Charlotte scanned the crowd, desperately looking for the baseball cap. She spotted it, and her heart lurched.
She took off across the atrium, straining to keep the baseball cap in her sights as she jogged through the crowds.
She caught a blur of movement to her left just as something hit her like a Mack truck. She went down hard, catching herself with her elbow as she struggled to keep hold of her gun.
“Sorry!”
The Mack truck turned out to be a teenage kid on Rollerblades. Charlotte scrambled to her feet, cursing as pain lanced up her arm. She looked around frantically. Where was her guy? She’d lost sight of the ball cap.
“Are you okay?” the kid asked.
“Fine. Go.”
His eyes widened as he noticed the gun in her hand.
“HPD,” she said, moving her jacket to show her badge.
She jogged to the fountain and found a gap between people. Jumping onto the wall for a better vantage point, she scanned the atrium. No ball cap. No tall guy running away.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out as a Segway zoomed over, piloted by a portly security guard.
“I lost him,” she told Diaz.
“Ma’am. You need to get down from there.” The ruddy-faced Segway cop glared up at her. “Ma’am?”
Again, she moved her jacket to show her badge. “I’m in pursuit of a suspect. Tall, jeans, black baseball cap?”
He shook his head.
Charlotte hopped down from the fountain, and pain lanced through her shoulder as her feet hit the floor. She’d wrenched something in her fall, but she couldn’t worry about that now as she scanned the crowd. There had to be hundreds of people in this atrium and hundreds more in the many corridors that radiated out from it like spokes. Frustration churned inside her.
“You there?” Diaz asked.
“I’m here.”
“Your backup should be there now.”
“It’s too late, Diaz. He’s long gone.”
Kira was tired and hungry when she stepped off the elevator into the lobby of the police station. She caught sight of the big, broad-shouldered bodyguard standing beside the door with his back to her. He wore a black leather jacket, and she noticed the bulge of a weapon at his hip.
He turned around, and she realized it was Liam, not Jeremy.
Liam Wolfe, of Wolfe Security, was here to pick her up.
Kira crossed the lobby and stopped in front of him. “Wow. VIP treatment.”
“Are you finished here?” he asked.
“I hope so.”
He nodded and led her to the door, which he pushed open as he smoothly cut ahead of her. These guys had the ladies-last thing down pat.
A shiny black Escalade was parked right at the curb—miraculously, without a parking ticket on the windshield. Liam reached for the passenger door and helped her inside. As she clicked her seat belt, he walked around the front, his gaze scanning the area.
The inside of the Escalade smelled of new leather. The dashboard was sleek and high-tech, with a navigation system that looked like it belonged in the cockpit of a fighter plane.
She glanced in back to see four empty bucket seats and windows tinted so dark she could hardly see through them.
Liam got behind the wheel and quickly pulled away from the curb.
“So,” she said, searching for small talk. “You guys are really pulling out the big guns, huh?”
He shot her a look.
“Is it my imagination, or is this glass extra thick?”
“It’s bulletproof,” he said.
Her nerves did a little dance. “And the doors?”
“Armored.”
“Damn. I feel really important.”
He exited the police-station parking lot. “Why do you say that?”
“Because this is like a presidential motorcade.”
He glanced at her, and she was struck once again by his intense look.
Of course, all the Wolfe guys were intense, including Jeremy. It had to be a prerequisite for getting hired.
“We don’t operate that way,” Liam told her.
“What way?”
“VIP treatment. Each client’s protection plan is determined by the threat assessment, not some organizational pecking order. Or who is footing the bill.”
“Good to know,” she said. “Any updates on Gavin Quinn?”
“He’s at Methodist Hospital, still in ICU.”
Kira’s chest tightened as she thought of him. From the security headquarters of the office building, she’d watched on the monitors as paramedics loaded Quinn onto a gurney and whisked him away. Detective Diaz had told her he’d been shot in the abdomen.
“I can get you an update when we reach the hotel,” Liam said. “We’ve got an agent at the hospital.”
“I thought he wasn’t your client?”’
“He isn’t. But we’re coordinating with his people now, along with local authorities.” He glanced at her. “Information sharing is a win-win in situations like this.”
Situations like this.
Situations like . . . murder. Attempted murder. Ever since she’d sat on Brock’s patio talking to those detectives, Kira had felt like she was living in an alternate universe.
She cleared her throat. “I’d like to thank you. And your agents.”
He gave her a questioning look.
“For reacting so quickly,” she explained. “It was instantaneous. One second we were standing around the lobby talking, and the next second we were in some windowless room. How’d they even know to take us there?”
“We scouted the location ahead of time.”
“Seriously?”
“We scout all the locations.”
“That’s very thorough.”
He smiled slightly. “Standard procedure.”
“And your agents are very professional. You must have a tough recruiting process.”
He nodded.
“I’m guessing it’s extremely competitive?”
He nodded again.
Kira knew this already from her research, but she was trolling for details. Wolfe Security was guarded about its inner workings, and the firm’s website gave out scant information. But there had been a handful of articles written over the years, mostly by reporters covering celebrities, and Kira had gleaned a few interesting details.
