision?"
"You said it was improving."
She nodded, a small tight motion that said more about her emotional state than any words possibly could. "Pull on the scrubs and get some rest. We'll see how you are in the morning. No one will find us here. Do you want another ice pack?"
"No thanks."
"All right. I'll be right outside the door."
He walked toward the kitchen to return the ice pack to the freezer, telling himself it was relief, not disappointment he felt that she turned down another round of ice. Holding her again was a dumb idea that would only hurt them both. His professional life was more stable since he'd joined RC Investigations, but he was on the job and that meant resolving Nicole's problem had to be his prime focus.
Just the way he was wired.
She was a case, if not an official client, and he refused to listen to the voice in his head that shouted otherwise. They might have crossed the line a few hours ago and he might have slept better beside her than he had slept alone in years, but that didn't mean they couldn't regain some professionalism.
She'd been upset about her injury. He'd been wired from the adrenaline. Sex happened.
He rubbed a hand over his chest, unable to convince himself that the sex hadn't meant anything. That she didn't mean anything. Cursing his conscience for a fool, he parked himself in the hallway outside her door and pulled out his phone.
Sliding the device back and forth through his fingers he reviewed everything he knew about her case so far. He had her real name. He had the name of the rogue agent hunting her. If she really had the evidence she claimed – and he believed she did – it was time to take action.
Knowing he should sleep, he started scanning headlines on his phone instead. News agencies weren't reporting anything earth shattering about Nicole and he couldn't find anything about three bikers fighting it out with guns on a rural route.
He wasn't sure if that was good news or bad. Halfway through dialing Bart's number, he stopped. More than one agency kept close tabs on the man's truck stop and his friend knew how to avoid sticky situations.
Besides, the gang attack felt desperate. Inconvenient and frustrating, but desperate. He replayed the whole thing from the first biker blowing by the car to swapping weapons and vehicles with Bart.
There was no doubt in his mind if Nicole had been alone, she'd be dead. Those three had been bent on lethal action and whoever gave the order had high level access. The only logical answer, the only reasonable assumption was the DEA agent. Even well-connected gangs didn't have immediate access to traffic cameras and the ability to get inside fire investigations. Typically they didn't care.
His gut said the biker gang was secondary and no active threat to Nicole. She hadn't said anything that indicated she'd wronged anyone in that world. The bikers must have been tools sent by Clifton. He had to find a way to push the rogue agent, to make the man panic, and trip up publicly.
Rick had been involved with taking down warlords in various ugly corners of the world and none of them relinquished power without a fight. Everything he knew so far made Clifton look like a bully who believed he was above the law. Rick had zero tolerance for bullies and looked forward to serving up a little vengeance.
He sent an email to Eva, including Nicole's real name and telling her he was taking Nicole back to the marshals' office until he isolated the threat. If he was lucky, Eva would forgive him for lying because if his misdirection made her look stupid, she'd be hell bent on getting even.
But that was the kind of problem he'd look forward to once he solved Nicole's situation. He knew Clifton wouldn't go down easy. Wanting to give RC Investigations 'plausible deniability' if things turned ugly, he decided it was best if he went 'offline' from this point forward. Taking the battery out of his phone, he put the pieces in separate pockets and waited for morning.
Chapter 11
A few hours later, he heard Doc's footsteps creak on the stairs and turn down the hallway.
"You should be in a bed," he scolded.
"Morning, Doc." Rick scrubbed at his face and enjoyed a big yawn. "If she checks out, we'll be out of your way within the hour." He wanted to see those negatives as soon as possible.
The doctor grunted. "And if she doesn't?"
"Guess you'll be stuck with us." Rick laced his fingers and stretched his arms over his head. "She passed the concussion questions each time and claimed she was seeing shadows when she woke up around midnight."
"Good. Looks like you're moving well enough."
"Yes, sir."
"Pull off your shirt and let me see."
Rick obeyed, turning around. The doc prodded the wound a bit before grumbling a general approval. "Keep it clean and give it time to mend."
"Sure thing, Doc."
"Hmph." The doctor turned and rapped softly on the door. "Good morning," he said as he pushed the door open and stepped inside, Rick on his heels.
Nicole wore the scrubs and was propped up in bed, the camera in her lap. "Ah, you look refreshed today." He nodded at the camera. "Should I assume your eyesight is restored?"
"Things are still blurry, but much better."
"Good, good." He shined a light in her eyes and made her track his finger. "What's your name?"
"Nicole Livingston."
Rick breathed a quiet sigh of relief.
"And his name?" The doctor jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Rick.
"Rick Dreyer," she replied, but she didn't meet his eyes. "Will my eyesight return to one hundred percent?"
"I expect so." The doctor replied. "As the swelling eases, things should continue to improve. Let me look at those stitches."
Nicole turned around and Rick watched the doc examine her. "Hmm. If you're in this area next week you can check back with me and I'll take those out or you can have your regular physician handle it and verify your vision is stable."
