Secret Sacrifices

by Jannifer Hoffman

  “Yeah, you got VD here.”

  “You really need to work on your phone manners, Virg. What if this was your mother calling.”

  Virgil laughed. “Our mother goes to bed at ten. How’s Chicago, little cuz?”

  “You’ll be happy to know I finally need a lawyer.”

  “Jesus, you kidnapped her, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, I’d let you talk to her but she’s tied to the bed so it’s hard for her to hold the phone.”

  Virgil chuckled. “I’ll bet it’s hard for her. So tell me what’s so all fired important you’re keeping me from a late night John Wayne western. He was just about to shoot it out with the bad guys too.”

  “Virg, you’ve seen those old reruns so often you know them verbatim. No wonder you’re crabby in the morning. Which is exactly why I’m calling now instead of waiting until ten tomorrow morning after you’ve had your third cup of coffee.”

  “Smart boy. What’s up? Besides your testosterone.”

  “There’s a guy in jail here who broke New York parole. His name is Benny Gomez. He had a camera with him that is no longer in his car. I imagine either the police confiscated it or Gomez kept it with him. How can I get my hands on that camera, or the card in it?”

  “Sounds like that camera has Cynthia Harman written all over it.”

  “That’s my guess. I suspected she had me followed when she called me here at the motel. You were the only person who knew where I was.”

  “Are you that concerned about what’s on the pictures?”

  Quint hesitated only a moment. “Yeah, but I’ll have to pay you so we can keep this confidential.”

  “Consider me paid. What kind of trouble are you in?”

  “Jamie needed a tape from Clay Riker’s house. So we went there intending to borrow it. We found the place trashed, and when we got back to our car, here’s this dude waiting for us. He snapped a couple of pictures. Before I could catch him, the police nabbed him.”

  “You said Clay Riker—that would be the NASCAR driver?”

  “Yeah, that’s him.”

  “Jesus Christ, Quint. There’s been breaking news for the last hour on that story.”

  “Breaking news for an insignificant house tossing?”

  “Insignificant my ass; they found a dead body in there.”

  Quint swore under his breath. Jamie was sitting at full alert, staring at him.

  “Who was it?” Quint asked.

  “Unidentified, but they did say it wasn’t Riker. The guy was a white male, approximately thirty years old, allegedly bludgeoned to death with a poker. That’s all the info they’ve released. I’m not even going to ask if you had anything to do with that because I know better. Did you go into the house?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. The back door was already open.”

  “How long were you in there, and did you see anybody or anything?”

  “We were only inside a couple of minutes. The house was already trashed, and I heard a door or window slam. We hightailed it when we heard the sirens. The only person we saw was the guy with the camera after we got out.”

  “A convicted parole breaker. That could be good news or bad news, depending on how you look at it. He could witness that you were only in there a couple of minutes, not long enough to do the kind of mayhem they talked about on television, but on the other hand, he could also witness that you were there. If you heard the sirens, the alarm was probably already tripped before you went in. My guess is it wasn’t tripped on the break-in but often there’s another trip planted inside. Did you leave any fingerprints?”

  “No, we both wore latex gloves.”

  Virgil grunted, mumbling something about premeditated criminal thinking. “Would they have any reason to question Jamie?”

  Quint took a deep breath. “She was engaged to Riker, but broke it off a few months ago.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “What about Benny Gomez?”

  “How close to Riker’s place did they catch him?”

  “Two or three miles, I’d guess.”

  “Well, they may or may not connect him to it. If he hears anything about a break-in, he’ll likely clam up. He didn’t actually see you go in the house, did he?”

  “I doubt it. We parked a ways away. And he was waiting there in his car. Hell of a mess, huh?”

  “Yeah. I hope she’s worth it.”

  Quint glanced at Jamie, who was trying to follow the one-sided conversation. “Definitely.”

  “Then just sit tight. Don’t either one of you talk to anyone without me present unless Ms. LeCorre has another lawyer she wants to represent her. I’ll run a rap sheet on Gomez in the morning.”

