Death Comes Knocking (The Thea Kozak Mystery Series, Book 10)

by Kate Flora

  Just a few hours ago, I’d been excited about Jonetta’s visit and thinking about how I’d entertain her. I’d been thinking about groceries and my clients. Now I had a renegade special ops guy in my guestroom along with two suspected—and unwanted— federal agents in my kitchen. I clutched my gun in my lap and thought about how absurd this was. I patted the basketball. “Don’t worry, baby. Mom and Dad won’t let anything happen to you.”

  Suzanne always claims I bring this on myself, that bad things never happen to her. I wouldn’t want her to trade places, but I think she was missing a couple of points. First, that I got the jobs at EDGE that involved risk and bad actors. I was the trouble-shooter, Jane Wayne, the girl in the white hat. When people called me, there already was trouble. Second, that my unalterable personality trait was to help people in need. In danger. I was a fixer, starting when I had to run interference between my adopted sister Carrie and my mother. If Suzanne looked at my track record, a lot of good people had been rescued, and a lot of bad people had faced justice because of me.

  The flip side? I was supposed to stop all this because of MOC. No more danger. No more helping people. I would be an irresponsible mother if I didn’t. But how could I have kept Charity from knocking on my door? Was I supposed to have somehow sensed danger from this smiling new neighbor in her colorful dress and slammed the door in her face?

  Going forward, did I need a bodyguard wherever I went? I guess such a person would be useful for carrying heavy packages and groceries. Except, of course, that that would prevent him or her from doing their protective duties.

  I sighed, resting my head against the railing. All this surmising was making me dizzy. I wanted to go lie down. But there were still strangers in my kitchen. I longed to charge down there and throw them out, but if they needed ejecting, Andre could do that. He should do it. Now.

  I tried the breathing exercises again, like the therapist had taught me. It didn’t make a bit of difference. I am impulsive. I wrapped my gun-free hand around the railing and pulled myself up, planning to head downstairs. I felt a hand on my shoulder, and a voice whispered, “Don’t.”

  What the hell? Kinsman had left the guest room and reached me and I hadn’t heard a thing in this creaky old house.

  I shivered even though it was a warm summer night. “What the . . ?”

  He held a finger to his lips. “Shhh.”

  He must have felt my resistance. “When they’re gone, I’ll explain.”

  “But…”

  This time he put his finger on my lips. “Come with me.” The hand on my shoulder wasn’t gentle. I turned around and let him steer me into the guest room. In the dark I found my way to the chair, leaving the bed for him. There was a certainty about him that reminded me of Andre. Men who knew their way around bad guys and violence. Real take-charge types.

  Maybe I was being too trusting, but I offered him the gun. It would be better in his hands anyway.

  “Thanks.” He took it. Checked it the way people who know their way around guns do.

  I closed my eyes. I wanted the people downstairs gone. I wanted him gone. I wanted my happy summer life back.

  No one knows better than I that wishing won’t make it so.

  We waited in a silence so charged the air almost crackled with electricity. I had to remind myself to breathe. After what felt like forever, the downstairs door opened and shut. Car doors slammed and it backed down the driveway.

  I heard Andre’s footsteps on the stairs and headed for the door.

  Kinsman said, “Wait.” In the gloom, I saw him get up.

  I wasn’t waiting. In a moment of carelessness and instinctive trust, I’d armed this man. Now he was heading toward my husband. What if I was wrong?

  I am quick on my feet, and I reached the door first even though he was closer. I slipped through and straight into Andre’s arms. To hell with acting like the little woman. Compared to Andre, I was little. Except in the middle.

  His arms wrapped around me and he pulled me up against his chest. He has a chest like a wall. I closed my eyes and inhaled his scent. Out there in the world, I am a tough pragmatist. Here at home, I will readily admit Andre is my rock. My center. We’ve been through a lot to get here. It has bonded us. Just listening to him breathe is more comforting than any breathing I might do myself.

  I heard Kinsman come out behind me, not moving quietly this time. He waited until Andre released me, then held out the gun to me.

