Kill Me Twice

by Roxanne St Claire

  “If you help me,” Jessica whispered, “I’ll get you back your son.”

  All the harshness disappeared from Denise’s face. “You can’t do that,” she said softly, lowering herself to her knees. “Can you?”

  “I can.” Jessica glanced to the open door, unsure of who could hear her. “I promise I can. Just, please, don’t put me back to sleep.”

  “How can you?”

  Jessica had no earthly idea. “Trust me. If you help me, I will get him for you. Today. Tomorrow. Now.”

  Denise leaned back and pulled the bathroom door closed. Then she whispered, “He’ll kill us both if he finds out.”

  Then, with sickening clarity, Jessica remembered who he was. A man she’d trusted. A man she’d believed in. A man who was most definitely capable of murder.

  “Then he can’t find out.”

  As the SUV rumbled over the deserted Rickenbacker Causeway, Alex stole a glance at his passenger. She’d dressed in the camos, a tank top, and the boots that she’d worn all day. Jazz-wear. She looked good in it. Better out of it, though.

  The weight of sexual satisfaction settled over his whole body, but he knew it was temporary relief. He hadn’t even come close to having enough of her.

  She’d gotten way too deep under his skin. The exact opposite of what he intended when he gave in to his burning desire to get inside of her.

  He’d done what he wanted to do, he rationalized. He defied Lucy, he appeased his sexual cravings, and he reduced the chemical reaction between them to its most basic elements: raw, gratifying physical release.

  Proving that sex did not, as Lucy believed, ruin your concentration, inhibit your response time, or wreck your ability to think straight.

  But had he proven that? He was driving to a late-night rendezvous with a guy he’d pegged as a weirdo from day one, taking the principal with him—armed, no less—and thinking only about getting home and getting naked.

  Carajo! Lucy was right.

  “What if Ollie is the stalker?” Jazz’s question pulled him back to the moment.

  “I considered that,” he agreed. “I think he knows more about Denise Rutledge than he’s letting on.”

  “He’s focused on Miles Yoder,” she said, leaning her head back and closing her eyes. “He’s mentioned his name over and over. And that my sister hasn’t been completely honest with me.”

  Alex shot her a sympathetic look. “She wouldn’t be the first woman in history to mess around with a married man.”

  “This from the man who slept with his client’s wife.”

  He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “Until tonight,” he said, “I have never had sex with anyone I was protecting or their wife.”

  “So what happened tonight?”

  “What happened tonight…” Transcended even his expectations. “…will happen again.”

  She groaned under her breath. “You’re so damn full of yourself.”

  “As if you’re not.” He grinned at her. “Let’s not talk about it, okay?”

  “Why not?”

  He tapped the brakes. “’Cause we’re on the Rickenbacker Causeway, headed straight into trouble. If we weren’t, I’d pull over and show you exactly how full of me you can be.” And he would. Proving everything Lucy ever said about sex and distraction was true.

  They continued the ride in silence.

  “Is this Key Biscayne?” she finally asked.

  “This is Virginia Key. The next island is Key Biscayne.”

  They passed the darkened entrance to the Seaquarium, then picked up the causeway again to Key Biscayne. Thick foliage arched over the road and blocked the moonlight. Crandon Boulevard was completely deserted.

  “I’m going to turn off the air conditioner and open the windows to hear everything. Stay low,” he warned.

  She tsked. “Alex, we’re meeting a nerd who works in the newsroom with my sister. Not a mafia don.”

  “Then why does the nerd want to meet in the middle of the night in a deserted park known for drug deals?” As they approached Crandon’s parking lot, he scanned for cars. None there.

  He pulled into the lot, his trained eye taking in the trouble spots, the lack of lighting, and the options for escape. There was another entrance farther south, but here, at the north end, there was only one way in and out of the parking lot. The rest was lined with hibiscus bushes so thick he couldn’t drive the Escalade through them.

  He positioned the vehicle on one side of the bushes in the shadows, so they could see anyone pulling into the lot before they could be spotted. He turned off the car and lights, leaving his window partially opened.