  “Thanks, Virg.”

  “Don’t mention it, Quint. That’s what family is all about. You might get lucky; they’ll apprehend the perpetrators quickly and make it an open-and-shut case.”

  “Yeah, maybe they left a calling card.”

  When Quint hung up the phone Jamie rounded on him.

  “You didn’t tell me you heard a door slam while we were in there. That means the burglar was still inside the house.”

  “It’s worse than that, honey. They found a dead body inside.”

  Jamie’s breath caught in her throat. “Clay?” she asked after a moment.

  “No, it wasn’t Riker. The only description they gave was ‘an unidentified white male, approximately thirty years old’. Let’s see if we can catch a news flash.”

  He grabbed the remote and pushed the power button. He didn’t have to go channel surfing to find a newscast; it was being covered on every local station. Reporters were broadcasting live in front of Riker’s house, capitalizing on the continuous flashing red lights behind them. They were repeating the same information Virgil had heard in New York. Apparently they didn’t have anything else to share. Quint flipped channels twice with the same results. Either they didn’t know any more or the police weren’t releasing what they did know.

  Jamie was staring numbly at the screen. “Maybe there were two burglars and they got into a fight and one killed the other,” she said, without conviction.

  After fifteen minutes of watching the same thing over and over, and watching Jamie turn more ashen by the minute, Quint turned the television off. He moved to sit beside her on the bed and pulled her into his arms.

  “I don’t think we’re going to learn any more until the police make a statement tomorrow. It’s almost midnight. Why don’t you lie down and rest?”

  “Here?”

  “Would that be so terrible? You can have the bed. I’ll bunk on the sofa. I’m not going to leap on top of you in the middle of the night, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Jamie gave him a forced smile. “Oh, darn, and I was so looking forward to that.”

  Quint gave her shoulders a squeeze. “You’re made of some plucky stuff, little girl. I can see why you are respected on that racetrack. You refuse to show any sign of being a member of the weaker sex.”

  Jamie’s head shot up. “That thing about men being the stronger sex is highly overstated. Granted, they’re physically stronger, but it’s common knowledge women can handle crises better than men.”

  Quint laughed. “I can’t see this conversation going anywhere I want to be, so let’s call a truce on this subject for the time being.”

  “I want to go home. I don’t see a VCR here, and after all the trouble we’ve gone through, I want to see that tape.”

  “All right, I’ll drive you.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Jamie said wearily. “To be honest, I really don’t have a burning desire to be alone tonight. If you feel the same way, you can follow me home. It’s up to you.”

  “I’ll follow you home.”

  Jamie smiled. “Good. We can work out the sleeping arrangements when we get there. I have a spare room.”

  Chuckling, Quint headed for the bathroom to retrieve his shaving kit. “On a separate floor, I imagine,” he said over his shoulder, not wai
ting for an answer. He came back in the bedroom to shut down and pack up his laptop. He tucked her tape into the side pocket of his case and slung it over his shoulder.

  “Do me a favor,” he said, as they walked out the door. “Don’t break any laws on the way. I’ve had about as much excitement as I can stand for one night.”

  “Ditto.”

  * * * *

  “What the fuck do you mean, you’re in jail?”

  Benny Gomez glanced at the officer sitting at a desk less than five feet away. “I got picked up for speeding.”

  “Gomez, you’re about the dumbest fuck I ever met. I don’t know why I even bother with you.”

  Because finding people to jump through your asshole are in short supply, you miserable bitch. “I have those pictures you wanted.”

  “What kind of pictures. What’s on them?”

  “Look, Miss Harman, I’m sitting here in the Glenview police station. I had to break parole to come to Chicago.”

  A loud irritated sigh erupted like a geyser through the phone. “Let me talk to the officer in charge.”

  Benny handed the phone over to Sergeant Mitch Thompson. “It’s my boss. She wants to talk to you.”