  Andre gave him a look. I think it was thanks, but I’m not sure.

  “I could use a drink,” Kinsman said, like he’d been the one down in the kitchen.

  “Sure,” Andre said.

  “Me, too,” I said. I wouldn’t, though. I went to the kitchen, where they were back at the table, bent over glasses of warm brown liquid, looking like they were engaged in a staring contest. I got the key, carefully stowed my firearm, and took the key to the cabinet back downstairs. But returning it to the peas seemed ridiculous. It was an awkward method of securing the guns, one that wouldn’t work very well if a bad guy entered. And Kinsman was too observant not to notice. Of course, there was a second key upstairs in an easier location. We used this one as a rule, though neither of us could probably explain why. Something superstitious, maybe? For now, I put it in my pocket.

  I climbed back on my stool by the island. “Who was it?” I asked.

  “Alice and Fred again.”

  “You tell them to stop coming here?”

  Andre nodded. He got out his phone and showed me pictures of their badge photos.

  He showed them to Kinsman, who sighed and said, “I don’t think they’re Marshals Service.”

  “But you don’t know?” Andre asked.

  Kinsman shook his head.

  “Why do they keep bothering us,” I asked, “when we’ve told them we don’t know anything?”

  “Because you met Charity. She lived across the street. The two of you did stuff together. And it’s you she chose to leave her ID with. It all suggests a deeper relationship than you actually had. That you are hiding her somewhere or know where she’s gone,” Andre said. “Some feds, you know, they get so distrustful they can’t see the forest for the trees.” He hesitated. “Some cops, too.”

  Which I knew to be true from my own misadventures. “You think they’re for real?”

  “I don’t,” Kinsman said. But he didn’t offer any details.

  I hadn’t helped her, and I had no idea where she was, though, being me, I would have helped her if she’d asked. It’s damned hard to prove a negative, though.

  I didn’t have enough bandwidth left to try and sort anything out. Not tonight. “I’ve got to get some sleep,” I said. Then, remembering I hadn’t told Andre this yet, I said, “Oh, and Jonetta is coming tomorrow. She needed to escape the city. Says she hasn’t had a vacation in six years.”

  “You’ll like that,” Andre said.

  “If all this will let me enjoy it.”

  I was so ready for bed, but I still needed to know what was happening with the investigation into the murders across the street. I wouldn’t sleep unless I did. Usually, I didn’t ask about Andre’s work. I let him tell me if he wanted to, and if he could. But this was different. I’d found one of the victims. “So, the murders at Charity’s place. What have you learned?”

  He glanced at Kinsman, a not-so-subtle reminder he didn’t discuss cases in front of strangers. We would talk later, if I was still awake.

  I gave up. I climbed off the stool and found I was shaking. This whole business was too unsettling. It was so damned unfair.

  Andre wrapped his arms around me again. “I know,” he said. “I know. We’ll get it sorted out. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  I politely refrained from mentioning the call I’d made that had gone to voicemail. The hours I’d waited here with Kinsman, not knowing whether Charity’s brother was friend or foe. He was here now, and I was almost asleep on my feet. But there was always one more question. “So, Mal
colm,” I said. “Who is the guy with the cowboy boots?”

  Twenty-Five

  Kinsman touched the cut on his head. “Cartel. I’m sure. He’s the one who did this.”

  I was out of questions. Andre could ask the rest—like was the guy out there somewhere? Had the guy followed him here? How did he know cowboy boots was cartel? Where was Kinsman’s car? Despite the way unanswered questions swirled around me, buzzing like a swarm of bees, I was too tired to focus, and I had to get some sleep before my early run to the store. I left them to bond, or circle each other warily over their drinks, and went to bed.

  When my alarm rang the next morning at six, I was not ready to face the day. I am not a morning person, yet I’m living a life that acquaints me far too much with mornings. But company was coming and groceries were required. I dragged myself from bed, wondering how it was possible that I would get any more whale-like in the next few weeks, and pulled on a baggy tee shirt and a pair of Andre’s old sweatpants cut off just below the knee. I was definitely making a fashion statement, especially after I tied on a bandana to hold back my unruly hair and wiggled my feet into flip flops.