Or, Rick thought, he would take them out if she was still in danger and putting up with him next week.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. Come back to the kitchen and have a good breakfast before you two head out."
"Sounds good. We'll be right behind you," Rick said.
"It's your bacon going cold," the doctor replied as he left the room.
"How are you feeling?"
"Much better. I slept well."
"Good to know. Are you really able to see?" And if the answer was yes, could she tell how much he wanted to kiss her? More importantly, had she discovered anything telling in the pictures of her charred apartment building?
"The close up details are still a challenge, but I can sort out most big things."
Like clothing, obviously. "I did the wash, but Kyle's clothes are pretty much toast. Do you want me to pick up clothes or do you want to travel in those scrubs?"
"You did the wash?"
"Someone had to," he said with a wink, wondering if she caught it. "And I figured your sorting skills weren't up to par."
"Did you sleep at all? Because I don't think my driving skills are up to par either and I don't want you falling asleep at the wheel."
"I'm good." Sleep was over-rated. The rest he'd had with her in his arms? That had been ten times more restorative. "Let's go eat."
"A doctor who serves bacon. Does that seem right to you?" she whispered as they walked down the hall.
He smiled, resisting the urge to tug her close to his side. She seemed determined to keep her distance this morning, only touching his arm lightly for guidance. "He's my kind of doc."
It was almost a relief when she retaliated with a friendly elbow to his ribs. He worried something was seriously off balance, but she seemed steadier, chatting with him and the doctor over bacon and eggs and two cups
of coffee.
When they were on the road, he caught her squinting and shading her eyes against the morning sun streaming through the windshield. "Are you sure you're okay? We could have waited."
"You wanted to get on the road."
"True. But not at the risk to your health."
She snorted. "Do you really believe my health won't be at more risk with whatever you have planned?"
He swallowed. "What do you think I have planned?"
"You've always got something percolating in your head." She flicked a hand in the general direction. "Don't sugarcoat it, just tell me. It's my life after all."
A cold dread settled in the pit of his stomach. This wasn't at all how he saw things going and he couldn't peg where it had changed. It was her life. Naturally he respected her independence, but he was determined to protect her from the dangers of the past and he'd already started envisioning how he wanted to fit into her future. If she'd have him.
Rubbing the heel of his hand against the dull ache in his chest, he shot her a look. He was being stupid. He'd been dealing with her troubles for a few days, she'd been dealing with them for nearly half her life. She'd survived a fire, been chased across town, shot at, blown into a tree, and temporarily blinded. He didn't need to add to her stress with his emotions and insecurities. When they got through this, when Clifton was answering for his crimes, there would be plenty of time to share his personal intentions.
"Okay. Without sugarcoating it, my plan is something along the lines of you show me the evidence and we call the marshals to hand the evidence over." Clifton had to have some access within that office, though he couldn't imagine how or why. Yet.
"And hand me over to them too?"
He gritted his teeth. "If that's what you want."
She went silent, but he could feel the temper simmering. "There's more you're not saying."
A lot more. "You've known me for a couple of days, how can you say that?"
"Please. You have the hero face on."
"The what?"
"Hero face. You put it on the first time when my face was plastered all over the news. You were wearing it yesterday when you left the Interstate. And I might not have been able to actually see it, but it was in your voice when Doc stitched me up."
"Huh." He tried to grin, but whatever happened on his face, it only made her laugh. Still, laughter beat analysis every time in his book.
"So, hero. What's the other thing you're calculating?"
He might as well tell her and let her decide. "We choose a place and bring Clifton to you."
"How? Should I send him an engraved invitation to tea?"
"You could. I was thinking we'd put some information out in the world and make him panic."
"So he'll make a mistake that will land him behind bars."
Or dead. But he kept his preferred outcome to himself. "Do you know anything about the neighbor who was killed?"
"No." She sighed, shifting restlessly as if she couldn't get comfortable. "Well, not really. Is it normal to feel worse the day after being blown into a tree?"
"Always."
"Goody." Scooting around, she finally drew up her long legs and propped them on the dash. He could just imagine what Bart would say, but he wasn't about to tell her no and interrupt a potential breakthrough.
"What do you remember about your neighbor?"
"About all I know is Mr. Chan was a nice guy. My friend mowed his front lawn, just because Mr. Chan knew he needed the job. He had one of those elaborate oriental gardens in the back yard. He gave out the good candy at Halloween. Full size candy bars. His huge tabby cat sat in the front window and watched us go to and from school every day."
It was hard to imagine a man with that sort of neighborhood reputation crossing paths with Clifton, much less participating in criminal activity worthy of an execution. Of course, perception and reality often differed. "He lived alone? No wife or kids?"
"It was just him and the cat. He walked to and from work every day."
"Wow. Where was work?"
"A little interior design shop in the village."
He could almost hear the click of a real connection in his head. "Let me guess. He had some valuable antiques along with oriental rugs and more affordable pieces."
"How could you know that?"