  Gomez sat impatiently but quietly listening. The sergeant did little more than nod and grunt, “uh huh.” Finally he handed the phone back to Benny and started shuffling some papers around on his desk.

  “Yeah, it’s Benny.”

  “He said you’re an insignificant little piss ant and not worth the cost of a phone call to New York. They’re going to let you go, but rest assured, you're paying for your own damn speeding ticket. Next time rent a fucking Escort. Get those pictures e-mailed to me by tomorrow, and they better be good or your ass is—”

  Benny hung up the phone before she could finish. He didn’t have any pictures that were worth shit. So he found the two of them on a dark back street doing what? Nothing. Nothing worth shit. He had to get pictures by tomorrow. Even if he had to create them on the computer.

  * * * *

  Quint followed directly behind Jamie as she turned north on the Edens Expressway. He was still contemplating the fact that she’d asked him to go home with her. The woman never ceased to amaze him. Of one thing he was certain, she wasn’t afraid to go home alone. That left only one other explanation. She wanted to be with him as much as he wanted to be with her, even if it wasn’t in a sexual way. Maybe getting to know each other wasn’t such a bad idea. It might be easier if he hadn’t already sampled every inch of her beautiful naked body.

  As Quint merged on to the Skokie Highway

  behind Jamie, a car swerved around him going at least ninety miles an hour. He didn’t see the driver but he got a glimpse of a late model gold Cadillac. Swearing, he cursed young rich kids determined to break their foolish necks trying to find out how fast daddy’s big car would go. It passed Quint, swerved suddenly, and slammed full force into the passenger side of Jamie’s BMW.

  Quint watched, stunned, as Jamie’s car plowed into the soft earth shoulder between the divided highways. She was being drawn into the sharp ditch and ultimately the oncoming traffic in the opposite lane. Somehow, in spite of the steep embankment, she kept her car under control and brought it back up on the road, going faster than she’d left it. The Cadillac stuck with her, bent on sideswiping her a second time. When he swerved at her again, she struck back with violent force. The two cars collided, crunching metal, once, twice, holding a deadly war of speed and power.

  Quint kept up his foot on the accelerator, tailgating the Cadillac, talking himself out of jamming on the gas and rear-ending it and possibly making things worse for Jamie. He glanced at his speedometer, tasting bile in his throat while visions of another time, another car, flashed through his brain, bringing with it the sound of metal on metal and the smell of fire and death.

  Both the BMW and the Cadillac were going in excess of seventy miles an hour, playing highway bumper cars. Jamie, obviously more skilled at their deadly game, rammed the Cadillac into the other lane where they were coming up quickly on another car. Clearly the Cadillac had the choice of backing off or slamming into the rear of the car ahead of it. It opted to back off, swaying erratically toward a missed exit. Ultimately it made the turn on two wheels, tearing up clumps of earth as it plunged and bounced through the ditch dividing the exit ramp from the highway.

  Quint thought about going after the fleeing car but his first concern was making sure Jamie was okay.

  Jamie’s BMW, dragged to the side of the road by a front tire spewing putrid burnt-rubber smoke over the hood, braked to a grating stop on the shoulder of the road. Quint skidded to a sliding halt within spitting distance of her rear bumper. He jammed his gearshift into park and vaulted from the car. She was stepping out of her own car when he reached her. He pulled her to her feet, anxiously examining her for wounds.

  “My God, Jamie. Are you hurt?” he asked, looking for signs of blood or injury.

  Shaking her head, she threw her arms around him. “No. I’m okay, just hold me,” she said, her voice a croaking whisper, her body trembling.

  Quint held her. His arms were so tight around her he feared he was hurting her. It was the first time he’d seen her this way. He’d seen her go through worse on the racetrack, but somehow, this was different.

  Then he realized his own hands were shaking. If she hadn’t managed to keep her car under control and get back on the road she would have slammed into the oncoming traffic in the other lane. A less experienced driver wouldn’t have had a chance. Even though she was trembling now, when that car hit her she had gone on automatic defensive driving.