  Humidity and salt air dampened his neck and filled his nostrils. He took out his gun and laid it on his lap.

  For once, Jazz was utterly still. She actually sat with her hands folded, looking directly out the windshield. To their right, the moon reflected off the surf of Key Biscayne. Crickets and cicadas ticked; the only other sound was their breathing.

  This single act went against every precept of personal protection: avoid confrontation, keep your principal out of the line of fire, and never knowingly place your principal in a precarious situation.

  Oh, and don’t get distracted.

  “I wonder what kind of car Ollie drives,” Jazz whispered.

  “A white Saturn. I saw him leaving the TV station—” He stopped talking at the sight of headlights on the main road. “Wait to see if they pass.”

  But the vehicle slowed down at the entrance to the park, and pulled in. Alex immediately recognized the outline of a pearl gray Mercedes 600. “This isn’t Ollie,” he said.

  Jazz got her gun out. “Not in his price range,” she agreed.

  He spared her a glance, noticing her features were taut, her eyes focused, her breathing steady. He turned back to the Mercedes, watching it slowly circle the lot.

  A dealer, maybe? Looking to make a delivery or pickup?

  Suddenly, the car turned as if it sensed them hiding in the dark, its bluish halogen beams spotlighting them like trapped animals. Alex swore and ducked, pushing Jazz down with him. The lights stayed locked on them, and the car rumbled toward them.

  Alex sat up and squinted into the lights. Who the hell was coming at them?

  Gripping his gun, he flipped on his own high beams but that had no effect on the Mercedes; it continued at exactly the same speed, headed directly for them.

  In an instant, he twisted the key, slammed on the gas and wrenched the wheel to get out of the way. As he did, the Mercedes driver’s window lowered.

  “Stay down!” Alex yelled at Jazz, gunning it.

  “Wait!” Jazz screamed, turning in her seat to watch the other car as they passed it. “Wait! He’s waving at you.”

  “Jessica!” The man’s voice from the other car broke over the engine noise. “Is that you?”

  Alex slammed on the brakes and threw it into reverse, exactly at the same time the Mercedes did. In one second, they were window to window. Eye to eye.

  Client to bodyguard.

  “What the fuck is going on, Romero?” Kimball Parrish’s deep blue eyes flashed to the color of a thundercloud. “What are you doing bringing her to some godforsaken drug-dealing hellhole in the middle of the night? Aren’t you supposed to be protecting her?”

  Alex just stared at him, ignoring the sense of doom that threatened. What the hell was Parrish doing there?

  “Oliver called me and told me he’d tested you,” Parrish announced with disgust. “And you failed.”

  Jazz propelled herself toward Alex’s window. “Mr. Parrish—”

  Throwing the car into drive, Parrish shook his head. “Get her out of here. I’ll deal with you tomorrow.” He peeled out of the lot and sped down Crandon Boulevard.

  “Ollie set me up?” Jazz dropped back against the seat, her expression deflated. “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” Alex turned toward the exit. “But we’re not waiting around to find out.”

  “Alex!”
She grabbed his arm. “Wait. He still might show. Just wait until the appointment time has passed.”

  He raced the engine as he pulled onto Crandon Boulevard. “Talk to him tomorrow. We’re not staying here. I’ve fucked up enough things tonight.”

  “Listen, I can explain this to Parrish. It won’t cost you your job. Obviously Ollie didn’t tell him everything; he’s up to something. Something stinks about this.”

  Headlights from way behind him seized his attention, pulling out of the south end of Crandon Park. Had there been another car in the parking lot that he’d missed?

  “Jesus,” he muttered as he watched the lights intensify with each passing second. “This asshole must be going a hundred.”

  “What?” She pivoted in her seat. “Oh my God, Alex!”

  “Brace yourself!”

  The sound of the motor preceded the car by a half second as it bore down on them. Just as it was within a hundred yards, Alex whipped the SUV to the side of the road and the car whizzed by, a screaming blur of white.

  White?

  “That’s Ollie!” She said it the moment he realized the car was a white Saturn. “Go, Alex. Go!”

