by Sylvie Kurtz
She brushed past the man, past his family, and strode to her car with the same purposeful steps she’d used going in. But once she reached the car, her hand shook on the handle. Her face was pale in spite of the warm red of her jacket.
He wanted to hold her, to tell her everything was all right. But that was a lie, and he didn’t need the complication touching her would cause. So he gave her space to breathe. “Want to tell me what all that was about?”
She slanted the bottle in her hand, examining it as if it contained a label and she was dying to know the ingredients. “Homemade Luminol. It was supposed to react with the protein in the blood. But it doesn’t work if it can’t make contact with the trace of blood. It doesn’t work over fresh paint.”
“Where’d you find the recipe—www.supersleuth.com?” he joked.
“A forensic site.” Then she walked to the river, stood on the crumbling bank and heaved the bottle into the tangle of water. “You were right. These psychopaths are smart. I got here too late. I figured it out too late.”
“Figured what out?”
She looked at the house, small and dark against the jaw-line of trees and the low sun. “She was here.”
“How do you know? Maybe your magic juice didn’t work because there’s no blood in the first place.”
“Mike’s mother owns the place. He’d know about it. He’d know it wasn’t occupied.”
“Looks like new tenants. Maybe the owner just freshened the place up for them.”
She thumped her heart with a fist. “I know it. I feel it.”
But without evidence, without a body, there was no way to prove it. And heart didn’t stand up in court.
“You shouldn’t have come here alone.” The low light stretched the shadows of her sadness and tugged at his heart.
If she was right. If Felicia had been here. If someone had murdered her here. Then Rory was in danger. Because if she got too close to the truth, that same someone would want to silence her, too.
“I think you should take Hannah and go back to D.C.”
Looking at the muddy brown water, she wrapped her arms around her middle and scoffed. “And leave you to find my sister?” She looked up at him, a sob bobbing in her throat, but refusing to come out. “She’s here. Somewhere in this water.”
Not trusting himself to take her in his arms, he wrapped one of her curls around a finger. A train whistle screeched on the Vermont side of the river. “I’ll find her for you. I promise.”
She shook her head, disconnecting his touch. The gold of her eyes was flat. That dreaded wall was up and locked into place. “It’s not your fight.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” Because somewhere along the way, finding Felicia for her had become as important as shutting down this drug corridor.
And that was something he didn’t want to examine too closely, because if he did, he wouldn’t like the answers. Not one bit.
ACE DIDN’T LIKE the fact that tonight he’d traded arms for drugs. He didn’t like the way the gang was building up an armory fit to defend a small nation. He especially didn’t like the fact that tonight’s haul included a shoulder-fired rocket launcher, hand grenades and assault rifles—all military grade. Where had two twenty-something bozos come up with such an arsenal? Something for the ATF part of the alphabet soup task force to answer.
The growing cache meant a growing operation. Guns were needed to protect against people wanting to steal money and product. Something big was going to happen soon. But what? When? Where?
He and Mike were locking the underground weapons cache located within walking distance of the clubhouse. Deacon supervised. As they were heading back to the clubhouse, Mike took Ace aside. “I’ve got a beef with your old lady.”
The night was dark and starless. The place was dark and deserted. The man standing in his face was in a dark and dangerous mood. Ace reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a pack of gum. “What’d she do?”
“Nearly scared away some renters.”
“Yeah?” He offered Mike a stick of gum.
Ignoring the offer, Mike leaned farther into Ace’s personal space. Mike’s breath smelled of onions and decay. His eyes were filled with blood lust. “My mother depends on that income. She just spent big bucks on renovations. Took her a lot of talking to get the renters to stay.”
And just why were those renovations needed? Ace unwrapped the gum and stuffed it in his mouth, welcoming the snap of peppermint. “I’ll talk to her.”
Mike’s nostrils flared. His narrowed eyes glared. “You do that.”
Ace started to walk toward his bike in the parking lot under the yellow glare of sodium lights.
