by Gayle Wilson
Sarah stood on the threshold. She physically recoiled when the door opened, her shock as great as his at finding her outside.
His eyes searched her face before they quickly lifted to scan the foyer behind her. Nothing—no one— was out there. Nor was anyone on the stairs leading up to her apartment.
Whatever was going on, whatever had brought her here, the first thing he needed to do was get her inside. He reached out and, still encumbered by the cell he held, pulled her into the apartment by putting his arm around her shoulders.
He propelled her on past him and into the living room. He closed and locked the door before he turned to question, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I—"
"Sarah?"
"Nothing. I woke up and thought about you being down here and me being up there. I just thought..." She crossed her arms over her body, hunching her shoulders. "I'm sorry, Mac. I didn't mean to frighten you. It's stupid. I know, but I just wanted..." She shook her head again. "I don't know what I wanted."
"You're okay? You sure?"
She nodded. He snapped his phone closed, causing her to jump at the sound.
"I thought he was here." Fear made his voice too harsh.
"Tate?"
"I got up to get some coffee and when I went back to the monitors, you weren't in bed. I was on my way up there. I was about to call for backup." He held up his cell to her, as if to make his point.
"I'm sorry. I didn't think. I just woke up and... I didn't want to be alone."
"This isn't part of the deal."
"What?"
"With Morel. Nobody's supposed to know there's anyone in this apartment."
"Nobody does. There's no one out there, Mac. I looked before I came downstairs."
"The department's put a lot of time and effort and money into this plan, Sarah. You agreed to it. You can't risk everything now because you can't sleep."
"Who's going to know, Mac? Who's ever going to know that I came down here?"
"Sarah—"
"Isn't there just as much danger of someone seeing me go back upstairs? What's an hour spent together going to hurt anything? I'll be careful. I promise. I was careful."
"That isn't the point."
"I know the point. Mac. I get it. But...I'm not sure I can do this anymore."
The confession she'd just made was, no doubt, a sign of her desperation. Still. Mac knew her well enough to know that she'd never forgive herself if she blew this.
It was up to him to help her through whatever emotional upheaval she was experiencing right now. That's
what he'd signed on to do, even if he hadn't been on board with the original concept.
"Every stakeout's like this," he said. "Every one of them. The waiting. The boredom. The sense that you're wasting your time."
"I can't even do my job. I can't remember what people order. I can't think anymore."
"You don't have to. All you have to do is wait. Tate's the one we want to be thinking."
"Morel thinks I should do another interview."
Mac wasn't sure how the captain had communicated that suggestion. Maybe by phone. Or through one of the cops who guarded her during the day. However the message had been sent, he wasn't thrilled about being left out of the loop.
"How do you feel about that?"
"I just want this to be over. Do you think he's gone?"
He was beginning to wonder. In some ways that would be good news. In others, at least as far as his relationship with Sarah was concerned, it wouldn't be. She, even more than the police, needed closure with Tate. The only way for her to get that was if he were dead or behind bars.
"I don't know," he admitted.
"So how much longer will they make us wait for him to do something?"
Sarah's use of the word us had probably been unconscious. Or maybe she wasn't thinking of the two of them in any way other than their working together. Which was all they were supposed to be doing right now.
"You'll have to ask Morel. Right now—" He hesitated, because her eyes had come up. "Right now, you need to go back upstairs. And you need to stay there. As far as the world is concerned, this is an empty apartment. If anybody sees you coming to this door, anybody in this building, then this operation is over. And with it, so is any chance to trap Tate. You don't want that, Sarah. Neither do I. We need to at least give this our best effort."
"Five minutes. That's all I'm asking. I just need somebody to talk to."
"Sarah—"
"What difference can it make whether I go upstairs now or five minutes from now? If anybody saw me come down, the damage is done. But they didn't. Mac. I swear. I looked. It's three o'clock in the morning. Even in this dump nobody's up at that hour."
He couldn't argue with her logic. Either she'd been seen or she hadn't, and there was nothing now he could do about it either way.
"What do you want to talk about?"
"I don't care. Just...talk. Talk to me."
It would have been much smarter if he'd done what she told him to do. Smarter. More professional. Whatever.
Instead, he slipped his weapon back into the shoulder holster and walked over to where she stood. Her head lifted, chin tilting upward as he approached.
By the time he got there, her lips had parted. They were at the perfect angle for him to lower his head and put his own over them.
Her arms fastened around his neck, just as they had the last time he'd held her. Her kiss revealed the same pent-up hunger he'd fought through those long, lonely nights as he'd stared at the monitor while she slept.
He had already acknowledged that letting her stay wouldn't be the smartest thing he'd ever done. But by God, now that she was here, there was no way in hell that he wasn't going to assuage the desire that virtually vibrated through her body.
As well as assuage his own...
Twenty-Eight
The sounds were so familiar that, although Mac heard them, they didn't cause him to react. Every morning he'd been here, he had heard the noise Morel's men made as they unloaded their tools from their utility trucks in preparation for coming into the apartment they were supposedly in the process of renovating.