  Quint rubbed his hands over her back. “It’s okay, honey, it’s over.” He kissed the top of her head. Her soft body felt so damn good in his arms.

  “Did you see who it was?” she asked, her face pressed in the curve of his arm. There was a small hiccup in her voice, suggesting she might have been on the verge of tears.

  Quint smoothed his hand over her soft curls, brushing them back from her face. His arm tightened around her back. “No, the car went past me doing at least ninety. I thought it was teenagers out for a joyride.”

  “That was no teenager,” she said bluntly.

  “I’ll agree with that. I guess you didn’t see his face either?”

  She shook her head, brining it up to look at him. “It all happened too fast. I’m sure of one thing, though. It was no accident.”

  Her amber eyes sparkled like moist gold dust but she wasn’t crying. His throat tightened. It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to see that someone had deliberately tried to kill her.

  “I don’t suppose you were able to get the license number,” she said, without much conviction.

  “Hell, I was close enough behind him to smell burning rubber and see the logo on the back of his cap. I really wanted to ram into the crazy maniac but I was afraid I’d just make matters worse for you.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t; you might have sent all three of us into a slide. Road cars aren’t equipped to handle slides the way race cars are.”

  Quint managed a strained smile as he slipped his hands up to cup the sides of her face. “Sweetheart, I don’t think they’re made to play freeway bumper cars either. You didn’t get out of that mess by dumb luck; you’re one hell of a driver.”

  He bent down and brushed her lips with a soft kiss. “And yes, by the way, I did get the license number.”

  Before she could reply, two cars from the Lake Forest police department, complete with flashing lights and wailing sirens, appeared. The cars did a sandwich job, one close behind Quint’s car, and one in front of Jamie’s.

  “I wondered how long it would take them to get here.” Quint mumbled as four officers approached them, two from each direction. He wanted to tell them they were a little late, instead, he whispered to Jamie. “Do we give them the information and let them handle it?”

  “That would be my choice. They can get on it right away, maybe catch that lunatic.”
<
br />   “My thoughts exactly. Whatever you say, but don’t mention Clay you-know-who’s name.”

  “Do I look stupid?”

  “No, just a little rattled.”

  As it turned out the officer in charge recognized Jamie. He introduced himself as Sergeant Dickerson, took their statements, and had them on their way within half an hour. Another driver, who had witnessed the altercation, called it in on his cell phone. He’d given a detailed account of what had happened. Jamie’s story, confirmed by Quint, corroborated exactly.

  The police called a tow truck for Jamie’s car and offered to give her a ride home.

  “I’ll take her,” Quint said succinctly. His arm had remained possessively around her waist throughout the questioning. If the police wondered who he was or why he was following her, they didn’t ask.

  It was only a mile to the Sunrise-on-the-Bluffs turnoff. Jamie was never so glad to be home. The rush of adrenaline gripping her system confused her. She had been in scrapes far worse. In her career, she had hit the wall at least twenty times, totaled two cars, and seriously damaged at least ten more, but she’d never experienced raw fear the way she had tonight.

  She realized her door was open and Quint was waiting for her to get out with his laptop case slung over his shoulder. She took the hand he offered, gripping it tighter than she’d intended to. Once inside, she locked the front door and turned to face him.

  “I know what I said about separate rooms, Quint, but…”

  “I wasn’t planning to let you out of my sight tonight. I promise, I’ll just hold you, nothing more.”

  Jamie smiled sheepishly. “I feel like such a baby, expecting that of you.”

  Quint cupped her chin with his hand and tipped her head up. “Please, don’t think of it that way. Allow me just this once to take care of you. I get the feeling it’s been a long time since someone has done that for you.”

  One year, six months, and twenty-two days. “Thank you,” she said. “I do feel a little beat up. I’m going to a soak in a hot tub, if you don’t mind. If you’d like a drink or something to eat you can help yourself. There’s wine in the refrigerator and liquor behind the bar in the sitting room.”