by Alice Sharpe
“Maybe he figures I’m too smart to go home until he’s caught. Slow down. We’re passing 31002 River Road. My building is 31006. Do you see an apartment house or something?”
Paige slowed way down. The place where John’s house or condo or apartment should have perched was nothing more than a warehouse much like all the others, with a high metal fence surrounding it and an empty parking area in front. The gate was secured with a rusty-looking chain and a serious-looking lock about the size of a piece of sandwich bread. There was no sign announcing what the building held and there were no windows on the ground floor.
John whistled. “I live in a warehouse?”
“Next to Brown’s Storage and Transfer and across the street from Lone Tree Moving,” Paige said. “Your building is smaller than theirs.”
“Maybe I rent a space here for my bodyguard business.”
“Do bodyguards have offices?”
“Why are you asking me?” he snapped, and then shook his head and smiled. “Sorry. I guess my nerves are getting to me. Well, I don’t see an old black truck or a police car.” He looked around again. “See that alley over there? It must wind around to the back of this place. I don’t like sitting out here in plain view.”
Paige drove down the dirt-and-rock-strewn alley, skirting receiving gates and Dumpsters. The back of John’s place was as barren as the front, but there was an indentation and a door near the right corner of the building. Sliding metal doors large enough to drive a big truck through occupied space to their right. A row of dark windows appeared on what must be a second floor.
“There’s no break in the fence,” John said, “except the gate out front and this one. The front one had that cartoon-looking lock. I don’t see any lock on this gate.” He turned to face Paige. “This was as far as you signed on to go,” he said.
“You want me to leave you three miles from town in back of a building you can’t get into? No way.”
“I’m going over, through or around that fence,” he said.
“But the building will be locked.”
“Probably. And I might trigger a silent alarm. Who knows? Anatola could be there already, waiting for me. But there’s only one direction I can go at this point, and that’s forward. So, you leave and I’ll call you when I—”
“I’ll wait here until you go reconnoiter,” she said.
Much to her relief, he nodded. “At the first sign of trouble, please, look out for yourself. It’s bad enough all these other people have suffered because of me. I couldn’t stand it if you…”
There was one good way to shut him up, and Paige took it. She closed the distance between them and kissed him. The way his body stiffened announced he was stunned by her action, which amused her for a second, and then the fireworks started and she forgot to be amused.
They drew apart after a few seconds and stared at each other. He ran two fingers along her unhurt cheek in an incredibly longing manner. She took a shuddering breath as she gazed into his eyes.
Who was he? The kind, interesting, challenging John Cinca sitting so close right this moment, or a cohort of Anatola Korenev and a man who left the police department under a cloud of doubt about his honesty? And why was it so important to her to know the answer?
At the very least, this kiss had inched them away from the weirdness of the morning. This kiss was just a kiss—and yet a hint of so much more.
What about the way your heart leaped when Brian called you darling? You threw away everything he’d ever done to you in that one moment of bliss.
She was all over the map.
“Be careful,” she finally murmured.
He kissed her one more time then let himself out of the car, leaving his bulky jacket and cowboy hat behind. He looked tall and powerful as he approached the fence. He stood there for a moment, then reached out and grabbed it and pulled on it as though testing it. With a sudden leap, he attached himself to the fence and began the laborious task of finding footholds and pulling himself to the top, where, crouching, he hovered a second before letting himself down by holding on to the top bar, extending his body on the other side and letting go. He landed six feet later, solidly, but it must have jarred him up to his teeth.
Half cat burglar, half cat.
Glancing back, he gave her a thumbs-up and then raced toward the building as though a gunman on the top floor had him in his sights. His condensed breath created a cloud around his head.
* * *
JOHN TOOK A DEEP BREATH as he hovered in the shallow doorway of the warehouse. The panel was metal, without windows, but there was a security camera mounted above it. A metal lever-type handle was connected to a tubular latch. There was no keyhole and no way to break inside.
He studied the apparatus for a few seconds. This was his door. Somewhere in his head he had to know how to open it.
Reaching out, he slid up the top part of the cover, revealing a bright blue sensor pad underneath. Without thinking, he touched the pad with his right pointer finger. The door beeped and clicked. He pushed down on the lever and it opened. The interior lights immediately flashed on, and what John saw left him speechless.
He glanced back at Paige’s car before closing the door. The lights stayed on as though connected to a motion sensor.
The warehouse floor was occupied by a half dozen old fire trucks. There was also space for a vehicle of some kind, he assumed the one that had been abandoned in the park. There were two other vehicles already in their spaces, one a brand-new convertible and the other an SUV.
It was an unheated space and in the current conditions, freezing. He opened the brass door of a panel located directly to the right of the door and found several switches, many of which seemed to control outside lights and one that was marked Ground Floor Doors and another marked Gate.
Directly in front of him, a metal staircase led up to an encapsulated loft that occupied about half of the upper area. The area above where he stood disappeared into shadows high overhead.
