by Karen Rose
He was getting better at this. Years ago it had taken him a full minute and a half. He’d learned shortcuts over the years—like positioning the duffel bag and leaving precut strips of duct tape on the seat. Choosing a victim of the right height was key. Choosing one that was drunk was good. One having consumed GHB was even better.
The one requirement they all had to have was rudeness. If they were nice, he wasn’t interested. It was the rude ones that had to go. It was a fucking public service, just like taking a drunk driver off the streets.
He’d given her a hefty dose of the sedative because he didn’t want her waking up before they got back to Sacramento. She needed to stay asleep for a good five hours. Six would be better. He’d stash her in the giant cooler he’d bought for the company years ago. Hank had thought him crazy, but he’d told him that he liked to bring home quartered elk if they had an overnight and he’d gone hunting.
Hank was an avowed vegetarian. Just the possibility of red meat in the cooler ensured he’d never even look. If he only knew.
He zipped up the bag, straightened his wig, then checked the time, pleased. He was ahead of schedule. He actually had real time to kill. He headed back into the bar, where Miss Mint Julep was ordering another bourbon. He sat next to her and ordered a club soda.
“What happened to the bitch?” she asked companionably.
“She was going to drive her rental to the airport.” He rolled his eyes. “She was three sheets to the wind, so I called her a cab. The rental agency can fetch the car later.”
Miss Mint Julep lifted her glass. “To gentlemen.”
He smiled at her and did the same. “To nice ladies.”
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 2:15 P.M.
The sound of male voices speaking in low tones woke Daisy from her nap. She wasn’t a sound sleeper under the best circumstances. Being raised by a paranoid father had seen to that. They’d always been on alert, always ready to take up arms or run.
It had been exhausting. And a hard habit to break.
Pushing her hair from her face, Daisy rolled out of bed and straightened the sweats she’d put on after the shower she’d taken after calling her father.
After witnessing Gideon handle and comfort her father. Holy cow.
She was sure that he didn’t realize what a feat that really was. Frederick Dawson had always seemed indomitable. Unbreakable. A force of nature. Someone she’d both admired and . . . feared a little, if she was being honest. He’d carried an intensity that had been, at times, overwhelming.
But he’d always loved her. She’d never doubted it. He’d loved them with a fierceness that she’d accepted but never quite understood. Not until recently. Maybe it was time, maybe maturity, maybe even the fact that she’d gotten a few hours’ sleep, but Daisy woke thinking of her father in a much more compassionate light.
How much guilt must he have carried on his shoulders for robbing them of ten years of their lives? She needed to call him. Put his fears to rest. She loved him, no matter what.
She pushed at the accordion-style screen that separated her bed from the rest of the open-plan apartment. The only interior door led to the bathroom, so it only took a blink to see that the two men talking were Rafe and Gideon.
Funny, though. She hadn’t been even the slightest bit frightened at waking to male voices. She could take care of herself, as she’d shown last night, but it was nice to not need to. For a little while. And that was what Rafe and Gideon had given her—that bubble of safety.
The two were sitting at a card table that Daisy recognized as Rafe’s. They’d moved her sofa and chairs so that there was room for the table, which was covered in bits of paper.
Gideon sensed her first, whipping around to look at her over his shoulder. He scrutinized her, toes to face, then nodded, seeming satisfied with whatever he’d seen.
“You slept,” he said.
Rafe looked over and smiled lazily. “Hey, DD. Sorry if we woke you. I wanted to do this upstairs where we could be quiet, but the Fed insisted we keep an eye on you.”
Daisy smiled back. “I’m grateful to the Fed. I was able to sleep a little because I knew he was here.”
“The Fed is sitting right here,” Gideon said, rolling his eyes. “The cop brought food.”
Rafe opened the plastic container and the aroma of meat pie tickled Daisy’s nose. “Pirozhki,” he said.
