Hot

by Julia Harper

He pretended not to notice the FBI agent and raised his hand in a farewell wave to the sheriff, still on the phone. Calvin hurried out of the building. On the sidewalk in front of the sheriff’s office, the sun hit him in the face. He took out a hankie from his breast pocket and wiped the sweat from his forehead and upper lip.

  Then he opened his cell phone and punched in Hank’s number.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  T urner carefully painted her right little fingernail black. She recapped the bottle of nail polish, holding her fingers stiffly so she wouldn’t smear them, then flattened her hands and blew on the nails to dry the polish while she looked around the parking garage.

  Madison had grown since the last time she’d been here. There were more malls on the outskirts of the city and some new buildings she hadn’t recognized in the downtown. She’d driven in on East Washington early this morning, following the boulevard into the isthmus between Lake Mendota and Lake Monona. The capitol building was on the isthmus, smack between the two lakes. It sat on its own city block, a square white classical building with a dome. She’d circled the area, getting tangled in one-way streets for a bit before deciding to park.

  She had needed to alter her appearance, anyway. Even though Victoria Weidner had agreed to meet her, she still wasn’t altogether sure of the other woman. Victoria did work for the Federal Prosecutor’s Office, after all, and technically Turner had committed a federal crime by opening Calvin’s safe deposit box. Love of the law might very well have won out over their tenuous high school connection. There was no way to know if Victoria had contacted the local police or even John’s FBI office. Turner reminded herself that this was probably a trap.

  Hence, a disguise was in order to enable her to look around the meeting place before Victoria got there. Turner had already made one stop at an army surplus store on her way into town. Now she locked the doors of the pickup and changed into the clothes she’d bought at the store. Overhead, sparrows flew in and out of nooks in the ceiling of the parking garage, but that was the only sign of life around her. In the middle of the day, the garage was dim and grimy and deserted. At one point she had heard footsteps echoing and she’d frozen, her mind a blank. Then the sound receded and she was able to breathe again.

  John’s warning about the man who had been at Calvin’s cabin was uppermost in her thoughts. John had said the man was sent to kill her, and she believed him. She’d been shocked at first that Calvin would go to such lengths, but once she’d had time to think about it, his hiring a killer made sense. Hadn’t Calvin betrayed his best friend to cover up his crime? It was only a small step further to try and have her killed.

  Turner finished changing, put the black nail polish in her purse, and unzipped the army green duffel bag she’d gotten at the surplus store. She stuffed a change of clothes into the bag, put her purse in, as well, and got out of the pickup.

  Outside the parking garage, the sun was nearly blinding, bleaching the colors of the city and radiating off the sidewalk. It was hard to believe anyone could try to kill her in this bright light, on such an ordinary day. Nevertheless, she looked around her as she walked and kept well away from the buildings, where someone might hide in a doorway. The few pedestrians she passed looked like businesspeople on their lunch break. But couldn’t the killer seem ordinary, too? The problem was that she hadn’t gotten a good look at his face in the cabin. He’d been only a dark shape before the awful blast of the rifle. If he stood in front of her right now, she wasn’t sure she’d recognize him.

  And wasn’t that an encouraging thought?

  Turner made it to the capitol square and strolled slowly, scuffing her feet. The Office of the Federal Prosecutor was in a nondescript brick building to the south. It was marked only by a discreet street number in small letters on the outside. No name, no way to tell what was housed within. She glanced at her watch. It was just before twelve. She had plenty of time to scout the area and think about what she would say to Victoria.

  The City had planted big swathes of purple petunias and scarlet salvia on the capitol lawn. She stopped and squatted by the flowers while she tried to marshal her thoughts. She needed to convince Victoria of the seriousness of her accusations. That Calvin had not only embezzled from the Winosha bank but that he’d been doing it for years. That the last time he’d felt the pressure of the law, he’d diverted it by sending the police after Rusty. That he’d probably hired a hit man to kill her now.

  All this without any proof at all.