“If you can’t control her,” Mike said, his voice strangely disembodied, “I will.”
Ace didn’t let his step falter, but instead lifted a hand in acknowledgment. He was losing control of the situation. He’d seen it in little ways all evening. Taz’s knife-sharp glances stabbing his back, watching his every move as if he could smell the cop on him. Deacon’s sneaky nod to Tank, and Tank’s disappearance soon after, left him no doubt his apartment had been searched, possibly bugged, while he was otherwise engaged. Rory’s, too? Mike’s hardened attitude.
Not good. They knew he’d been with Rory at the Yant house.
To keep his position of power, he had to even the odds. He had to give them something bigger than him to worry about. He’d collected enough evidence to convict as many people as possible, but hadn’t acted on any of it in order to reel in the bigger fish. But now the situation was getting critical. Just as he’d feared, Rory had become a liability the gang wouldn’t hesitate to use to control him.
He had to get her out. Now. And he had to give her a chance to run safely.
Making sure he wasn’t followed, he stopped at a convenience store to make his report to Falconer. Then he placed a second call to the local police, giving them a chance to play hero. And for good measure, he walked by The Hangout and stashed a rock of meth on Curtis’s bike.
“HEY, HANNAH-BANANA, what are you still doing up?” Ace asked as he walked through the door of the apartment.
Rory frowned as she looked up from her laptop. Ace strode into the living room, heading for Hannah. Hannah, who’d been cruising around the coffee table, lifted her arms to him and beamed him a thousand-watt smile. You had to give the guy his due; he had a way with the ladies.
Rory turned away from the sight of the big, bad pirate turning to marshmallow over twenty-five pounds of baby girl dressed in purple pajamas. It confused her too much. “She’s full of beans tonight. I can’t get her to settle down.”
“Is that so?” he asked Hannah, tweaking her nose. She threw her head back and laughed like a doll. Ace took something from the pocket of his jacket, and Hannah in hand, waved the gadget at every inch of space in the living room. She babbled. He pointed the gadget and babbled back at her.
What was he doing with the gizmo? He stopped by the lamp on the side table, and she saw a red light flicker.
“I think what Hannah needs is a bath.” He continued his search of the apartment with his gadget. “A nice hot bath will make you sleepy.” Hannah batted his cheek. He blew a raspberry into her palm and sent her into another fit of laughter.
“What are you doing?” Rory reached for the pile of paper she’d rescued from Hannah’s curious hands and placed on top of the television.
He smiled that crooked smile that did weird things to her stomach. “Giving Hannah a bath.”
He jerked his chin toward the bathroom. “Come help me.”
She frowned and peered at the stack of papers in her hand. The last thing she wanted to do was play house with him. Too cozy. Too intimate. “I have things to do.”
“Suit yourself.” He yanked her up by the elbow and whispered, “We need to talk.” He let her go and pointed his gismo at the lamp. The red light blinked. He mouthed, “Bug.”
As in listening device? Here? Now he was going too far. Who w
ould want to listen to what went on in Felicia’s apartment? Surely Hannah’s babbles and cries were of no interest to anyone. But curiosity was her biggest fault, so she followed him into the small bathroom.
He closed the door behind her and waved his gizmo about. No blinking red light. Though she’d never had a problem with claustrophobia before, the white walls shrank around her. Shaking her head, she leaned against the sink cabinet, holding on to its edge with both hands.
Felicia had stuck decals of whales, fish and shells on the white tile in the tub enclosure. A blue net bag full of foam shapes in primary colors hung from the showerhead. Blue towels were draped over the towel bar. A blue shell-shaped soap lay unused in the dish. Felicia’s toothbrush was still in the blue plastic cup by the sink, dry, waiting. Blue like Felicia’s eyes. Her sister’s spirit was here in this little room.
Still holding Hannah, Ace turned on the water in the tub full blast, but didn’t put in the stopper or make any move to place Hannah into the bath. He sat on the edge of the tub and handed Hannah a blue rubber duck, which she squeaked with delight.
