Guarding His Midnight Witness
Page 9
“Just checking to see if hell’s frozen over.”
“Ha. Funny.” But the joke made him smile. “You know who Doyle Fremont is, right?”
Vince’s brow arched.
“Right. Who doesn’t?” Jack wished this was easier. “I’m working something that looks like it involves him, but given his connections—”
“You need to do a deep dive without alerting anyone,” Vince finished.
“I hate asking.”
“I imagine you do.” Vince popped a pretzel in his mouth. “Fill me in.”
“You’ll do it?”
“Fill me in,” Vince repeated. “Then we’ll figure out the details.”
Jack did as Vince requested, finishing with, “Greta says he’s seen her a couple of times now, and while she isn’t acting like it worries her, it worries me.” Massive understatement. “It worries me a lot.”
“Fremont should worry you.” Vince munched a peanut. “Rumor has it he isn’t just politically connected, he’s connected connected.”
“He’s mobbed up?” Jack sank back against the booth. Now, that did surprise him. But then, Vince and he worked in varying circles, and you never knew who you were getting involved with on the other side of the table. “That doesn’t really align with his political aspirations, does it?”
“Probably more than it should.” Vince shrugged. “Can’t prove it, of course, at least not yet. Haven’t had cause to find out, really. But I’ve worked enough cases where I’ve heard his name. What about your witness?”
“Greta?”
Vince’s steely stare barely flickered. “Yes, Greta. Have you looked into her background? You sure she’s reliable?”
“Meaning am I sure she’s not trying to lead me around by the nose?”
Vince slapped his hands clean. “You wouldn’t be the first to get his nose caught in something he shouldn’t. A pretty face is a nice distraction.”
“How do you know she has a—”
“You just told me. Please tell me you’re coming back to play poker with us, because your tells are all over the place.”
“It’s already on my social calendar,” Jack assured him. But Vince did raise a good point. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t have an odd, niggling feeling something wasn’t quite right with Greta. And if that something could whip around and bite him, he needed to know. He wasn’t normally one to assume, but she hadn’t seemed particularly forthcoming with personal details so far. What would it hurt to have Vince take a peek? “Would you mind taking a look?”
“Give me everything you have on her before you leave,” Vince said. “I take it you’d like this to remain between us. No, shall we say, prosecutorial involvement?”
“That would probably be for the best.” The last thing he needed was to pull Simone Armstrong-Sutton and thus the DA’s office into this mess of a case until it was a slam dunk. “That work for you?”
“Simone doesn’t ask about my clients.” Vince shrugged. “Not that you are one. You’re a friend, which means this is on me.”
A bit of admiration sneaked in under the discomfort he’d been pushing aside for a while. Far be it from him to ignore an opportunity to clear the air. “About Simone—”
Both of Vince’s eyebrows went up this time. “What about her?”
“When she and I were, well, seeing each other.”
Vince’s expression didn’t flicker.
“Look, it wasn’t serious between us. Not really.” Suddenly Jack was back in high school having to confess to the star quarterback that he’d been dating the head cheerleader behind his back. “I mean we never...well, I mean, you know.”
“Yeah. I know.” Vince grinned as if he was actually getting a kick out of the conversation. “Even if it had been otherwise, that’s none of my business. Simone’s easy to fall for. And she’s not easy to get over. Case in point, I’ve now married her twice.” As a man not prone to obvious emotion, Jack was surprised by the understanding glint in Vince’s eye. “This discussion is long overdue, Jack. There’s nothing to worry about between you and me. If anything, I’m glad that for a while she dated a really good guy.”
“Made her see what she was missing, huh?” Jack joked.
“You know she’d dress you down for talking about yourself that way. So, allow me to channel my prosecutor wife.” He cleared his throat and resettled in his seat. “There is someone out there, perfect for you, Jack McTavish. You just have to be ready for her when she arrives.”
