by Karen Rose
Which stung. Okay, it hurts. A lot. But not what she should be thinking about now.
She was at the front door, seconds from a wall of flashing lights and reporters screaming their questions. She ran a nervous hand over her hair, fidgeted with the top button on her coat. All buttoned and tucked, none of Deputy Welch’s blood showing.
‘You look fine,’ Grayson murmured, ‘but sad. You won today. Don’t let the Millhouses take that away from you or from the Turners. May they finally rest in peace.’
He was wrong about the direction her mind had taken but right in what he’d said. Daphne’s selfishness shamed her. This is not about you.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured. ‘I needed a little perspective adjustment.’
The door opened and immediately the yelling began. The mikes and the cameras.
‘Showtime,’ Grayson whispered in her ear. ‘You earned this success, so knock ’em dead.’ He stepped to the side, leaving her to face the media cameras alone.
Tuesday, December 3, 11.00 A.M.
Clay stared out the passenger side window of Joseph Carter’s Escalade, trying not to think of his friend. Lying in an alley, his throat sliced open. All night. Alone.
But the picture was there in his mind, joining the others that haunted him when he couldn’t sleep. Which was most nights of his life. Tuzak. I’m sorry, man.
A wave of grief squeezed his chest. Don’t think. Listen to Carter. Who was on the phone with his CO. Listen, learn. So that you can find who did this.
‘He might have a decent eye,’ Carter was saying to his CO, grudgingly. He’s talking about that asshole Novak. Not much of a bodyguard, my ass. ‘He found what looks like Ford Elkhart’s hair and blood on the asphalt in the alley. But he’s about as tactful as a bull in a china shop.’
Clay tensed. That they’d found Ford’s hair and blood was bad news, but news.
News was the reason Clay sat in Carter’s fancy SUV and not his own car. He didn’t have to be here. Carter wanted him here so that he didn’t ‘go cowboy’, but the Fed had no authority over him, here or anywhere else. I’m here because I want to be here. He’d hear Carter talk about details that he’d never know about working solo.
They’d been in the car less than five minutes when Joseph had told his CO that Tuzak’s killer had slit his throat after he was dead. Clay hadn’t noticed the lack of spatter. Carter had a good eye, too. And he’d been right. I’m not objective right now.
Tuzak’s killer had all but cut off his head after he was already dead. There’d been no need. No benefit. Just a viciousness that deserved to be returned in kind.
And I will, he vowed. But first he’d find Ford and Kimberly. I’ll find them. I have to.
He couldn’t allow himself to think about the alternative. He’d seen with his own eyes what their abductor was capable of doing. As hard as he tried, Clay couldn’t get the picture out of his mind for even a moment – Tuzak lying in the street, covered in garbage, his head barely . . . The monster who did that has those kids. I’ll get them back.
And then? He didn’t know. He only knew the man who did this had to pay.
Clay jerked when something landed in his lap. A box of tissues. He lifted his hand to his wet cheek. He’d been crying and hadn’t even realized it.
He put the tissue box on the console between them and scrubbed his palms over his face. Carter had finished his call with his CO. How long ago? They’d driven several blocks, headed away from downtown. To where Phyllis was waiting for word.
‘Oh God,’ Clay whispered. He’d have to tell her that her husband was never coming home. He’d have to tell Daphne her son was missing. He’d promised to keep Ford safe. I failed.
There was a long space of silence, then Carter sighed. ‘Be careful, Clay.’
Clay whipped around to stare at the Fed’s profile. ‘Be careful of what?’
Carter kept his eyes forward, tapping one finger on the wheel as he drove. He looked like he was choosing his words carefully. ‘Of revenge,’ he finally said. ‘If you find him before we do.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Clay lied.
‘Uh-huh. Right. I told my CO that I’d removed you from the scene so you didn’t slug Novak, which was true, but he knows cops. And ex-cops. Knows that seeing a partner brutalized like that will stir a man up. He told me to keep an eye on you. And that if he finds you going cowboy, he’ll slap cuffs on you faster than you can blink.’
He’d have to catch me first. ‘I understand.’
‘Good.’ They drove another few blocks before Carter spoke again. ‘Of course, should the suspect attack you first, you’re entitled to defend yourself.’ And then Carter turned and met his eyes for a brief moment. There was understanding there. And truth.
He realized what the Fed was telling him. Carter had killed before. To avenge. Not in cold blood, but his self-defense had been dual-edged. And he wasn’t the least bit sorry. The Fed rose dramatically in his estimation. Clay nodded. ‘I understand.’