“Where did the bug come from?” Rory tightened her grip on the counter’s edge.
“Tank.”
“The pug from the bar?”
Ace nodded. “He’s to Deacon what Kingsley is to Falconer.”
“Why?”
“To hear what you know.” He turned his gaze, dark and intense, on her and her stomach dropped. “Things are getting tense, Rory. You and Hannah need to leave.”
She crossed her arms around her waist. He was asking her to give up. He was asking her to abandon Felicia all over again. He was asking her to renege on a promise. “Sorry, I’m not leaving.”
“No choice, sweetheart. Your sister’s gone. The kid needs you. Pack your bags and go.”
Why was he being so hard, so cruel? That wasn’t like him.
“With no body, no weapon, no witnesses, no blood, I have nothing to prove Felicia is dead. I have no intention of letting a killer go free.”
“I know how you feel.” His gaze softened and that unraveled the edges of the tension winding her tight. She was primed for a fight, she realized. She needed a fight. And he wasn’t going to give it to her.
“I have a sister, too,” he said. “And if I were in your shoes, I’d want my pound of flesh. But you’re risking your life.”
Life? No, Mike wouldn’t kill her. If he was smart enough to paint over washed blood, he was smart enough to realize killing her was a wrong move. It would attract too much unwanted attention to his activities. “I’m not leaving.”
“You hit a nerve tonight when you went out to the cabin.”
“That’s good! That means I’m getting close to the truth.”
Hannah pitched the duck. It landed by Rory’s feet. Ace handed the baby a plastic tugboat. She gummed the chimney. “You’re right there. You’re getting close enough to follow Felicia right into the grave.”
“I have to stay until I find Felicia, until I have the proof I need to make Mike pay for her murder.” It was the least she could do after letting Felicia down. “He has to have made a mistake. Has to.”
Hannah squirmed out of Ace’s hold. She stood next to the tub. Legs pumping, she watched the water pour from the spout. Ace’s protective hand on her lower back kept her from toppling over. “He’s about to take a hit. I might not be able to get him for running drugs. But I can get him for murder.”
Heart pounding, Rory stood up straighter. “How?”
“Mike’s brother was just arrested.”
Her shoulders dropped. “Like that’s going to stick.”
Hannah fell on her bottom and used Ace’s leg to pull herself back to standing. “The Attorney General is brand new. He has to make his bones. And what better way than with a high-profile case? He’s going to put the screws to Curtis Fletcher.”
Given the stories Ace had told her about how Mike treated the people who tried to put his gang brothers in jail, Rory figured all that was going to achieve was cut the Attorney General’s career short. “Mike won’t let that happen.”
“If he gets Curtis to confess to Mike killing your sister, will you get out of Dodge and let me find Felicia for you?”
“I—”
“When I make a promise, I keep it.”
The truth of it was in his eyes. She could see the promise cost him, personally and professionally, and something in her loosened. “I can’t make a promise I’m not sure I can keep.”
His face was a blank mask as he hefted Hannah into his arms and stood. She’d hurt him. That hadn’t been her intention.
“If you get a confession, I’ll leave.” A compromise was all she could give him. “I won’t go home, but I’ll leave town.”
He reached for the spigot and gave it a harsh twist, shutting off the rush of water. His voice echoed against the tile in the sudden silence. “Fair enough.”
Chapter Twelve
“Look, you can send me to jail,” Curtis Fletcher said, “but if Mike finds out I talked to you, I’m dead.”
As it turned out, Ace hadn’t needed to plant evidence on Curtis’s bike. He and his cousin, Bobby Odums, were caught with enough stuff on them to secure themselves a nice long stay in a federal pen. Now Bobby and Curtis were sitting in two separate interview rooms at the detention center. Hugh Winburn, the Attorney General, dapper in his custom charcoal suit, sat in front of Curtis, laying out the cards of the game between them. So far, Curtis wasn’t liking the hand dealt him.
“We can protect you,” the A.G. said, in a voice that almost convinced Ace he was on Curtis’s side.