  A woman walked by with a little black pug dog on a lead. The dog dawdled to sniff at her, and the woman pulled it away. Turner felt a sudden longing for Squeaky. Were he and John getting along all right? Did the big dog miss her? She hadn’t even asked about him last night, and that thought produced a guilty feeling, as if she’d been a bad mother. John had originally said he’d take Squeaky back to Calvin. Why hadn’t he? Was it just that he hadn’t had time yet, or was he conceding to her wishes and saving Squeaky for her?

  She sighed and watched a big bearded man shuffle past. He had greasy-looking glasses, and a cigarette dangled from his lips. He also had on an overcoat, despite the burning heat. She held her breath and looked down at her toes, hiding her face. But he only flicked the cigarette stub at her as he passed. It fell in the petunia bed and smoldered against the dry mulch until she stomped it out with her shoe. The bearded man crossed the street and disappeared into a tall office building on the corner.

  She hadn’t handled that well this morning, her parting from John. He’d been angry and maybe a little hurt. Maybe a lot hurt. But it’d been a moment of panic on her part. She’d had to get away from him. Get away from the heat of his body, lying next to hers, and away from the intense mental pressure he put on her. Just thinking about how she’d come last night, with him watching her, her body and emotions totally on display, made her burn with . . . what? Adrenaline? Terror? Certainly an erotic awareness that made her breath rasp and her palms sweat. Because while she’d been uncomfortable last night, scared of revealing herself in front of him, she’d also been completely turned on. She’d never had an orgasm like that before. Definitely not in the presence of another person.

  God, she was messed up.

  And now John was angry with her. Angry and out to get her. She didn’t underestimate his resolve to catch and arrest her, especially after this morning. He had said he wasn’t pulling his punches anymore. She shivered a little, thinking about what he would do if he caught her. She remembered the last glance she’d had of John. He’d been naked and furious with her, his pale blue eyes cold and contemptuous.

  She blinked back tears. Nothing was left of the sweet bond she and John’d had. She’d stomped on it this morning as surely as she’d just crushed that cigarette. And now that she’d finally pushed him away, was finally free to concentrate all her efforts on avenging Uncle Rusty, now she felt bereft.

  Like she’d lost something before she had fully realized its worth.

  And why should that make her cry? She’d just got done thinking about how uncomfortable he made her feel, as if she had no control over her body or emotions. She didn’t like feeling that way, she never had. Being with John was uncomfortable. It was tiring. And she found out things about herself that she didn’t like knowing. For instance, that she was an essentially selfish person who didn’t seem able to form a normal, adult relationship with a man. Not to mention she strongly suspected something was wrong with her sexually.

  She swiped at the tears on her face. So, good. She’d killed the budding relationship with John. That was a good thing, right? No more finding out icky truths about herself. Maybe what she really needed was therapy.

  But she didn’t have the time to think about all this right now. Victoria’s office building was across the street from where she sat. It had a small paved courtyard, maybe fifty feet square in front, with wide terraced steps leading down to the sidewalk. Turner glanced again at her watch. 12:25.

  And right on time, a slim woman with lo
ng dark hair emerged from the tinted glass doors at the front of the building.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  H e couldn’t see her. Damn it. He couldn’t see Turner.

  John stood just inside the tinted glass doors, scanning the courtyard in front. Somewhere on one of the floors above his head were the offices of the federal prosecutor and Victoria Weidner’s office in particular. Behind him, just inside the building, was a typical security setup: a metal detector, a scanner belt, and a couple of guards—a young woman who hardly looked older than a teenager and a graying man with a paunch. He’d already briefed both the security guards and Ms. Weidner about how Turner’s arrest would go down. Ms. Weidner had just strolled out into the sunshine in the courtyard to wait for Turner. From this vantage point he should be able to see Turner.

  But he couldn’t.

