Her Deadly Secrets

by Griffin, Laura

  Kira’s heart sprinted as she lowered herself to the pavement a few feet away. She awkwardly tried to keep her hands above her head as she stretched out on the driveway and rested her cheek on the cool cement.

  The cop barked orders at Jeremy as he disarmed him and slapped on a pair of handcuffs.

  “Any other weapons?” he asked, patting him down.

  “No. I have a concealed-carry permit in my wallet,” Jeremy said. “Right behind my driver’s license.”

  Jeremy’s voice sounded calm and controlled, which was amazing considering he had a knee in his back and a nervous cop yelling at him.

  The officer stood and looked at Kira. “Any weapons?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Don’t move.”

  The cop was short and stocky and had a flat nose. He knelt beside Kira and patted her down, then searched her backpack, keeping his eyes on Jeremy the whole time. Even disarmed and cuffed, Jeremy was obviously the bigger threat.

  Kira’s chest tightened. The smell of asphalt filled her nostrils as she tried to breathe steadily with her cheek against the ground and her hands on her head. She thought of all the police shootings she’d seen on the news as the wail of sirens grew louder and louder until it was like a bullhorn in her ear.

  The cop got to his feet as a car screeched to a halt at the end of the driveway. Two uniformed officers jumped out, weapons drawn, and every muscle in Kira’s body tensed. They exchanged words and gestures with the first responder before finally putting away their guns.

  Kira looked at Jeremy. His face was still turned away, and his hands were cuffed behind him. His black T-shirt had ridden up, and she could see his lean waist and the empty holster that had once held his gun.

  Kira squeezed her eyes shut as her heart jackhammered. He could have been shot. They both could have. They could still get shot if some panicky officer pulled up to the scene and misread the situation.

  The noise was deafening, vibrating through her body and reverberating off the asphalt. It was unnerving as hell, and she couldn’t hear herself think.

  All at once, the sirens ceased, and the only sound was the ringing in her ears.

  “On your feet.”

  A hand clamped around her arm and pulled her up. It was the first responder, the stocky one. He spun her toward the headlights of the parked police car.

  She looked over her shoulder at Jeremy, still prone on the driveway.

  “Officer, if I could explain—”

  “You have any drugs on you, ma’am?”

  “No, I—”

  “This your vehicle?”

  “The Toyota. Yes, that’s me. Officer, this is my friend’s house, and we’re just—”

  “Any weapons in the car, ma’am?”

  “No.”

  “Step over here.”

  Jeremy sat jammed in the back of the patrol car, his hands trapped behind him, watching the situation unfold as he tried to keep a lid on his temper. Just outside the window, Kira stood talking to a police detective, trying to convince her of something, although Jeremy couldn’t make out the words.

  The mention of Charlotte Spears had defused a situation that had nearly exploded after the first responder caught sight of Jeremy’s SIG. The guy had rookie written all over him, and Jeremy knew all too well that inexperience, nerves, and loaded semiautomatic weapons were a bad mix.

  The tall blond detective had arrived looking pissed off, but whatever tale Kira had spun managed to calm her down some. Not enough to free Jeremy from his vomit-scented cage, but at least they weren’t being hauled downtown.

  Kira wasn’t, at least. Jeremy’s fate was fuzzier.

  The detective stepped over and jerked the door open, letting in a swarm of mosquitoes. Awesome.

  “Step out of the vehicle, please.”

  He squeezed his knees past the seat and swung his legs out. Spears stepped back, and Jeremy levered himself from the car. She motioned for him to turn around, and Jeremy’s gaze locked with Kira’s as the detective removed his cuffs.

  Kira watched him, biting her lip. Jeremy shook out his arms and felt the blood returning to his fingers.

  “Mr. Owen, Ms. Vance, you’re free to go.”

  The detective handed over Jeremy’s wallet. Even in jeans and worn sneakers, the woman had a professional way about her that suggested she’d been on the job a while.