Jack couldn’t help it. He laughed. Because the only image caught in his mind at the mere mention of a woman was Greta Renault with her starry blue eyes, to-die-for legs and a smile that could power a small city. “You do sound a bit like Simone,” Jack teased.
“I’ve been practicing. So. Your problem? Doyle Fremont and Greta Renault? I assume you want to do this fast?”
“Fast and quiet.”
Vince just stared at him. “It’s what I do.”
“Then, yeah. Whatever you can dig up, I need to know.”
Chapter 5
“Sorry I’m late.”
Greta shielded her eyes against the morning sun as Yvette Konstinopolis hurried down the path toward their usual park bench in Cesar Chavez Plaza. The cultural and natural oasis in the heart of midtown was one of the few places Greta felt comfortable and, for want of a better term, safe.
In the summer months, the park was home to food-truck events and farmers’ markets and was a venue for concerts, but today the park was mostly empty, save for the early coffee drinkers and joggers making their way around the flora-rich haven. “No problem.” Greta offered her friend one of the paper cups from the nearby café. “You’re working today?”
“Sadly, yes.” Yvette tugged at the hem of her tailored, waist-length suit jacket like a navy officer and shifted on needle-thin heels that should have left track marks in the cement. Polished and poised, Yvette’s dazzling warmth was only dimmed by the three-karat diamond wedding set sparkling on her finger. With a mere look, Yvette loosened that knot of unease that had formed inside Greta ever since the tragic moment at the window. Beneath that elegant facade of Yvette’s lived a woman who thrived on chaos and the unexpected, which was no doubt why they made such good friends. As long as Greta had known her, there wasn’t anything that threw Yvette off her game. And she’d had a lot of practice with Greta. “But I have plenty of time before I have to be in the office. Besides—” she set her bag down, accepted the cup and drank with a sigh of relief “—you need to fill me in on what’s going on.”
“Going on?” Greta cringed as she glanced away, pretending to be interested in the cluster of trees nearby.
“Other than your loquacious I’m fine texts, you haven’t returned my calls.” Yvette knocked her shoulder against Greta just like she had when they were teenagers. “I figured I’d better check in and make sure you were still alive.” Greta didn’t realize she’d winced until Yvette’s amber eyes sharpened. “I knew it. Something’s going on. What is it? Why haven’t you returned my calls?”
“I’ve been busy. Trying to finish up the pieces for the show?”
“Uh-huh.” Yvette’s tone let Greta know she wasn’t getting off that easy. “And?”
“And—” Greta shrugged “—there might have been a little something that happened with the police.” Greta sipped at the mint tea she’d ordered and wished she’d given into temptation and bought one of the homemade pastries offered in the café.
When she dared sneak a look at her friend, she found Yvette watching her with that familiar, patient, what am I going to do with you expression. “It’s nothing, really,” Greta rushed on. “I was up late a few nights ago and witnessed an altercation across the street. I called the police to report it, a detective came by, asked me a few questions.” She tilted her head. “Just threw me off a bit. Sorry I didn’t call back.”
“It’s fine, Yvette. They’re looking into it.”
“They as in...?”
“The police.” Given Yvette’s position as the mayor’s number-two PR person, and considering the bad guy involved, aka Doyle Fremont, telling Yvette any more would only place her friend in a precarious professional position. The further Yvette stayed out of this, the better. “It’s nice of you to check in on me, but everything’s—”
“If you say fine one more time I’m going to strangle you with a tea bag.” She tapped a finger against Greta’s cup and the thin white thread and tag dangling free. “Now I know there’s something wrong. You never use tea bags. You bring your own.”
The long-running joke of Greta’s abhorrence for tea bags versus fresh tea leaves had Yvette’s direct gaze softening with concern.
“I’m okay, Yvette. Really.”
Yvette frowned. “It must have been pretty bad for you to even think about calling the police.”
“It was...disturbing.” Yet in a way, illuminating. “I didn’t even stop to consider anything. It just happened. Then a couple of detectives came around to ask me some questions.”