  Andre didn’t stir, and the closed door to the guestroom suggested Kinsman had spent the night.

  In the kitchen, I made a quick cup of coffee. I grabbed my reusable bags, left a note for Andre on the counter, and headed to my car. Not in my normal, headlong way—my two speeds tend to be all and nothing—but cautiously and looking carefully around for any strange cars or unwanted visitors. Nothing in sight.

  The drive to the store was soothing. The roads were empty, there were summer flowers everywhere, and it was lovely morning for a drive. Scoring food was easy. So easy that I bought far too much. Bacon. Eggs. Good bread. Lots of cheese and olives and good crackers. I got the steaks and the chocolate cake and red wine, and some brownies, and another rotisserie chicken, and ham and turkey and Swiss and deli coleslaw. Bagels and cream cheese. Potato chips for the man who can eat without worrying about his waistline.

  Right then, I supposed I could, too. I didn’t have a waistline.

  I drove home with the windows down and the radio blaring, feeling like a successful hunter/gatherer coming back to the cave. Andre was in the kitchen when I lugged in the first load, and chivalrously offered to bring in the rest while I put things away. Sunlight and domesticity made yesterday’s scary black car and last night’s visitors seem far away and unthreatening. I am such a simple soul.

  I was stowing the last items when Kinsman appeared. If anything, he looked worse than yesterday. The day after an injury can do that. Andre told him to sit and I offered coffee.

  As soon as he’d been plied with caffeine, I said, “Charity’s been in touch with you, hasn’t she?”

  He nodded.

  “Before you appeared on the plane?”

  Another nod. “She has a burner phone she’s using.”

  “You haven’t heard from her since?”

  “She said she didn’t feel safe with Jessica. In that house. That she was going to find another place to stay. Since then? Nothing. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Do you know the person or persons who assaulted you?”

  “The guy with the cowboy boots and another guy who sounded kinda like that guy who was down in your kitchen last night.”

  “Could you describe them any better than that?”

  “You’re not a cop,” he said with a wry smile.

  “I’m not. But since you put me, us, our family, at risk by coming here, I want to know everything Charity told you that led you to believe I might know where she is.”

  He looked at Andre, making me wonder if they had done some male bonding after I went to bed.

  “If I were you, I’d answer her questions,” Andre said.

  “She called me. She said she’d met you. Said she was going to confide in you. She said that Jessica Whitlow had been assigned to get her settled here, and what she’d found was a wreck of a place that wasn’t fit to live in. She said she was supposed to trust Whitlow but she didn’t. She didn’t feel safe.”

  He absently fingered the bandage on his forehead. “I asked her to hold on until I could get to her. Then she called me in a panic, said there had been some strangers snooping around and she’d also seen them at your house. She and Jessica had argued and Jessica told her not to worry, Jessica and her partner were watching out for her. Then she stopped answering her phone. I tried to reach you and your office said you were going to be out of the office at a client school. Someone gave me the name of the school. I did a little digging and managed to get on that flight with you.”

  He stared at his empty cup and Andre poured him more coffee. “We’ve got bagels,” I offered, even though I didn’t want to interrupt his train of thought.

  “A bagel would be great,” he said.

  Andre put one in the toaster. We’re a good team.

  I waited for Kinsman to go on. He didn’t.

  “I told you everything I knew on the plane,” I said. “But you still came here, looking for your sister. I get that you’re concerned about her. Jessica Whitlow doesn’t seem to have done a good job looking after her. What I still don’t get is why you think I know where your sister is.”

  Kinsman looked away. Maybe embarrassed? “You’re the only link I’ve got.”

  “What about the Marshals Service? They’re looking for her, too. Couldn’t you be working together?”