“Is it true all you guys have military backgrounds?” she asked.
“Not all but most. And it’s not all guys, by the way.” He looked at her. “We’ve got quite a few women in our ranks.”
“Interesting. And you, Erik, and Jeremy, you were all Marines?”
“That’s correct.”
“And you served together?”
“Yes.”
Another interesting tidbit. She wished she knew more about Jeremy’s background, but he’d been so stingy with information. From her digging, she’d learned he was from Jacksonville, Florida, and had gone to college on an ROTC scholarship. Clearly, his military service was a major part of his life, but the only time he’d spoken about it was that night at the ship channel.
She thought of the way he’d opened up to her, if only for a few minutes. He’d talked about death and fear and brotherhood.
And she thought of the way he’d dragged her into his lap and kissed her. He was a man of few words, which made his actions all the more thrilling.
“Jeremy saved my life once.”
She looked at Liam, afraid that if she said anything, he would stop.
“We were in Afghanistan. Suicide attack. Jeremy was on overwatch.”
“You mean, like . . .”
“He was on a rooftop. Took out the threat. Saved twelve people that day, including eight Marines.”
“Wow.”
“I take it he didn’t mention it. He doesn’t talk about himself much.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
He looked at her. “He’s very good at his job, though.”
“I noticed that, to
o.”
“He excels at reacting. There’s no hesitation—he’s pure focus. That’s how he’s wired.”
Kira looked at him, wondering why he was telling her all this.
“You should know you’re in good hands,” he said.
She glanced away, not sure what to say to that. She didn’t want to be in anyone’s hands. She didn’t want to be part of any of the things that were happening, but here she was anyway, caught in the middle of it.
If only she’d pieced the clues together sooner, none of this would have happened. Why hadn’t she put together the puzzle when Ollie did? If she had, he might be alive today, along with Shelly Chandler. And Gavin Quinn—who was looking more and more like an innocent man, falsely accused—might not be stuck in the ICU fighting for his life.
He’s pure focus.
Something about those words snagged Kira’s attention. Maybe Liam was on to her. Was that the underlying message, in addition to you’re in good hands?
Jeremy was one of Liam’s top agents, and she was messing with his focus. Did he somehow know that she had feelings for Jeremy? But how could he know that?
Well, the man made a living by being observant. Maybe he’d figured it out.
They reached the hotel’s tree-lined driveway. Liam pulled under the porte cochere, where wealthy hotel guests were sliding out of Benzes and Bentleys.
Valets and bellmen jumped to attention, taking their cars and their luggage off their hands, so they were free to check into their luxury rooms or hit the spa or maybe get a drink in the Metropolitan’s swanky bar. Kira had been here two nights, and she felt disconnected from all of it. Despite the sumptuous linens and pillows, she’d barely managed a few hours of sleep.
Liam parked the Escalade and turned to face her. Something in his eyes told her she could trust him.
“How long does it take to get past it?” she asked him.
“Get past . . .?”
“Nearly getting shot and killed.” She looked out the window. “I’ve hardly slept in a week.”
“Insomnia is associated with PTSD. You should talk to someone professional.”
“Did you?” She looked at him. “Talk to someone professional?”
He hesitated, and she thought he was going to duck the question.
“No,” he said. “I usually talk to my wife. She’s in law enforcement, so she knows what it’s like.”
Kira was surprised by his candor. And she felt a pang of envy. It must be nice to have a relationship like that, one where you could help each other through problems. All her adult life, Kira had been on her own. For years, she’d been trying to prove her independence to her parents and her brother and herself. Now she wondered what it would be like to have someone to share things with.
She wanted to talk to Jeremy. She thought of how he’d reacted last night after her shower meltdown. He’d been comforting and kind and hadn’t given her a lot of platitudes. Mostly, he’d distracted her by kissing her until she was so turned on she couldn’t think of anything else. That was one kind of therapy.
Trent stepped out of the hotel and strode straight up to the Escalade. Evidently, she was being handed off to yet another agent who wasn’t Jeremy. Trent opened the door, and Liam held up his hand.
“Give us a sec.”
Trent closed the door.
“You should really talk to someone,” Liam repeated.
“I’ll check into it,” she said.
But by the look in his eyes, he knew that was a lie.
Charlotte sat at the bar at Bud’s BBQ two blocks from the police station, watching ESPN as she waited for her to-go order. She picked up her drink and sipped through the slender red straw. In the mirror behind the bar, she watched as the door opened, and Diaz stepped into the restaurant. It took him about two seconds to spot her, and he walked over.
“Where’d you go?” he asked, sliding onto a stool. “I thought you were coming back after dinner.”
“Got sidetracked,” she said. “Ended up spending two hours in the emergency department at Methodist Hospital.”
“What’d they say about your shoulder?”
“Nothing broken.” She moved it slightly and winced as pain zinged through the joint. “They gave me a fancy ice pack and sent me home, so I stopped to pick up some dinner. How’d you find me?”
“Spotted your car.”