“That must have brought up bad memories.”
“It did.” Greta forced a smile. “I’m working through them.” Now, that wasn’t a lie. But she wasn’t about to tell Yvette she’d begun hearing the ghost again; seeing the flashes of white and silver, the figure who had become a part of her life all those years ago. It was stress, she’d told herself. Stress that had her caught between lying awake for hours and finding herself in different parts of the loft when she woke up.
“You’re alone too much,” Yvette said. “I thought once you moved here, we’d be able to spend more time together. That’s my fault. I’m sorry. With Richard’s business failing and the legal fallout—”
“Richard is your husband and deserves your attention,” Greta said not for the first time. “And you did enough, helping me buy my building, getting me moved in. Being able to walk through that front door, having everything in place and organized from day one was what I needed. But I’m a grown woman, remember? And you have your own life now. I don’t need my best friend watching out for me anymore.”
“I will always watch out for you.” Yvette reached out and covered Greta’s hand with hers. “But answer me one question.”
Greta sighed. “Fine. One question.”
“Who’d they send? What’s the detective’s name?”
“Jack.”
Yvette blinked, clearly waiting for more information.
“Jack McTavish.”
“Oh.” Yvette’s eyes went wide. “Well, okay then.” Yvette’s face split into a wide, teasing grin and she circled a finger in front of Greta’s face. “I haven’t seen that look on you in years. No. Scratch that. I’ve never seen it. And you called him Jack. You’re blushing! There’s pink on your cheeks, and it isn’t paint smudges.”
“It’s the sunshine.” Greta resisted the urge to cover her cheeks. “I want a cookie. Do you want a cookie?” She started to stand, but Yvette stopped her, tugged her back onto the bench. “You don’t want one?”
“Carbs and a nonelastic waistband don’t mix. You’re changing the subject.” Yvette tapped a red-polished finger against her lips, considering. “Jack McTavish, huh? You’ve got excellent taste, Greta. He’s a good guy.”
“I don’t have any...” Um. Well, that wasn’t true. She had kissed him, hadn’t she? It wasn’t often her impulses got the better of her, but hearing those words, knowing he believed her, had emptied her brain of everything other than desire and gratitude. Oh, who was she kidding? She’d kissed him because she’d wanted to. She still wanted to. “And how do you know he’s a good guy?” She remembered thinking Jack had recently been hung up on a woman, but it couldn’t have been... “You and he didn’t—”
“Honey, please.” Yvette waved off her concern. “I’ve been a one-man woman ever since I laid eyes on my husband. And if you’re asking the question, I’d say you’re poised to take the fall yourself.”
“Don’t be silly.” Greta’s stomach clutched.
She didn’t want to fall, not for Jack, not for any man. Greta lived every day with a sense that did not allow for anything close to permanence. She bit her lip, regret weighing heavy on her chest. No matter how much she might find herself thinking about it. Wanting it. Wanting him. And she had thought about it. Quite a lot since meeting Jack. “He’s a friend, nothing more.” As if friends kissed like that.
“He’s also a straight-up hero.” Yvette sipped more coffee. “Yummy. The coffee and the man.”
She’d get no arguments from Greta. “He mentioned he’d been shot. I don’t remember hearing about it at the time, though. Was I here?”
“You were getting that piece for the Mondavi Center finished,” Yvette told her. “By the time you came up for air, he was on his way to a full recovery. He has a really good reputation in the department, if that’s what’s worrying you. And between you and me, he could have cashed in big-time from the city over what happened, but he didn’t. He’s a decent guy, Greta. Reliable. Dedicated. He won’t hesitate to put himself between someone he cares about and danger. Also makes for great press. He hit the front page of a lot of papers. Didn’t hurt he helped close a cold case from two decades ago.”
Greta gave her friend a quick smile. She knew what Yvette was telling her. That Jack McTavish was the kind of man she could trust with the truth about her past, about who she was. About...everything.