He started up the stairs, mentally preparing himself for—well, for whatever. Who knew what was up here?
The stairs ended on a narrow landing. The door up here had been hacked to pieces. As John drew his gun and stepped inside, interior lights snapped on.
It looked to be more or less one large area, mostly open with a modest amount of decent furniture. The most impressive thing about the place was a baby grand piano near the windows. It also seemed to be about the only item that hadn’t been tossed, dumped or overturned.
Papers and books and a million little things littered the floor. Furniture had been slashed. Obviously, someone had come looking for something while John was away. Had they found it?
How had they gotten past the door downstairs and the gate, for that matter?
He bypassed the curved bar that defined the kitchen, which was also a mess, then opened a door near the bedroom. That turned out to be a bathroom. The place was obviously deserted, so he put his gun away. Time to go get Paige.
He went back downstairs, shivering in the cold air, and pushed buttons, resulting in the soft hum of motors. He walked outside to the gate as it rolled open, and Paige met him.
“I think we should leave your car out here on this side of the fence,” he said.
“But someone could see it,” she said, shivering, her gaze traveling up and down the alley. “Someone like Korenev.”
“Still, if we lock it inside the gates with us and something goes wrong—”
“Your call,” she said.
“Someone has already been here looking for something,” he said. “The place is torn apart.”
She covered her mouth with two fingers. “Korenev was here. I completely forgot about it. He told me there was no trace of me at your place in Lone Tree.”
“Well, from the look of things, he’s worked his usual magic.”
“Is there a dead body—”
“No, I didn’t mean that. He just trashed the place.”
She locked the car and t
hey hurried across the yard together toward the warehouse. Through the open doors, John could see the glimmer of red paint and polished brass.
“How did you get inside without a key?” she asked him. “Wait, are those fire engines?”
“Yes. Neat, huh? And I got inside because it’s a sensor lock that I obviously programmed. It reacted to my fingerprint. I wonder how Korenev got in.”
As she walked into the warehouse, a low whistle escaped her lips. “Holy cow! Is this all yours?”
“I guess so,” he said as he pushed the switch that closed the outside gate as well as the sliding doors and reactivated the interior lights. The place seemed to dazzle with all that machinery kept in pristine condition.
“It’s cold in here,” she said, looking around. The tremor was gone from her voice and he thought she was no doubt reacting to the sense of safety being behind closed, locked doors afforded. But it could be a false sense of security, and he was anxious to try to find something that made sense of this mess and then get out of here.
“It’s a little warmer upstairs,” he said.
“Wait a second,” she said as he put a foot on the first metal stair. She walked between the engines, running her hand along their gleaming cherry surfaces, little oohs and aahs following her like a wake of ducklings trying to keep up with their mom. It pleased the hell out of him to hear her excited cries and see the gleam in her eyes as she scanned each vehicle. He wasn’t sure why it pleased him. It just did.
“I’ve always loved fire engines,” she said. She grinned. “I wonder if you have a dalmatian.”
“I haven’t seen one,” he said. “What’s your fascination with engines?”
“I told you, my father was a fireman. He used to let me sit in the engine and pretend to drive. I always thought I would be a fireman when I grew up, then I got interested in design and art. Still, there’s just something about a fire truck. These look as though they belong in a museum. John, do you think the fact you collect fire engines and have obviously been in a fire sometime in your past are connected?”
A flame momentarily flared behind John’s eyes as the mended skin over the old burns grew tight. Something about a fire…no, it was gone. He said, “I don’t know. Seems possible.”
“Yes.” She paused in front of a very shiny red truck with an enclosed cab and an open back filled with hoses and tanks. There was a siren on the hood and a huge wench on the bumper. Lone Tree Vol. Fire Co. was printed in black and white on the door, along with the number 302.
“This one is absolutely charming,” she said as she stepped up on the running board. “Look, the window is down and something is caught,” she added as she grabbed the handle and pulled open the door.
Gasping, she pushed herself away from the truck as though poisonous snakes had jumped out to bite her. John scrambled to catch her before she hit the cement floor, then turning with her in his arms, peered into the cab to see what could have caused such a violent and spontaneous reaction.
With the opening of the door, a body had fallen toward them, face up, legs jammed under the wheel.
The man appeared elderly. He also appeared to be very, very dead.
Chapter Nine
“Who is that?” Paige gulped.
John shook his head as he set her on her feet. “I don’t have the slightest idea.”
She looked away, her stomach churning, her head reeling. Three dead bodies in two days was way too much to handle.
“I’m checking the other trucks,” John said, and she could hear in his voice the dread that each might contain a body. She herself seemed unable to move except to turn her head.
But not staring at the man did not obliterate the image that was stuck in her mind. He looked elderly, over eighty, with white hair and wire-framed glasses that had been knocked awry. There was a slash across his throat, but he was dressed in dark clothes so it wasn’t easy to see blood....
Her stomach rolled and she closed her eyes, holding on to the wall for support. All around her, she heard doors opening and slamming shut as John checked for more bodies.