  “If they were willing to share information. Which they’re not. They’re into witness protection. I’m into family protection. I gather most of the time they’re protecting witnesses from their families. Or trying to isolate witnesses from their families so others can’t use their families to find them. I can’t convince them this situation is different, and that’s true even though I know…knew Jessica. She was very by-the-book.”

  The toaster dinged and Andre put the bagel on a plate.

  “Charity was pretty frustrated,” Kinsman went on. “They wouldn’t tell her anything about David and what was happening. That’s why she called me. Then that private dick showed up, and that really spooked her. She said I had to come. When I got here, I called her and there was no response, and then I read about the murders…” He looked at me. “So I tried to find you.”

  “You did find me.” I was impatient with this narrative, which didn’t seem to help us solve the killings or find Charity. I looked at Andre. “You’re going to work?”

  He nodded.

  “And I’m going to work for a few hours.”

  Back to Kinsman. “Are you staying here or leaving? Where’s your car? Do you think that…”

  Andre held up a cautioning hand. “Slow down,” he said.

  I felt like being a brat and saying, “What for?” but restrained myself. “You guys work it out, okay? I’m going to work. And he…” I pointed rudely at Kinsman. “… can’t stay in the guestroom because we’re expecting a guest.”

  Okay. This was bringing out my worst side, if I have such a thing. These endless conversations where I declared that I didn’t know where Charity was and no one believed me made me feel like a gerbil on a wheel. I had to get out of here. Go to the office where I could concentrate on something other than Charity Kinsman.

  “Go,” Andre said. He was smiling, though. He knows me well. Knew this wasn’t about him, but about how I can’t stand it when everything is out of control. “What time are you coming home?”

  “Jonetta said she’d be here by three, so maybe two-thirty?”

  He nodded. “You might want to change first?”

  I’d forgotten the tee-shirt, cut-off sweats, and flip flops. I may be no fashion plate, but I’d never go to the office dressed like this. I only went to the store this way because it was early morning and no one I knew would see me. Being pregnant has made me more concerned about comfort, even at the expense of my normal sense of propriety. I headed upstairs, slipped on one of my new tunic tops, capris, and proper sandals. I added a chunky black and white n
ecklace and earrings and came back down. I shoved my work into my briefcase, got my purse, and left. I was sure between them, Andre and Malcolm Kinsman could figure out what to do next. They didn’t need me, even if at least one of them thought a few hours spent together made me Charity’s confidant and BFF.

  On the drive to the office, I pondered on why Charity had left me her ID and credit cards and also Jessica Whitlow’s ID. Had she just not wanted them on her person to give her deniability? I could see hiding her own ID, but why Jessica’s? Surely witsec didn’t give people they were protecting the IDs of their agents or inspectors or whatever they were called. Was she trying to protect the other woman or incapacitate her by leaving her stuck here without ID? Or was it a message: here’s who I really am and who Jessica is and why I pretended to be her. What was she doing for money? Was that wad of cash I’d seen her using enough?

  I can puzzle my way through a lot of things, but not this, and I resented having so much of my personal bandwidth taken up by Charity and her problems. My attempt to achieve a better work/life balance didn’t need this thrown in. I’m a professional worrier and fixer, though. There was no way I could simply ignore Charity’s dilemma even if the people didn’t keep knocking on my door and shoving the situation in my face. Or, in her brother’s case, simply opening it and barging in.

  Despite a grocery run and an unwanted houseguest, I was at the office early. Unless there’s an emergency, Magda arrives at nine on the dot, and Sarah has to wait for the camp bus to pick up her kids, so she comes in a few minutes later. Lisa was doing an on-site visit at a client school and Bobby had a dentist appointment. Suzanne had some early faculty wives’ breakfast. All that was fine with me. I like a quiet, empty office.

  As I parked, I saw that I wouldn’t be entirely alone. Lindsay’s bright blue Subaru was already there, and miracle of miracles, Jason’s little Corolla was right beside it. So far, punctuality hadn’t been his strong suit, so I was pleased. The little chat with me and Suzanne must have done some good.