“Is that what you told that bitch who tried to get Mike on tape?” Curtis lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of a spent one.
The A.G. opened the first of two files sitting in front of him. It contained a ream of papers and two photos. He took the first few sheets off the stack and placed them in front of Curtis. “These papers are an indictment against you for the murder of Felicia Cates.”
Curtis shoved at the papers and leaned back in the hard plastic chair. “That doesn’t have anything to do with me.”
“Millhauser ratted you out.”
“He ain’t got no proof.”
“We know about your mother’s cabin. How long do you think it’ll take to find Felicia’s car in the river?”
Next to the indictment, the D.A. placed a photo of Felicia and one of Hannah. Curtis glanced at them, then jerked his head away.
“This woman was the mother of your niece,” the A.G. said. “The family needs closure. When Hannah’s old enough to ask questions, she’ll need closure, too. And Felicia deserves a decent burial.”
Curtis pulled on his cigarette as if it was his last draw. The smoke he blew out wreathed around him. “That’s got nothing to do with me.”
Ace tried to ignore the tension hiking Rory’s shoulders up, inch by inch.
“We’re offering immunity here.”
Curtis drilled the stub of cigarette filter into the tabletop. “I don’t give a sh—”
“This offer’s not going to stay on the table.” Sincere regret dripped from the A.G.’s voice as he closed the file. “It’s a one-shot deal.”
“So’s dying.”
“A clean slate, Curtis. All you got to do is testify.”
Curtis’s expression froze into a scowl and his face flared red. “He’ll find me. He’ll kill me.”
“We can make it so he doesn’t.”
Curtis’s interest sparked. “That witness protection deal?”
“Can’t promise anything until we know what you know.”
Stiff and rigid, Curtis leaned back. “It don’t work like that.”
“Sure, Curt, because you and me, we both know Mike’ll learn we had a little talk.” The A.G. gave a regretful shrug. “Who’s to say what we inadvertently let slip you told us?”
Curtis banged a fist on the table. “Hey, you can’t do that!”
The A.G. picked up the two files in front
of him, scraped his chair back and rose. “I can. I will.”
Hugh Winburn joined Ace, Falconer and Rory in the observation booth. “He’ll break.”
No one disagreed with him. They all silently observed the animal looking for a way out of its cage.
The noise of jail was constant. There was an undertone of voices, talking with the occasional counterpoint of a shout, the clatter of steel against steel, rattling, banging. The tinny taste of anger. The acid smell of fear.
It all grated on Ace’s nerves. He’d taken a chance coming here. Tinted windows on Falconer’s SUV and back-door entries didn’t take away the possibility someone could finger him. But Rory had needed this, and he’d wanted to be with her when the evidence of Felicia’s death hit her.
Curtis picked at the series of scabs on his forearm. He fidgeted in his chair as if he had ants in his pants. He stood. He sat. He could not stay still.
When the A.G. thought Curtis was ready, he signaled the two officers waiting to take him back to his cell. They went into the room, snapping cuffs, jiggling chains. Curtis swallowed hard and backed away. “You send that other dude back in.”
“You sure now, Curt,” the shorter of the two officers said. “We wouldn’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”
Head bobbing, Curtis sat and waited. The A.G. went back in. “Talk.”
“I’m not a killer.” Curtis slapped a hand through his greasy blond hair. “I, uh, I was there, you know, for the plan. But that’s not my bag. I’m not good with blood, you know.” He jerked one shoulder up. “So, I, uh, kind of left.” He licked his lips, then stared straight at the A.G., proving that bullies were more bark than bite. “I heard screams, but I never saw no killing, no body. Wherever he drove her to, I wasn’t there.”
“What was the plan? I’m going to need details if I’m going to go out of my way to make this deal work out for you.”
Curtis nodded. He talked about the plan, but swore up and down on his father’s grave to his innocence at any part of the murder. He didn’t know if Mike had actually killed Felicia or just knocked her around. He didn’t know what had happened to the body—if there was one.