Daisy’s stomach gave a sudden growl and she plucked the container from his hands. They were the bite-sized meat pies that had been her favorites when she was a little girl. “Your mom was busy this morning,” she said with a fond smile.
“She wanted to make you feel better,” Rafe said gruffly. “She felt helpless.”
Daisy stared at the little pies for a moment, remembering. “She made these for me after my mom died. She’d hold me on her lap and sing to me, then she’d feed me pirozhki.”
“I know,” Rafe said gently. “I didn’t know if you remembered.”
“I remember everything your folks did for me back then.” She blinked back tears, because she was not crying in front of Gideon again today. “What was your favorite?” she asked him. “What did Irina make for you when you were sad?”
Gideon looked startled. “Um . . .” Then he smiled. “Honey cake. Luckily she always has one made.”
“That’s good, too.” She narrowed her eyes at Rafe. “Any news?”
“Only that we found your friend Jacob. He was on his ranch and had been at the time of the attack. It was verified by the local vet. They were birthing a foal. All night.”
“At least Jacob doesn’t have to worry about SacPD breathing down his neck.” She pulled a stool over to the card table and sat down to see what they were doing. Munching on Irina’s offering, she studied the hundreds of pieces of paper that covered the table. Some were square-ish, most were rhombuses. Or rhombi? she wondered. “Rhombi,” she decided aloud. “Definitely. Why are you—?” She cut off her own question when she realized the answer. “The cut-up photo from last night. These are the pieces?”
Gideon nodded, respect flickering through his eyes that made her want to preen. “Yes,” he said. “Cindy Grimes, the forensics investigator from last night, is working on putting the pieces back together.”
“So that she can get fingerprints,” Daisy said absently. “Can you pass me a napkin, Rafe?”
Rafe leaned sideways, the apartment small enough that he could reach the dining nook table from where he sat. “We thought about clearing your stuff from the table but I wasn’t sure if you were in the middle of a project, so we brought a card table down.”
Daisy glanced at the sewing machine and pottery wheel that took up her entire dining area. “In between projects,” she said, then returned her attention to the scraps of paper spread across the card table. “How long did Cindy think it would take to assemble the pieces?”
“Several days at least,” Rafe said, “because she’ll need to do it under a microscope. But she made a copy of them for us. Said if we wanted to help, she’d be grateful.”
Daisy wiped her fingers on the napkin that Rafe put in her hand. “Thank you,” she said to him, and then began rearranging the pieces. “Cindy enlarged them.”
“She did,” Gideon said. “What are you doing?”
Daisy didn’t look up. “The puzzle.”
Gideon put his hand over hers. “Stop it. I had those pieces sorted.”
She blinked up at him, momentarily riveted at the sight of his face, only inches away from hers. His green eyes had grown dark with irritation. He was very, very pretty, but apparently not so good with puzzles. “Um. No, you didn’t.” He opened his mouth to protest and she popped a pirozhki between his lips. “Eat and watch. I may appear to be a little flaky.” She gestured to the clutter of the apartment, which she suspected he’d only seen as an unfinished, undis
ciplined mess. He wasn’t entirely wrong, but he wasn’t entirely right, either. “I may not be good at pottery or a lot of other things, but there are some things I rock at. Puzzles is one of them. Now hush and let me work.”
Rafe took the bowl of meat pies from her hand, leaving her free to rearrange the pieces twice as fast. “Living on a ranch in the middle of nowhere affords few recreational opportunities,” she murmured, her gaze focused on the hundreds of pieces, looking for color variations and shadows. “We did a lot of puzzles.”
She sorted and squinted and sorted some more, losing track of time as she moved the pieces around until a portion of the picture started to come together. The woman’s face. “Miriam,” she said softly.
“Eileen,” Gideon corrected in a whisper.
She glanced up at him. He was watching her, and this time his respect was unmistakable. “I thought her name was Miriam.”
He frowned, then nodded. “Right. You’d left by then.”
“I was thrown out,” she said petulantly.