‘Good.’ Carter reached into the console between them and pulled out a baggie filled with brownies. ‘My brother-in-law made them,’ he said, as if they hadn’t just discussed killing a man. He bit into one with gusto. ‘Help yourself. They’re damn good.’
Clay couldn’t eat. Still he appreciated the gesture. ‘This is the brother-in-law that owns the catering business? Brian?’
‘One and the same. You know him?’
‘Ate at his place once, when Paige and Grayson were involved in the Muñoz case. I’ve met him a few times since then. He caters all the charity functions Daphne’s been throwing for her women’s center. His food makes it almost worth wearing a tux.’
Carter’s jaw froze, mid-chew. His throat worked as he swallowed hard, then he resumed chewing although it now appeared to be a chore. ‘Brian’s good about that, donating food to good causes,’ he said.
Clay frowned. It didn’t take a PI to see he’d said something that annoyed the Fed. ‘You got a problem with charity functions, Carter?’
‘Nope. Get dragged to them from time to time. Miss Montgomery usually throws a good one.’ But Carter’s jaw was clenched so tightly that the muscle in his cheek bulged.
If Carter didn’t have a problem with charity functions, then he had a problem with Daphne. And nobody had a problem with Daphne. Except the low-lifes she sent to jail. And her ex-husband, the asshole. Everybody else loved . . .
Oh. Comprehension dawned and Clay found the weight on his shoulders easing a fraction. At least something good might come of this day.
Carter had stopped at a traffic light and was dialing his cell, his expression intense in its attempt to be bland. ‘Grayson’s still not picking up.’ His tone changed when he left a message. ‘Gray, call me. It’s urgent.’ The light changed and he proceeded, outwardly calm except for the forefinger that tapped the wheel in a rapid staccato. ‘How long can it take for a jury to read a damn verdict?’
‘She’s not mine, Carter,’ Clay said quietly and watched the Fed’s finger abruptly still. ‘Not that you asked. Just thought you should know. We’re friends. That’s all.’
Carter drew a deep breath and held it for several seconds before slowly releasing it. ‘I see.’ He kept his eyes fixed forward. ‘Not that I asked.’
‘She’s got no one right now. Not that you asked that either.’
‘No. I didn’t.’
‘But I have to warn you . . .’ Clay waited for Carter to look at him. Finally the Fed did, just a glance, but long enough for Clay to know that he’d guessed right.
‘Warn me about what?’ Carter asked levelly.
‘She’s been hurt. Badly. But she has one of the kindest hearts I’ve ever known. If anyone were to hurt her again . . . I wouldn’t wait for him to attack me first.’
Carter nodded solemnly. ‘I understand.’
‘Good.’ Good deed done for the day, Clay fixed his gaze on the passing houses. The weight that had momentarily lifted returned with a ven
geance. Clay closed his eyes, pictured Phyllis’s face. Pictured himself sitting her down, the terror in her eyes, because she’d know. ‘They always know, cop’s wives.’
‘I know. I hate this part. People say “You’re just the messenger. You’re not the one ripping their lives apart.” But it sure feels that way.’
Clay looked over at him. ‘Then why are you here?’
Carter’s brows lifted. ‘Like I should send Novak to do the notification?’
‘Good point. The man’s an ass. No offense.’
‘None taken. But he’s got a sharp mind. And Brodie, the woman leading the CSU team? She’s simply the best. Been with the Bureau’s lab for years.’
‘Longevity doesn’t mean skill.’
‘No, it doesn’t. But I know of twenty murderers that we couldn’t have caught or convicted without her evidence, and that’s just my history with her. If the man who killed your friend left an eyelash in that alley, she’ll find it.’
It was the best thing the Fed could have said. ‘Thanks.’
‘Now I need to ask a few questions. I’m assuming that the Millhouses kidnapped Ford. My CO is working on the warrant to search their home and business to see if they’ve hidden him there. I’d have a better chance of getting a judge’s John Hancock if I had proof that Daphne and her assistant were being threatened by the Millhouses.’
‘The cops have all that. Daphne kept every note, every taped cell phone call.’
‘Daphne’s taping her cell phone calls?’
‘She got a judge to sign a wiretap order.’
‘Then getting the search warrant won’t be a problem.’
‘I wouldn’t think so. What other questions?’