  “My weapon?” Jeremy asked.

  She jerked her head at a uniform beside her, and the man pulled Jeremy’s gun from the back of his utility belt.

  “Good thing your permit’s in order,” Spears said as the man handed over the pistol. “I would have hated to spend my night hauling you in.” She looked at Kira. “No more unauthorized visits. We clear?”

  “I told you, I—”

  She held a hand up. “Save it. It’s past my bedtime.”

  And with that, she walked off.

  Jeremy looked at Kira, conscious of the chilly stares from the remaining cops on the scene. As the officers returned to their cars, Kira took a tentative step forward.

  “You okay?”

  Jeremy checked his magazine, then tucked his SIG into his holster. “Let’s go.”

  He led her back to her Toyota and slid into the passenger side. He racked the seat back, but it was still a tight fit.

  Kira got behind the wheel and looked at him. “Where’d you park?”

  “Around the block.”

  She turned the key, and the engine choked and coughed.

  “Don’t say it,” she said, pulling away from the curb.

  Jeremy gritted his teeth.

  “I don’t need to hear it again.”

  He looked at her. “You mean hear it about your car? Or the stunt you just pulled?”

  “It wasn’t a stunt. I was gathering information. It sure as hell wasn’t a burglary, because I have a key.”

  “Bullshit. You lifted the key from his barbecue pit. I saw you do it.”

  “So what? It’s where Ollie keeps his spare, and he told me where it was!”

  She got quiet then. Evidently, she hadn’t realized that when they said round-the-clock surveillance, they meant round-the-clock surveillance. Whenever she set foot outside her house, they had eyes on her.

  “Ollie would be fine with it,” she said. “He’d want me to help figure out what happened.”

  She sounded determined, but Jeremy caught the tremor in her voice. Kira talked a tough game, like she had everything under control, but she was hanging on by a thread. It was only a matter of time before the traumatic events of last night came crashing down on her. He was all too familiar with how PTSD worked.

  He glanced at her. Even in the dim light of the dashboard, he could see that her bruise looked worse now than it had this morning. He hated looking at it, and it bothered him that it bothered him.

  They reached his pickup, which he’d parked in front of a purple house with a FOR RENT sign in front. Jeremy got out.

  Kira waited for him, and he followed her through a string of neighborhoods, avoiding the freeways that might put a strain on her car. When they reached her house, he parked behind her in the driveway and walked her to the back steps without a word.

  She unlocked the door. “Would you like to come in?”

  “Yes.”

  Surprise flickered across her face.

  “I need to do a once-over.”

  She ushered him inside and tapped the code into her newly installed keypad.

  “Mind if I look around?” he asked.

  “Knock yourself out.”

  “You have any firearms in the house?”

  She shuddered. “God, no. I hate guns.”

  Jeremy did a quick walk-through, examining the sensors and cameras. Trent and Keith did solid work, but it never hurt to double-check things. Years in the Marines had shown him the importance of backing up everything, checking everything twice. One is none, and two is one, his CO used to say.

  “You have to ignore the mess,” Kira said when
he returned to the living room. “My laundry’s everywhere. It looks like a bomb went off.”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  Actually, he had. He’d noticed everything—the IKEA furniture, the cheap art on the walls, the smallish closet. The lacy black bra on her bedroom floor had definitely caught his attention.

  Her spare bedroom was interesting, too. She had a single bed piled with cables and camera equipment. A door on sawhorses served as her desk. She had no fewer than four computers—a desktop and three notebooks, all top-of-the-line. On the floor beside the desk was a tall stack of case files labeled with block-letter abbreviations. So, yeah, her place was cluttered, but there seemed to be a method to the madness.

  “How about a drink?” she asked. “Beer? Bourbon?” She tossed her baseball cap onto the sofa and tugged the elastic thing from her hair, and it fell down her back in a dark wave. “I’ve got Gatorade, I think.” She pulled open her fridge. “And orange juice.”