  He flattened the accelerator. The Escalade easily climbed to eighty and closed in on the little Saturn toward the end of the fingertip of Virginia Key. But he picked up unbelievable speed on the causeway—way more than the compact car was meant to handle.

  The Saturn swerved and Jazz sucked in air, holding onto the dash as metal clunked under their tires and the wind sang through the window.

  The Saturn lurched to the left and then the right, slowing down.

  “We got him,” Jazz said victoriously as they closed within fifty feet.

  The white car swerved wildly, popping up and down on the raised walkway on the side of the bridge. Then he suddenly barreled into the guardrail, flipped over, and went hurtling over the edge and into the blackness of Biscayne Bay.

  Jazz shrieked in horror as Alex slammed on the brakes, the Escalade fishtailing madly. All they could see was the roof of the white Saturn as the car sunk into the water.

  His pulse thudded through his ears so forcefully that he almost didn’t hear his phone. He held the earpiece to his cheek, looking at Jazz’s bloodless face in the white bridge lights.

  “This is not what I meant when I said impress the client.” Lucy’s voice was dead calm. “Would you like to tell me what the hell is going on, Alex?”

  “I don’t know, Lucy,” he said honestly, staring at the annihilated guardrail and the bubbles that arose in the water below. “Maybe you should ask Kimball Parrish.”

  “I won’t have that opportunity, Alex. He’s terminated our contract. And I’m terminating yours.”

  Chapter

  Thirteen

  T he bittersweet smell of espresso woke Jazz from a restless sleep, punctuated by the outburst of a man laughing.

  That wasn’t Alex, she thought, turning to the pillow that he’d slept on and pulling it to her face for a good sniff. Funny how she knew his laugh already, how she knew his smell. She closed her eyes and inhaled, trying to recapture the few hours they’d had in bed that morning, with no sex but an enormous amount of comfort.

  The door to the bedroom creaked open and she emerged from the depths of Alex’s pillow to see him standing there, holding a cup of liquid lead and looking at her like he wanted nothing more than to replace the pillow with himself.

  Something deep inside her trembled and tingled and totally betrayed her attempt to look cool and disinterested.

  “Hola, querida.”

  “Uh-oh.” A half-smile tugged at her lips. “Spanish.”

  He grinned. “You’re safe. We have company.”

  “I heard.” She scrambled to a sitting position, and pulled the sheets around her bare legs. She wore underwear, a T-shirt, and no bra. She remembered falling asleep spooned against Alex’s hard stomach. “A wild guess…Bullet Catchers?”

  “One of them. Dan is here.” He entered the room, closing the door. “Café?”

  She reached for the espresso cup and patted the bed for him to sit down. “Hard to imagine anyone laughing after last night.” She took a taste of coffee, then cringed. “Whiskey’d be easier in the morning.”

  “You’ll get used to it.”

  There was that annoying tingle again. Was that another vague reference to their future?

  “So did he come over to hold a wake for your job, or poor Ollie?”

  He brushed a hair back from her brow. “He came over to strategize the next move.”

  Setting the cup on the nightstand, she leaned back on the pillows. “How can he do that? I thought the Bullet Catchers lost the client.”

  “What we lost,” he said thoughtfully, “is the principal. That would be your sister.”

  Her limbs went numb for a moment and she closed her eyes. Where to start? How to find her with Ollie gone?

  “They’re dredging the bay today to pull up Ollie’s car and body,” he told her. “Dan has a lead on Miles Yoder and he’s going to dig around, and at the TV station.”

  “And what about us?” she asked, dreading the answer. We’ll lay low, Jazz. Let someone else find her.

  “We were waiting for you to get up to discuss that.”

  She smiled widely. “Thank you. Give me a few minutes to get dressed, then I’ll join your meeting.”

  Leaning over the bed toward her, he lowered his head and kissed her gently. “We’ll find her, Jazz. I promise.”