Charlotte looked Diaz over. Her partner appeared bone-tired, and his hair was doing that spiky thing it did when he ran his hand through it too many times.
“How’d it go with the tapes?” she asked.
“Still nothing.”
The pretty young bartender walked over with a smile for Diaz, which seemed to perk him up somewhat.
“What can I get you?” she asked.
He nodded at Charlotte’s drink. “What is that, rum and Coke?”
“Straight Diet Coke.”
He frowned. “You working after this?”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll have a Coke,” he told the bartender. Then he looked at Charlotte. “If you’re thinking about going back in, I wouldn’t bother. The tapes are a bust.”
After Gavin Quinn’s assailant vanished into the tunnel system, detectives had spent all afternoon combing through security footage from Brock Logan’s office and surrounding areas. By evening, they’d found nothing, such as a suspicious vehicle or possible accomplice, that might give them a clue to the shooter’s current whereabouts. Much like the River Oaks murder, the perpetrator had waltzed right up to his target, shot him, and calmly left the scene.
Charlotte had been a cop for twelve years, and she found the attacks particularly disturbing. Not that the perp was a great shot—if you included Shelly Chandler, he was two for five in terms of lethality—but he was brazen.
“I gotta say, the guy’s got balls,” Diaz said, reading her mind, as usual.
“I know.”
“I mean, an office building in broad daylight? With a bodyguard right there? It’s almost like he’s daring us to catch him.”
“Or he doesn’t think we can.”
“I’ve been nosing around about Anatoly Markov,” Diaz said. “Word is, people who work for him are accident-prone. One of his dock workers got hit by a truck last year. Another fell off a crane.”
“No kidding?”
“Yeah. I talked to a detective in Channelview. They investigated foul play but could never prove it. Evidently, Markov’s son Andre is involved in the business, but he’s not really suited for it.”
“Why not?”
“I hear he’s a hothead. When he’s not busy wrecking cars and getting into fights, he puts a lot of money up his nose.”
Charlotte shook her head. “What’d I tell you about family businesses? What do you want to bet we find out this whole mess comes down to Anatoly trying to protect his kid from his own stupidity?”
The bartender delivered Diaz’s drink with a smile. He sipped it glumly, and Charlotte knew he’d much rather be drinking a beer.
“So what’s left tonight?” he asked. “And do you need a wingman?”
“Nah, I got it. I just have to stop by the Metropolitan Hotel and interview those Wolfe agents. They’re observant. Maybe they can tell us something useful.”
“I’d say they’re a hell of a lot better than Quinn’s people. His guy didn’t even pull his weapon before his client was on the ground. You believe that?”
“You get what you pay for,” she said. “Wolfe Sec is the best of the best, but they’re expensive, and Quinn’s buried in legal bills in addition to everything else.”
“Why don’t you let me do the interviews?” He nodded at her shoulder. “You go home and ice that injury.”
“I can handle it.”
“I know you can handle it. I’m offering to do it for you.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Why?”
“Because. I know you’ve had a shit day, and I know you hate hospitals. You wouldn’t have gone in unless you were in seriou
s pain. You should put some ice on it and call it a night.”
She watched him, trying to think of something to say that didn’t sound sappy.
“I don’t deserve you, Diaz.”
“Yeah, tell me something I don’t know.” He took a big sip of his drink and plunked it onto the bar. “Such as . . . what did you do to piss off McGrath?”
Charlotte didn’t know, but she smiled at the thought. “He’s pissed off?”
“He showed up in the bull pen an hour ago, flinging files and cursing your name. What’d you do?”
“Maybe he’s mad about his murder case not being wrapped up with a nice red bow, like he thought it was.”
“You think they collared the wrong guy?” Diaz asked.
“Don’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“How else would you explain the attempted assassination of Quinn’s entire legal team and the theft of their work product just before trial?” Charlotte asked. “And what about the murder of Shelly Chandler, who was doing errands for the defense? Seems pretty obvious someone is hiding something. And that person is hell-bent on keeping Quinn’s trial from happening.”
“You’re saying they’re afraid of exposure?”
“Exactly.”
“But if this was all about Gavin Quinn, why not take him out a long time ago? Why wait for his trial to start?”
“Man’s been under house arrest. He’s had security. His trip downtown today was the first time he’s been in public in months, and it was a scheduled appearance. It would have been easy for someone to tail him from the courthouse to his lawyer’s office for lunch, then set up an ambush there in the lobby.”
Diaz combed his hand through his hair. He looked almost as whipped as she was. But at least he wasn’t going home with a black-and-blue shoulder. She’d crashed hard today, harder than she’d realized when she’d been hot on the heels of her suspect. She’d thought she might have fractured something, but an X-ray had ruled out broken bones, so it was only a nasty bruise.
Diaz had guessed right that she’d had a shit day. What she needed now was a big dinner, a hot bubble bath, and a solid night’s sleep with no interruptions. But given her luck lately, she’d probably get a callout the minute her head hit the pillow.
The bartender was back with a brown paper bag.
Her Deadly Secrets Page 25