  Two women were sitting on the low brick wall surrounding the courtyard. One African American, the other a platinum blonde. The women were eating lunch and talking animatedly. Across the street, various people strolled by the state capitol and a grungy youth—hard to tell the gender—slumped by a flower bed. A slight man with a little potbelly and a suit was walking briskly across the courtyard, headed for the doors. A couple of kids were skateboarding on the wide, shallow steps leading to the courtyard. The potbellied man pushed through the glass doors and slid a glance at John out of the corner of his eye when he saw him inside. John nodded in return and the man kept walking.

  She might have decided not to show. He’d been blunt with her this morning, and she’d appeared on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Not exactly how a man hoped his lover would look the morning after a night of his best efforts, but Turner was nothing if not tough. That was something he’d learned about her in remarkably little time. She might be small in stature, but he’d seen war veterans with less mental stamina. If she didn’t show up for the meet, it wouldn’t be from fear of a confrontation.

  Or from any fear at all.

  And that’s what worried him the most: she seemed to have no physical fear. Hell, she didn’t even display mental fear. The only apprehension Turner showed was emotional, and that rarely. And the emotional mistrust was just with him, come to think of it. God, her dread of him hurt. It was like someone had reached in and wrapped a fist around his gut and squeezed. How could it hurt this much when he’d known her only a couple of days? Her mistrust had made Turner cut him out of her life. Like a dangling thread on a sweater. Snip, snip, and into the trash.

  It bothered him that she hadn’t seemed to be as affected as he by their lovemaking. He’d been stunned by how good it was to feel her move on him, how right it had felt to be in her. It had been like finally finding shelter after huddling out in a snowstorm for a long, long time. Yet this morning she’d literally run out the door. As if she were ashamed of what they’d shared the night before. Christ, and wasn’t that a blow to his male pride? Wasn’t it the woman who was supposed to be worried about the morning after?

  John snorted. If—

  The grungy young kid that had been sitting on the sidewalk across the street got to his feet. The kid was the right height, the right shape to be Turner in disguise, but he’d seemed a long shot. He would’ve tagged the blond coed who’d just sat down on the capitol lawn to eat an apple as a better bet.

  But it was the boy who got up, so John watched him. And when the kid moved, started slouching across the street, he knew.

  It was Turner.

  That was the thing about disguises. You could change the face fairly easily—and he sure hoped the rings through her lower lip and eyebrows were fake—and you could change the clothes, but it was damn hard to change the walk. Turner was doing a good impression of a kid, but she walked like a woman. Too much swing in the hips, a slightly lower center of gravity. That simple. It was Turner.

  John watched her stroll closer. She’d flattened her short hair and made it dingy with either dirt or some kind of powder. She wore faded black high-tops, overlarge camo pants torn away just below the knee to make baggy shorts, and a black T-shirt with jagged orange writing on it. Various string bracelets decorated her arms and one ankle. But the pièce de resistance of her costume was the tattoos. She’d covered her arms from wrist to shoulder in black, curling tattoos.

  The corner of his mouth kicked up in admiration even as something in him was dying.

  He really hadn’t wanted to arrest her. Especially not in such a public place. Turner was going to be humiliated. He’d have to cuff her hands behind her back. It was standard operating procedure. Shit. What a crappy job he had.

  Shit.

  John reached for his handcuffs and prepared to kill what was left of their relationship. He watched Turner approach Ms. Weidner. The assistant to the federal prosecutor still hadn’t copped to the fact that the young boy was Turner. She was scanning the sidewalk in both directions. In fact, John saw the exact moment Turner spoke to her. Ms. Weidner’s head whipped around as she stared at Turner. John started to push open the tinted glass doors.

  And then all hell broke loose.

  A crack sounded, echoing in the canyon of the office buildings. A woman screamed. The blonde on the lawn looked up.

  And both Turner and Ms. Weidner went down.

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  Chapter Forty

  S o where do you want to go for lunch?” Victoria asked.