  “I’m good.”

  “Good? You damn near got shot tonight. That calls for a stiff drink.”

  Jeremy had been damn near shot dozens of times and actually shot once. Tonight didn’t even come close.

  “I’m good,” he repeated.

  “Well, I’m not.”

  She opened a cabinet above the oven and stood on tiptoes to reach for a bottle of Jim Beam. He could have helped her, but he liked watching her do it.

  She turned and caught him staring. “So, what, you don’t drink?”

  “Not on the job.”

  She took a glass from another cabinet. “I should have guessed. You guys are professionals.” She looked at him. “Why don’t you just admit it?”

  “Admit what?”

  “You’re angry.”

  “I’m not angry.”

  “Right. You’re not angry that you spent half an hour handcuffed in a police car.”

  “Let it go, Kira.”

  “Why can’t you just admit you’re pissed off at me?”

  “Fine! I’m pissed off!”

  He regretted the words instantly and rubbed his hand over his beard.

  Kira was smirking now. “See? Was that so hard?”

  She poured a generous shot of bourbon, and Jeremy leaned back against the counter and watched her take a sip. He needed to go. There was no legitimate reason for him to be standing in her kitchen, but his feet seemed rooted in place.

  “I owe you an apology.” She plunked her glass down.

  “Apology accepted.”

  “I can admit when I mess up.”

  She took another sip, watching him over the rim of her glass.

  “I’m upset, but not for the reason you think,” he told her.

  She looked at him expectantly. “You need to take us seriously,” he said.

  “I do.”

  “You called Trent a beefcake this morning.”

  Her cheeks colored. “He heard that?”

  “We hear everything. We see everything.” Jeremy stepped closer, hoping to intimidate her with his height, but she didn’t look intimidated at all. “And you need to communicate. Keep us in the loop. This isn’t going to work if you don’t.”

  “Is that right?”

  “That’s right. I know. I’ve been doing this a while.”

  She folded her arms. “Okay, so let’s play that out. First of all, I didn’t know you were on duty tonight. I thought it was Trent—”

  “You don’t need to worry about who’s on duty. We communicate with each other. Telling him is the same as telling me.”

  “Okay. So say I’d called up Trent and said, ‘Hey, I’m going to catch a quick shower and then go sneak into the house of my business associate who was murdered last night.’ Trent would have been fine with it?”

  “No.”

  “Right. No. He would have tried to stop me. And this goes to what I said earlier, which is that I have a job to do, and you guys can’t get in my way.” She rested her hand on her hip and stared up at him.

  This was going to be a hell of a case. Jeremy had suspected it the instant he’d seen the client, and it had taken about two minutes alone with her to confirm his suspicions. This woman was headstrong and sneaky as hell.

  “Here’s the thing, Kira.”

  She sighed.

  “Ultimately, it’s up to you. We work for you, not the other way around. So if you want to do something stupid, like go traipsing around a crime scene or go ticking off a bunch of homicide cops, that’s your prerogative.”

  “See, that’s exactly my point. What you consider stupid I consider necessary to doing my job. I’ve got”—she checked her watch—“fifteen hours to develop some real intel on what Ollie was doing right before he died, or Logan’s going to fire me. I don’t doubt it for a minute.”

  Jeremy doubted it, but he didn’t bother trying to convince her.

  “My job matters to me. This assignment matters to me, and I intend to deliver.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? What kind of question is that? Because I said I’d do this. You probably get a paycheck every two weeks, but I’m paid by the hour. And if I don’t do the job the client hired me for, that’s it, I’m out. And I have to scrounge around for the next thing to pay my bills.”

  She looked defensive now. Maybe because moneywise, she wasn’t exactly lighting it up.

  “Is that the only reason?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re so dead set on doing this job for Logan, but you almost got killed last night. From where I’m standing, it would make sense for you to sit this one out.”