With the second clank of metal against metal, however, his eyes opened. They went immediately to the heavily curtained front window, the same one through which Dwight had waved at him that first day.
A thread of silver outlined the edges of its covering. Morning.
On the heels of that realization came another. Sarah's body was still spooned next to his on the pile of drop cloths he'd arranged on the hardwood floor for the makeshift bed they'd made love on.
"Get up," he urged, scrambling to his feet.
Despite the darkness in the apartment, he located his jeans. Hopping first on one leg and then the other, he straggled into them. Fumbling around on the floor, he finally found his shirt. He'd pulled it off last night without unbuttoning it. Getting it back on without taking time to do that now was considerably more difficult.
"What's wrong?" Sarah sat up. looking around with the befuddlement of someone too suddenly awakened from a sound sleep.
"The day shift is outside."
Mac wasn't sure if she grasped all the implications of their mistake. He wasn't certain he did either.
He did know that if Morel got wind that Sarah had spent the night down here, he was going to be royally pissed. Maybe angry enough to renege on the deal he'd made with Sarah to let Mac have this particular duty.
The white nightgown he'd helped her take off last night was easy to find despite the lack of light. He scooped it off the floor and tossed it toward her. Sarah made no move to pick it up, simply looking up at him as if she still wasn't sure what was going on.
"Get dressed," he ordered.
"What are you going to do?"
"Stall them. I'll keep them outside while you get up the stairs."
She nodded, finally reaching out to pull the gown towards her. He didn't stop to watch her put it on. He walked over to the wi
ndow instead, carefully easing back the covering enough to see the street outside.
One of the now-familiar white trucks was parked at the curb. An officer, disguised as a workman, was unloading items out of its bed into a carpenter's carry-all.
Mac let the drape fall over the window again before he turned back to Sarah, who had finally gotten to her feet. She was still holding her nightgown to the front of her body. Eyes wide, she was watching his every move.
"Give me a couple of minutes to engage him in conversation. Then crack the door and make sure the foyer's clear. If it is, get back upstairs."
"Should I pick this up?" She indicated the pallet of painters' cloths where they'd made love.
"Leave it. It doesn't matter."
The important thing was for him to get outside before the officer entered the building. Once that happened, there would be no way Sarah could escape upstairs without being seen.
As he crossed the room, Mac picked up his weapon from where it lay on the floor next to his side of the "bed." He shrugged into the holster as he approached the door.
Through the peephole, he checked out the foyer. From this less-than-perfect vantage point, it appeared to be empty. Faintly, from outside, he heard something that sounded like the lift gate on the truck being slammed shut, pushing him into action.
He slipped the .38 out and opened the apartment door. Leading with his weapon, he took a single step forward, visually scanning the areas he hadn't been able to see through the fish-eye view offered by the peephole.
When he'd verified that the foyer was empty, he glanced over his shoulder to nod to Sarah, who was still hovering on the pile of drop cloths. He gestured her forward with his left hand before he stepped through the door and then closed it behind him.
He reholstered his weapon as he walked toward the front entrance, trying to think of some plausible reason that might have sent him out to meet the arriving workmen. Something that would also keep them outside for the next few vital seconds.
When he opened the outer door of the building, the cold was like a physical force, especially after the near-fetid warmth of the foyer. Despite having closed the truck's lift gate, the cop he'd seen through the window was hunkered down beside the carry-all, fiddling with his tools. As he did, he whistled, the sound low and tuneless.
Maybe he was waiting for the rest of the crew to show up. If so, Mac might not have to come up with a story that would keep him outside. He eased a breath in relief as he walked down the sidewalk toward where the man stooped.
"Morning," he called, his breath feathering in front of him in a small, white cloud.
The policeman didn't respond. Once away from the wire-caged lights on either side of the building's entry, Mac realized it was earlier than he'd thought.
No wonder the cop was waiting for the rest of the crew to show. It was barely daylight. With that thought a sliver of unease touched Mac's spine.
Through the window of the downstairs apartment he had watched the officers assigned to play workmen go through this drill a dozen times. They parked in this exact spot. Unloaded tools from the back of the truck, just as this guy was doing. Wore that same white coverall...
Despite that litany of sameness, the radar Mac had acquired through his years in this job told him something wasn't right. He'd reached the curb before that conviction grew strong enough to cause him to reach toward the butt of the .38 that protruded from his shoulder holster. It was a motion he would never complete.
As if he had eyes in the back of his head, the workman bending beside the workbox sprang to his feet at the same instant Mac's forward progress began to slow. There was no hesitation on his part.
Unlike Mac, he had known what was about to happen. He'd been prepared for it.
As the man sprang up, he brought with him whatever he'd been concealing at his feet. He swung the object in a lethal arc, one which had begun with his first movement.
The end of what he held connected with the bent elbow of Mac's right arm. The hand that had been reaching for his weapon went numb, but his mind seemed to be processing information at warp speed.