  Turner was opening her mouth to answer when the other woman seemed to trip and fall against her. At the same time, there was a loud Crack! Turner stumbled backward under Victoria’s weight and they went down together, Turner on the bottom. She hit the brick pavement hard, banging her elbow and rear end painfully, as she scrambled to think. Was Victoria tackling her to arrest her? Adrenaline stampeded through her veins. Then she heard the second shot.

  Crack!

  It echoed around the courtyard. Someone was shooting. The two women who’d been eating on the wall scurried to duck behind it, skirts riding immodestly high. Victoria rolled off her, and Turner looked around wildly. She couldn’t see the shooter. One of the women against the wall was crying, hysterical hiccupping sobs that echoed loudly in the courtyard. The skateboarding kids still bumped down the steps, oblivious.

  “Get down, goddamnit! Get down!” John yelled.

  The skateboarders didn’t hear. Turner swiveled her head at his voice, strangely unsurprised that he was here. He crouched against the building, his gun held in one hand. He was looking up, scanning the rooftops around them. He glanced in her direction and his eyes met hers.

  She could see the pale blue of his eyes, hard and angry as he shouted, “Are you hurt?”

  Crack!

  A brick in the pavement beside Turner exploded, sending up chips that stung her bare legs.

  “Are you hurt?” John yelled again.

  Crack!

  She shook her head mutely. “What should we do?” Turner whispered to Victoria. It was fifty feet to where John hunkered against the building. Fifty feet to safety. If they ran, would they make themselves a better target? But lying here in the middle of the courtyard, they were sitting ducks. She had to assume the shooter was after them. It was only a matter of time until he hit her.

  Victoria moaned.

  “I think we should try to run,” Turner said and turned her head to Victoria.

  The other woman clutched her upper arm, her face twisted in a grimace of pain. Blood seeped between her fingers. “Run for the building,” Victoria gasped.

  Oh, Lord. “She’s been shot!” Turner screamed. “John, she’s been shot!”

  What an idiotic thing to say. How could anyone not see that Victoria was shot? She pulled her T-shirt over her head and wadded it into a bundle that she shoved against Victoria’s shoulder.

  Crack!

  The skateboarders finally seemed to hear. One took off running; the other stood and gaped.

  “Go!” Victoria rasped.

  Turner dragged her eyes away from the wound and looked at her gray face. “What?�
�

  “He’s shooting at you. You’re making me a target.”

  Turner stared, trying to assimilate Victoria’s words.

  Crack!

  A rapid series of shots exploded behind her. Then big hands wrapped around her waist, dragging her, dragging her fingers from Victoria’s wound.

  “No!” Turner shouted. “I have to help her—”

  “You can’t help her,” John said in her ear harshly. “You’ll only get shot.”

  He half lifted, half dragged her to the front doors of the building. A young woman police officer was crouched to the side, firing shot after shot from her handgun. Turner couldn’t see where she was aiming.

  John thrust Turner inside. “Stay away from the windows.”

  Then he turned and went back outside. Back to where the gunfire was. He had to save Victoria, too, but Turner felt a selfish urge to recall him to safety.

  A gray-haired policeman took her arm firmly. “Come sit down over here, miss.” He all but shoved her onto a marble bench and stood over her, apparently so she couldn’t escape.

  Not that she cared. John was still out there. What was he doing? Had he seen the shooter? Had he been shot? She whimpered and clasped her hands between her knees. Oh, please let John be safe.

  And, as if in answer, the policewoman came bursting through the tinted-glass doors, supporting the two women who had been lunching by the wall. John followed behind, holding Victoria.

  He sent a piercing glance at Turner, then addressed the policeman standing over her. “She’s been shot. Have you called 911?”

  “Yeah.” The policeman helped lower Victoria to the floor. Her eyes were closed now. Maybe she’d fainted. “The EMTs are on the way.”

  The policewoman was talking in a low monotone into her shoulder radio. Turner noticed that the woman’s hands shook.

  John looked back outside again. He still held his gun in his hand. “He’s stopped shooting. I think he’s left.”

  The older policeman’s head jerked up. “Wait for backup.”