She was aware of his return when he put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. “No more dead people,” he said. “The poor old guy must have been killed right there in the truck. It’s so cold decay was slowed down.”
“I wonder how Korenev got that close to him.”
“I wonder.” John closed his eyes as he took a deep breath and then fixed his gaze on her face. “I sure as hell hope I didn’t help kill this guy.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Paige said. “We should check the body for some sort of identification.”
“Like a wallet? I don’t think so. It’s unlikely his name would mean anything to either of us, and I don’t want to make an official investigation any harder than it’s going to be already.”
“Spoken like a policeman.”
“Spoken like a man who doesn’t want any of his DNA on a dead body.” He ran his free hand through his hair. “I wonder if he’s a relative of mine. How creepy is that? I could be looking at my own father’s body and not even know it.” He swore to himself and studied his feet for a moment. Frustration was written all over the handsome angles and planes of his face.
“You were adopted,” she reminded him, unsure how that could help. Adopted father or natural one, uncle or stranger, the result was the same. A man was dead, murdered in John’s own space. And John didn’t know for sure whom he was or how he got there.
Nerves and fear scratched at her skin, and suddenly her mind was filled with fear for everyone she knew or cared for. “I have to call Katy.”
“Her phone is dead, remember?”
“Oh, yeah. Well, I’ll call Matt.”
She made the call to Matt’s cell and he picked up on the first ring. In the background, Paige heard what sounded like a game on television and the sound of other voices. Male voices.
“Are you guys almost done?” she asked.
Matt had to talk loud to be heard. “We’re getting there. Oh, and Katy says to tell you she called the cops and gave a description of Brian’s uncle and told them you were okay and all and you should stop worrying.”
“You tell her I’ll stop worrying when she gets the hell out of that apartment,” Paige said and hung up, looking around the warehouse, looking anywhere but at the poor, dead man spilling out of the truck. There simply was no good way to put his body back to how it had been.
The place felt like a morgue, and she shivered, anxious to get out of here.
“Don’t you wonder why I have so much security?” John said.
She turned her attention to him. Was it possible his disgrace with the police department and his lifestyle were connected? She had to tell him about his past.
Before she could, he seemed to shake off his doubts. “I’m going upstairs to see if I can find out something about myself. Good, bad or indifferent, I have to know.” He gestured at the convertible and the SUV. “I obviously have transportation now, so you’re free—”
“To return to my apartment where Anatola Korenev has already made a cameo appearance? Oh, wait, what apartment? Sister dearest is cleaning it out even as we speak. Or I could knock on Brian’s door and ask where he dumped all my belongings. Nope, I’m staying with you until this is resolved. Don’t ask me why, but I feel safe with you, so just get used to me.”
He smiled that way he had that seemed to say so much with so little effort. “I shouldn’t admit it but I’m glad. Let’s look around upstairs.”
“And I need to wash up,” she said.
She didn’t take in many details as she made her way through the clutter to the bathroom, which seemed to sport the only real walls in the place. She ran warm water over her hands and scrubbed every inch of exposed skin with soap as though she could wash away evil. It took a while.
Stomach still in a knot, she rejoined John, finding he’d uprighted a chair and was sitting at his desk. There was a roomy satchel at his feet containing what app
eared to be a few pieces of clothing and a box of ammunition.
When he saw the direction of her gaze, he explained. “Might as well be prepared, right? I grabbed some stuff.”
“Smart thinking.”
The desk was situated against an outside wall on which were mounted three black-and-white video monitors, two of which appeared to be working. The other had been smashed. The monitor on the far wall showed the front of the warehouse, the one next to it, the back door.
“Find anything in the desk?” she asked, glancing out the window at the empty yard below. No sign of the police…yet.
“I picked a few pictures up off the floor,” he said, gesturing at a small pile.
“Any sign of a computer?”
“None. Whoever did this must have taken it. I found a cord, but the machine is gone.”
As John continued searching the desk, running his hands inside the drawer cavity and under the top, Paige studied the photographs. In one John wore a mortarboard and held a diploma—looked like a college graduation. In another it appeared he was graduating from the police academy. There was one of him taken with a very pretty redhead with a ski lift backdrop signed Love: Natalie across one corner and another with a shorter, swarthier man who held in his arms a tiny girl with huge brown eyes. And there was one taken of a polished antique fire engine in the middle of a parade of some sort.
She showed the picture of the redhead to John. “Ring any bells?”
He’d been knocking on the front panels of the old wood desk, but he paused to look at the picture. “Nope.”
“How about this?” she said, handing him the photo of the fire engine. “Is that one of the rigs downstairs?”
“I don’t know. It could be the big one in the back. Wait a second.” He plucked a magnifier from the mess at his feet and angled it over the photo. “I think that’s me standing on the running board. Hey, take a look at the driver.”
He showed the photo to Paige, who squinted as she peered through the glass. “He looks like the guy downstairs.”
John turned the photo over. “No names. It’s dated three years ago, though.”