He chuckled. "It fits with the name and description you gave. An older man with experience in art and all that."
"He wouldn't do anything illegal," she protested.
"Hey, ease up. I'm not accusing him of anything. There are a dozen scenarios that end with him at the wrong end of Clifton's gun. We just have to figure out what you saw and what led up to it."
Nicole fisted her hands on her knees and pounded lightly. "It would be nice if I could figure out what I'm seeing now."
"Nothing to see but miles of trees separated by the road. We've got a long ways to go."
She turned, staring at him, slack-jawed.
"What?"
"You always say 'almost there'."
"Huh. Never noticed. But considering I don't know exactly where 'there' is…" he trailed off, hoping she'd volunteer an address. At least something more specific than Myrtle Beach.
"I'll fill you in on the details when we're closer."
"Don't tell me you've never been to this place?"
"Of course I have, but not as Nicole Livingston. No one involved with WITSEC or my original life knows about it. Not even my current friends or coworkers."
He had to hope she was right and no one – specifically Clifton – had made the connection.
On a sigh, she dropped her feet back to the floor boards. "The night of the fire wasn't my best effort, obviously. I've been meticulously working on an escape route for years. The fire seemed like good cover at the time, but in hindsight, I should have waited until I was less frazzled to run."
"Blood loss probably didn't help," he teased.
"Talk like that sure doesn't."
"Right," but he couldn't quell the grin. "Getting back on point, if your Mr. Chan wasn't a bad guy, what do you think happened?"
"How should I know?"
"You can't tell me you haven't created a theory or two along the way."
"Maybe. But when you're the only one thinking about stuff, when there's no one to talk to about it, the ideas start to sound outrageous after a while."
"What kind of stuff?"
"The fire patterns mainly."
"You mean the delete sign signature?"
"Well, that too." She went quiet and he knew she was reliving it. "I saw the DEA jacket," she murmured. "Saw the shooter's face. Clifton's face. I –I think Mr. Chan's last words were telling me to run."
Sounded like a decent thing to do, Rick thought. But he didn't see how that memory tied to the fire patterns. "You said the fires were mostly small?"
"Yes," She gave a little shudder. "And obviously someone was sending a message by leaving the bold signature."
"Right. But what pattern popped out to you?"
"The fires were mostly small and contained quickly. Not like the blaze at the apartment. It's hard to explain and you'll probably think I'm nuts."
"Try me."
"When I think back, I think all those fires were places that bought things from Mr. Chan's shop."
"That doesn't make sense," he said.
"Told you." She sighed. "I know it's a dumb theory and a weird connection. But still. He was a pillar in the community and most of the business owners in the area supported one another."
"At this point every theory is worth exploring." He stretched an arm across the cab and patted her knee, wishing she was closer. "My thought is if Chan had sold something that was valuable to Clifton – purposely or not – why would Clifton's arsonist try and torch it? Why not steal it back?"
"Exactly." Perked up, she surged against the seat belt. "Unless the fires were a message or a threat."
"What kind of message? And how do you hurt a man with no family?"
"Put
him out of business, I guess." She shrugged a shoulder "He was devoted to that shop and the community."
"So not only the business but to really get under his skin, you let him know his community is suffering because of him."
"Sounds like psychology 101. But that still doesn't explain the why of it. I'll never believe Mr. Chan was into anything illegal."
He wasn't about to challenge her belief. Not until he saw the pictures. Assuming there was anything that would shed light on this twisted mess. The gang was Asian, the victim was Asian. It was entirely possible the illegal activity had occurred overseas.
"Did Mr. Chan ever travel much for work or fun?"
"My sister and I sometimes took care of his cat when he went on buying trips, but those were short, always less than a week, and usually to New York or Chicago. He never talked about going all the way back to China."
"Didn't mean that wasn't where he went."
"True."
"Did you and your sister cat sit for him anytime that summer?"
"Just the week of spring break." She lapsed into silence and he let her, his mind turning over the possibilities. Really, none of it mattered if the evidence she'd been hiding wasn't enough to force Clifton into making a mistake.
He couldn't be sure how the marshals or a federal prosecutor would react to an old photo. There had to be ways to verify it as genuine, but he didn't know what those methods were, or how to make it happen. He was getting ahead of himself again. First they had to safely reach Myrtle Beach and then they could figure out the next step.
* * *
Agitated, Clifton paced his hotel room, determined to find his target. The photos he'd taken at the scene were cycling through in a slide show on his laptop. Skid marks and scorched trees and blood smears. And no record of a woman being there at all.
He'd arrived at the scene as the sedan was being loaded onto a wrecker. Too late to plant any damaging evidence. It was the same model and the same license plate as the sedan Livingston had used to evade his agents at the apartment. Clifton had been forced to leak a new theory about the rural route battle through a hungry television reporter who'd shown up while he was still walking the scene.
Based on what his agents had given him so far on Bartholomew that theory wouldn't distract anyone for long.