The dark, thin face of the man who wielded what he'd now identified as a shovel was instantly recognizable. Mac barreled into him, trying to grab at the implement before Tate could hit him with it again. In response the killer raised the wrench he'd concealed in his other hand and brought it down in a vicious blow against the side of Mac's head.
Mac struggled to hold on to consciousness as the air thinned and then blackened around him. His good hand fastened on the lapel of Tate's coverall, fingers digging into its fabric in a futile attempt to hold himself upright.
The wrench was raised once more. Although Mac was distantly aware of its descent, mercifully he was not aware as it once more connected with his temple.
When Mac closed the door, leaving Sarah alone, his action seemed to destroy the paralysis created by being jerked out of the first sound sleep she'd managed in almost three weeks. She realized that she was still pressing her nightgown against her breasts. She held it out before her, trying to orient the garment so she could slip it over her head.
It was wrong-side out, no doubt the result of Mac's help in removing it last night. Fingers trembling in haste, she reversed it and then put it on.
As she stepped off the pile of drop sheets, she saw Mac's T-shirt and briefs lying beside them on the floor. She stooped, gathered them up, and then pushed them under the edge of the stack.
It wasn't until she'd reached the door to the apartment that she realized her mistake. This place would be full of policemen in a few minutes. It was entirely possible someone other than Mac would separate and then move the painters' cloths. If they did. wouldn't they wonder what Mac's underwear was doing underneath them?
She looked back at the pile Mac had told her to leave alone. Even without the evidence of the clothing, it would be obvious what they'd been used for.
She knew there was bad blood between Mac and his supervisor. All Morel would need to hear was that Mac had been sleeping on the job and the deal she and his boss had made would be moot.
She crossed the room again, conscious as she did of the precious seconds ticking away. Mac had said to give him a couple of minutes. She wasn't sure if he'd meant her to take that time frame literally, but surely he would keep the cop outside long enough for her to do something about the cloths.
She pulled the top one off the stack, dragging it as quickly as she could toward the kitchen. Since Mac had brought them into the living room, she wasn't sure of where they'd been previously. Maybe whoever had been assigned to work here yesterday wouldn't remember either.
Aware of the passage of time, she rearranged the drop sheets quickly, spreading them throughout the two rooms. As she worked, she listened for the distinctive creak the front door of the building made. She left what had been the bottom sheet in place in the middle of the living room, retrieving the underwear from beneath it. Then, bunching the clothing up in her hand, she headed back toward the apartment door.
Maybe she'd been slow on the uptake when Mac had left, but she understood his urgency now. She'd forced Morel's hand to get Mac reinstated. The captain wouldn't hesitate to suspend him again if he had any idea what they'd done last night.
As Mac had, she looked out through the peephole. There was no one in the foyer. She turned the dead bolt and then the knob, opening the door wide enough to allow her to see the main entrance.
As she peered through the crack, the door to the building began to open. Panicked. Sarah eased hers closed again.
Mac? It had to be, she reasoned. He wouldn't let anyone else inside. Not without giving her warning. If any of the workmen had entered the building with him. he would be talking to them, loudly enough to be sure she'd hear.
Although she listened, her ear pressed against the wood, no further sound came from the foyer. There had been none after that familiar snick of the mechanism of the entryway door engaging.
Another tenant
leaving? It was possible, she supposed, except that after living here all these months, she knew their habits. No one in the building got up this early. Or came home this late.
Which left the question as to who had come through the front door. She stood on tiptoe, putting her eye against the peephole again.
The foyer still appeared deserted. If Mac were out there, he would either have come into the apartment by now or he would have said something to her. Called her name. Done something to let her know it was him.
She took a step away from the door. At the continuing silence, fear of something other than Morel's displeasure began to coil in her gut.
Why couldn't she see whoever had come in? Was he hiding from her? And if so, why?
There wasn't a single possible answer to that question she liked. She took another step back, trying to decide whether to reach out and throw the dead bolt.
Its sound would give away to anyone outside that the apartment was occupied. If whoever had come in the front door was not one of the officers, however, it would provide an extra barrier of protection.
Suddenly she realized that she didn't know whether or not the dead bolt could be unlocked with the key that worked the main lock. The chain around Dwight's neck had held only one. The fact that the boy came and went while both his mother and grandmother were inside the apartment argued that the dead bolt could be manipulated with the same key.
The locks hadn't been changed when the police took over the apartment. She would have noticed. The faux-brass shine of the new ones they'd installed on her apartment upstairs were a dead giveaway.
Dead...
She ignored the mental echo as her mind sorted through the possibilities. Morel's decoy workmen, at least some of them, would have been given keys. Mac would too. since he'd been staying here.
That had probably been in the pocket of the jeans he'd slipped on before he'd gone outside. If Mac wasn't with whoever was out there...
As if the last piece of some difficult puzzle had suddenly fallen into place, she knew who was outside the door. And if she was right, he would have Mac's key.
From the time she'd spent here on the night Dwight had gone missing, she knew there was no back entrance to this apartment. There were only the front door and the windows, which, if they were like those in her apartment, had been painted over so many times they'd be impossible to open.