  “That’s not going to happen.” Her eyes turned somber. “Even if Logan hadn’t hired me, I’d be doing this anyway. I believe Ollie had just uncovered something important—something that got him killed.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. But I can’t walk away without answering that question. I’m an investigator. That’s what I do.”

  But it wasn’t just about a professional obligation. This was about Ollie. She didn’t have to say it; he could tell just from looking at her. She’d watched the man bleed out in front of her, and Jeremy understood what that did to you. It was the kind of wound that scabbed over but never really healed, and you just had to live with it.

  But she’d figure that out for herself.

  She glanced down at her nearly empty glass. “It was weird being at Ollie’s house,” she said quietly. “I still can’t believe he’s gone. I keep thinking . . .” She trailed off.

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  Jeremy watched her, wishing she’d keep talking. Which was ironic, because every girlfriend he’d ever had complained that he never wanted to talk. It was the universal feedback that had cut short any long-term relationship he might have had.

  “What was he like?” Jeremy asked.

  She looked up. “You mean Ollie?”

  “Yeah.”

  She sighed. “God, where to begin? He drank too much.” She lifted her glass. “Loved his whiskey, so this is fitting.” She tipped her head, mulling his question. “He gambled, too. On the sly. I don’t think his family knew about it, but it created some financial strain. What else?” She added another sip of whiskey, and Jeremy started to wish he’d asked for some. “He went through two marriages and a live-in girlfriend that lasted five years. Basically, his personal life was a mess. But he loved his daughter and doted on his grandkids, and he was a hell of a PI. Taught me everything I know, including how to be resourceful, how to develop sources, how to be tenacious.”

  Jeremy made a low noise.

  “What?”

  He shrugged. “I bet you were tenacious before. It’s a trait you either have or you don’t.”

  Her look was suspicious. “Is that a compliment?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well. Maybe you’re right.” She took a sip. “Anyway, Ollie didn’t give up. He never let go of a lead until he found something. It’s one reason I feel so,
I don’t know, directionless right now. What if I’m in over my head?”

  The vulnerability in her voice tugged at him. She was grieving. He could see it. And he wanted to say something comforting, but he didn’t know what. Jeremy eased closer, and she looked up at him as the moment stretched out.

  He cleared his throat. “So did you find whatever you were after tonight?”

  And with that, the mood was broken. She turned and set her glass by the sink.

  “No. But I found something.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” she said. “I still have research to do, which means it’s going to be a long night.”

  It was a pointed comment, like he was keeping her from work, even though she was the one who’d insisted on this discussion.

  “Believe it or not, Kira, we’re not here to get in your way. We’re here to keep you safe. And we’ll do it one way or another, but it’s a lot easier if you loop us in on what you’re doing.”

  Surprise flickered in her hazel eyes. She gazed up at him, and Jeremy felt a jolt of attraction.

  And that was it. Go time.

  “You in for the night?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” He moved for the door. “I’ll be around. Lock up behind me.”

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  THE SUSPECT sketch took longer than Kira expected. Two and a half hours, and that didn’t include the time she spent talking to Diaz before the artist showed up.

  The result was unexpected, too. She stared down at the easel, marveling at the drawing clipped to the board. It looked like a real person. Not only that, but it looked exactly like the man Kira had seen—for only an instant—jogging in front of Brock’s house. Every detail was there, right down to the cleft in the chin, which Kira had not even realized she’d noticed until the artist coaxed the information from her memory banks.

  “I can’t believe it,” she said. “I thought I didn’t really see him.”

  “People always say that.” The artist smiled. Fiona Glass. According to Diaz, she was one of the best in the country. “The mind is a mysterious thing. We absorb so much more than we realize at the time.”

  Kira studied the picture, done with pastels on pale gray paper. The drawing even showed details about the hooded sweatshirt, including the lime-green drawstrings Kira hadn’t recalled until she was in the midst of the interview.