  Ten minutes later, Jazz actually downed another Cuban coffee. She sat curled on one of the great room sofas, with Alex’s warm, large body just inches away. Dan Gallagher stood at the bar that separated the kitchen from the main room, nursing an American coffee and regarding her with that amused twinkle in his eye.

  “So, where’s Max?” she asked after they’d said their good mornings.

  “Max is a rule follower,” he informed her.

  “Are you breaking the rules by coming here, Dan?”

  He lifted one shoulder and one eyebrow in a classic devil-may-care gesture. “What Lucy doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” he said. “Max is going to hang around the bay and see what they drag out of the water. We’re not giving up on Oliver Jergen as a lead to your sister.”

  “I’d like to pursue Kimball Parrish,” she said. “I’m the one who got Alex fired; I insisted on going to Crandon Park beach in the middle of the night. But I am not the person Parrish is paying for you to protect. He’s made a gross error and the only person who can make him believe that is me.”

  Alex blew out a quick breath. “Jazz, I don’t care about my job. I care about your sister. Let’s leave Parrish out of this.”

  “Why, Alex? He could be a direct link to her,” she insisted. “The man is either hot to have her or hot to move her into the network. Once he finds out she wasn’t in harm’s way last night, maybe he’ll cooperate in helping to find her. He may agree to putting something out on the news.”

  Alex stood, running his hands through his hair in frustration. “Why would Ollie lure you out into the night, only to cause trouble with Parrish?”

  “Maybe he wanted to get you fired,” Jazz suggested. “Maybe he wanted me unguarded for some reason.”

  Dan nodded. “That makes sense. Maybe he was Jessica’s stalker and he wanted Alex out of the picture.”

  Jazz voiced the thought that had kept her awake much of the night. “What if he’s the only person who knows where Jessica is and now he’s dead?” She took a deep breath and said, “What if Jessica was in that car?”

  Alex simply closed his hand around hers in response. Holding his hand, Jazz dropped her head back and pictured the little white Saturn flipping over the side of the Rickenbacker Causeway.

  Alex stood up suddenly. “We haven’t even checked the news.”

  “That’s right,” Jazz agreed. “It’s noon now. There should be a local broadcast on.”

  Dan’s cell phone rang as Alex located the remote and aimed i
t at the plasma screen on the wall.

  “Yo, Max.” Jazz watched Dan’s expression for clues to what Max was saying.

  Giving into the fear in her heart, Jazz grabbed a sofa cushion and wrapped her arms around it as Dan listened to the report. As each second passed, each time he said, “I see,” and nodded thoughtfully, Jazz’s pulse quickened.

  Finally, he signed off. Alex turned from the TV.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” Dan said.

  Jazz’s nails dug into her fists.

  “They pulled three teenagers from a white compact car that went off the causeway last night. Two boys and a girl, not even seventeen years old. Drunk. The car was registered to the girl’s mother, a resident of North Miami. No connection to Oliver Jergen.” He was quiet for a moment, listening, then added, “It was a Kia, not a Saturn.”

  Jazz exhaled in one long whoosh and propelled herself off the sofa, throwing her arms around Alex. “She wasn’t in the car. And neither was Ollie.” She pulled back and looked at him. “I’m going to find that man and kick the living shit out of him until he tells me where she is.”

  Dan started to laugh, but Alex pointed the remote over her head, toward the screen. “You won’t have to look too hard,” he said, easing her around to face the television.

  On the Channel Five news set, a bubbly blond weekend reporter read the TelePrompTer. In the background at the circular assignment desk, Oliver Jergen worked the phones and police radio.

  “Let’s go,” she said, already walking to the door.

  “You better hurry,” Dan said. “Max is already on his way there.”

  Jazz burst into the main lobby of the television station without changing her clothes, or applying Jessica-worthy makeup. It didn’t matter; the gig was up.

  But when the young guard at the front desk looked at her with disbelief, she realized she’d have to fake it one more time. She blinded him with one of Jessica’s show-stopping smiles.

  “Good morning…” What the hell was his name? Her smile froze along with her heartbeat.

  “Hello, Louis,” Alex said, guiding her forward without missing a beat.