Gideon’s lips twitched. “Sorry about that. Her church name was Miriam, but her mother called her Eileen. That was the name on her birth certificate. She hadn’t been born in the community. She was renamed once her family entered.”
“Community,” Daisy repeated. “You mean the Eden church?”
Gideon sucked in a breath, his head jerking around to stare at Rafe. “You told her?”
“No,” Rafe said firmly. “How did you know that, Daisy?”
Daisy frowned at them, because they were both aiming accusatory stares her way. “It wasn’t all that hard. God, you people must really think I’m stupid.” She dropped her focus back to the table and began sorting the remaining pieces with a vengeance. Until she felt a warm hand covering hers. She looked up to see Gideon’s expression filled with apology.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “The last thing I think you are is stupid. How did you know?”
She didn’t say anything for a long moment as the heat of his hand seeped into her skin. It felt so good because she was so cold. “I Googled ‘angel with a flaming sword’ and ‘olive tree.’ Lots of biblical references. The Garden of Eden is a commonality.”
“Eden,” Gideon said, his voice strangely muted, “was where I grew up.”
“And where Eileen grew up?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Where she got a locket and you got a tattoo?” she pressed on when it didn’t seem like he’d say anything more.
His eyes widened so abruptly she might have smiled had this moment not felt so ominously heavy. Again he glared at Rafe, who again shook his head.
“I did not say a word, man.”
Gideon sighed. “Sasha.”
Daisy nodded. “I didn’t think it was a big secret. She didn’t seem to think so. She said you got it covered up by a phoenix.”
“When I was eighteen.”
She tilted her head to study him. “Why?”
Gideon looked away and Rafe’s mouth tightened. “It’s a long story, DD,” Rafe murmured. “It’s . . . hard to talk about. And not really our secret to share. Either of us.”
“Okay.” She didn’t like being kept in the dark but respected keeping the secrets others had entrusted her with. She returned her attention to the table, sorting and connecting pieces until a man’s face began to emerge. The top part anyway. No features were visible. Yet.
The sound of a cell phone intruded, but she dismissed it. It wasn’t her ringtone. One of the chairs pushed back from the table.
“Gotta go,” Rafe said.
Daisy flicked her gaze up. “New case or mine?”
“New one. Text me a photo as soon as you finish his face,” Rafe said tersely.
“Of course,” she said. “Be safe.”
Rafe gave her a nod and was gone, leaving her and Gideon alone in the quiet. She resumed searching for the rest of the man’s face, getting lost in the rhythm of “sort, seek, compare, discard.” And sometimes “find.” She couldn’t have asked for a much more perfect way to manage the stress of the day.
That she could detect the scent of Gideon’s aftershave each time she took a breath? That was just a bonus.
EIGHT
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 4:35 P.M.
“You sure you don’t need help with that thing?” Hank asked, pointing to the cooler, which contained a certain Miss Rude.
He shook his head. “I got it. You go on home. Barb’s waiting.” They’d picked up a headwind and had arrived back in Sacramento a half hour late.
“Thanks. I need to stop by the store and pick her up some ice cream. She says she’s craving vanilla. Who craves vanilla?” He shrugged, his easy smile reappearing. “But I don’t ask her that question. She doesn’t ask for much, so I don’t mind indulging her.”
You do that, he thought sourly. Indulge your pregnant wife after you’ve cheated on her with the shuttle driver. Because the scent of perfume on Hank’s uniform had been unmistakable when he’d finally returned from escorting the passengers to their ski holiday. And Hank had that relaxed look that was like a blinking neon sign: I got me some.
And I don’t really care because I have what I need in the cooler. “See you on Sunday.”
Hank frowned. “Right. It’s a long one on Sunday.”
“New York City,” he replied, knowing full well that the reason for Hank’s frown was not the length of the flight, but the fact that he didn’t know any of the shuttle drivers at the New York City airport. Poor Hank. He rolled his eyes. The guy was just going to have to make do with his own wife for a few days. Tragic.