“The fact you don’t seem to want to talk about him gives me hope,” Yvette teased.
Jack didn’t strike her as the kind of man who relished or even enjoyed the spotlight. But maybe she was wrong. She didn’t know much about him, only how she reacted whenever she was around him. All she wanted to do was burrow under the covers with him and never come up for air. He made her feel alive, made her feel as if anything was possible as long as he was by her side. But that was the stuff of fairy tales, and Greta, more than anyone else, knew fairy tales were nothing but fiction.
“Well, whatever happens with you and Jack, it’s good to see you with a spark of interest,” Yvette announced. “I was sure your pilot light had gone out on that particular stove. This will ease my mind a bit.”
“That was the goal,” Greta muttered. “So, now that you’ve done your drive-by check—”
“I also wanted to find out if you needed a hand with the opening.”
“I have a meeting there tomorrow, but I think I’ve got everything covered.”
“Look at you, taking charge of your own career. Impressive.” Yvette gathered up her bag. “You have all your paintings done?”
“Uh-huh.”
This time they both knew she was lying, but Yvette didn’t say anything. “Do me a favor and enjoy the sun for a while, okay? And go get that cookie. I’m here if you need backup. Speaking of, don’t forget to add a plus-one to the opening. You know, in case you want to bring anyone special.”
“Jack and I are just friends,” Greta repeated even as her heart skipped a beat.
* * *
“I’ve called every hospital in a two-hundred-mile radius.” Bowie hung up the phone and sagged back in his chair as Jack glanced up from his monitor. “No one matching the description of our supposed murder victim pops up in their records.”
Not surprising, Jack thought, considering they were looking for a dead man. “What about the morgues?”
“Nothing there, either.” Bowie pressed his fingers to his temple. “If Fremont is as smart as you think he is, he knew what he was doing hiding the body. I always thought detective work was supposed to be more glamorous than patrol.”
“Don’t know where you
got that idea,” Jack muttered. The tension between them had been gradually dissipating since they’d left the LT’s office the day before, and they’d fallen back into routine. A sketchy few hours of sleep last night hadn’t hurt, either. But the morning hadn’t been particularly rewarding other than the oversize apple fritter Jack scarfed down for breakfast.
“What are you looking at?” Bowie stood up, let out what sounded like a muted yowl of pain and pressed his hands into the base of his spine. “I’m going to need a chiropractor by the time Cole gets back. What’s that?”
Jack leaned back in his chair. “From what Greta said, Fremont and our mystery man knew each other. It only makes sense. So I’m going through every photograph of Fremont online to see if our dead guy shows up.” He’d also scanned through Fremont’s social media pages, both personal and business related.
He now knew Fremont preferred imported wines, preferably white, and designer suits, and apparently had a set of cuff links he wore whenever he made a deal. He was also an expert in Krav Maga, a hybrid of physical combat and martial arts. He owned several boats, including one yacht he kept docked in Florida. Jack had made a quick note of each of the names. Given Sacramento and the northern valley’s vast waterways, it would be an easy way to dispose of a body. The delta could keep secrets buried for years, but he didn’t have years. Which was why he’d called his friend Darcy Ford who worked with DART, the local water-rescue unit. Just to have her keep an ear open and an eye out for their victim.
Bowie sat on the edge of Jack’s desk. “I really hate to bring this up,” he said as he popped a knuckle. “Believe me, I do, but are you really sure searching for this guy is the right way to go? I mean, if Fremont did kill someone, how did he get the body out of the office? And if he did manage that, it stands to reason, at least to me, that he’d know where to stash the guy so he wouldn’t be found.”
“And that would be one reason I didn’t sleep very well last night.” Jack purposely kept his attention pinned on his computer. He didn’t need to see the doubt rising again in Bowie’s eyes. But there might be another tactic they could take. Vince had mentioned something about Doyle possibly being involved with organized crime. That could be a thread worth pulling.