He watched Hank head for the locker room, where he’d shower and change into clothes that didn’t smell like another woman. Then Hank would drop his uniform off at the dry cleaners and get it back all de-perfumed and no one would be the wiser.
Except me. He saw all the actions of the people around him, most of which he was sure they’d prefer to keep secret. Including the old man who thought he was getting away with selling the company and leaving them all jobless and destitute. He wondered if the old man would be so quick to sign on the dotted lines if his affairs became public. Like Hank, his father had cheated on his wife. To be fair, Sydney cheated, too, but that wasn’t the issue.
Paul Garvey had also cheated on his employees, stealing from their retirement fund. It was only a little every year, but over time it added up. To a lot.
He’d been prepared to be quiet because he’d been promised big things. Paul had promised him control. Ownership, even. But Paul had lied. Now he just had to figure out how best to expose the old man for the lying cheat he really was. Then I’ll be in charge.
His phone buzzed with a text. He rarely got texts, so this wasn’t likely to be good. Sure enough . . . His teeth ground together as he stared at his phone’s screen. Sydney.
I understand you’re back. Hurry, sweet boy. I’m waiting.
He closed his eyes. It was like she knew. She always knew. Just when he was getting his confidence, she obliterated it. Tell her no. Just tell her no. Tell her to fuck off.
But he knew he wouldn’t and he hated himself more than he hated her. I am a coward. Sniveling, even. That was what she called him when he was too young to know what she really was. Sniveling. Yeah. That’s me.
Ignoring the text, he made his way to his Jeep. A few minutes later he was parked in the hangar at the base of the plane’s stairs. He boarded, his eyes immediately focusing on the cooler. He was going to need Miss Rude tonight.
He lifted the lid, which he’d left cracked so that she didn’t suffocate, and saw that Miss Rude was starting to wake up. He needed her to stay quiet for a little longer, so he injected her with a bit more sedative.
She blinked at him sleepily. “Hold on,” he told her. “This next part gets a little bumpy.” Yanking the cooler,
he dragged it down the stairs, hefting it into the back of his waiting Jeep in a practiced move. He lifted weights for this exact reason.
Miss Rude barely weighed anything, so he wasn’t even winded when he returned to the plane for cleanup. He’d taken care of most of the Vail group’s mess while he’d waited for Hank to return from his afternoon delight, picking up the discarded cups and bottles of champagne. There was very little food on the floor. The passengers had paid for good caviar and hadn’t let a single egg go to waste. A quick vacuum and he was ready to go home. To unload Miss Rude and get her situated in his basement guest room.
Then he’d deal with his nightmare. He’d be in trouble for not hurrying, but he didn’t care. When she finished with him he was going to need his new guest.
What about the blonde? When will you deal with her? He grimaced. He needed to figure out who she was and what she’d been able to tell the police. He didn’t have the slightest clue where to start. He’d checked the online police blotter before he’d left for the bar where he’d met Miss Rude. The altercation had been mentioned, but the blonde’s name hadn’t been listed. Nor had the name of the woman she’d been walking with.
He got in his Jeep and leaned his head back, ignoring the dull throb in the base of his skull. He needed a drink to settle his nerves.
Oh. The realization struck him and he laughed out loud. Duh. It was so obvious. He didn’t know the blonde’s name, but he did know where to start looking.
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 4:55 P.M.
Daisy Dawson was fascinating. It was difficult for Gideon to focus on the e-mail he was trying to compose because he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the woman who was putting the pieces of Eileen’s locket photo together like she was some kind of computer.
Daisy’s eyes flicked back and forth between the pieces and the face she was assembling. The man’s face was doubly hard to reassemble because it had been cut into much smaller pieces.
Not that surprising, all in all. Eileen had to have been unhappy with her second husband because she’d escaped. It was always a dramatic event. Nobody just walked out of the place. Nobody but the upper echelon of the community.