‘Tell me about your agency. I knew you did PI work, but didn’t know about the personal security side. I’ll need the number of your employees, your areas of expertise, anyone who’d want to take you down.’
Clay laughed bitterly. ‘Who’d want to take me down? That’s a ripe question. How much time do we have?’
‘Not enough to for me to be asking idle questions.’
Again the Fed was right. ‘I do personal and corporate security which includes investigating custody fights, cheating spouses, employers checking up on clients after money goes missing. We’re sometimes hired by the defense and we’re often hired by businessmen to secure their homes and businesses. Occasionally we travel internationally with a client who is going into a known danger zone. Why?’
‘Number one, I need to know. Daphne trusts you and my brother trusts you and that takes me about ninety percent of the way. But I don’t know you and we’ve all been fooled by liars over the course of our careers.’
‘True.’ That the Fed hadn’t claimed it was routine satisfied him. ‘Number two?’
‘You probably have complete confidence in your people, but they can betray us. I need to know who knows about your business.’
Clay thought of his last partner, the one before Paige. Nicki had fucked up, big time, paying the ultimate price. Unfortunately she dragged good people into the crossfire.
‘I have a few full-time employees. Paige, of course. My office assistant, Alyssa, who I’ve known since she was a kid. On the security side I have Alec Vaughn, a network geek I hired about six months ago. I’ve known Alec since he was twelve years old and his godfather is my best friend. Alec’s solid.’
‘Who else?’
‘That’s it. I bring in contract help as needed. Old pals, usually. Some I served with on the force in DC.’ Like Tuzak. ‘Some I served with in the Corps.’
‘Marines?’
‘Sure as hell wasn’t the Peace Corps. I’ll have Alyssa print you out a list.’
‘That would be great. I need to take this,’ Carter said when his cell rang. ‘What do you have, Bo?’ A minute later his expression changed. ‘Oh my God. Fatalities?’
Clay straightened in his seat. ‘What?’ he demanded.
Carter ignored him, abruptly swinging across traffic to the left lane. He flipped a switch and the blue lights on his dash began to strobe and flash. ‘Tell them we’ll be there in less than five.’ He hung up and, barely slowing down, did a hard U-turn at the next light. ‘Hold on,’ he told Clay grimly.
‘Where are we going? What’s happened?’
‘My CO’s sending another agent to notify Mrs Zacharias. We’re going to the courthouse. The jury returned a guilty verdict and all hell broke loose. Defendant’s mother slipped him a knife and he stabbed a deputy. Not fatally, thank goodness.’
‘Daphne?’ Clay asked, his heart in his throat.
‘Defendant’s mother attacked her. She’s not injured. The mother’s attack was a diversion. Millhouse was trying to break free.’
‘Does Daphne know about Ford?’
‘Not yet. The priority was subduing Millhouse and his mother, then transporting the injured. My CO says he’s contacted BPD about Ford. They’re sending word to the cops on duty at the justice center. Daphne and Grayson are about to talk to the press.’
‘Standing in front of a crowd that hasn’t gone through security.’ Clay was imagining all the ways this could go wrong and from the look on Carter’s face, so was he. ‘But why would the Millhouses take Ford now? The jury’s reached their decision. Daphne couldn’t meet their demands if she wanted to.’
‘I don’t know. But they’ll have to go through me to get to her. Hang on.’
Tuesday, December 3, 11.00 A.M.
Mitch turned onto the drive that led to his home. My home. It had always been home. But it hadn’t been his until last year. It was the first time anything had been his.
It was a great old house, built by his mother’s grandfather in 1915 on what had at the time been a fifty-acre dairy farm. Douglases had always lived here. Although his last name was Roberts on paper, Mitch was a Douglas. And now this belongs to me.
Betty Douglas, Mitch’s mother’s aunt, had been the last to bear the Douglas name. Great-aunt Betty had been born here. His mother, orphaned as an infant, had grown up here, too. Aunt Betty had given her a home until she was old enough to live on her own. When his mother found herself widowed with an infant son, Betty welcomed them back.
It had been a hell of a place for Mitch to grow up. They’d still had a few cows then. They were geriatric cows, true, but he’d liked them. But by the time his mother had remarried, moved them to Virginia, and birthed two more sons, the herd was all gone.
When her second husband cheated on her, his mother brought Mitch’s youngest brother Cole back to this place. She’d come home to lick her wounds, find herself again.
Mitch, at eighteen, had just joined the US Army when his mother came home. Mitch’s middle brother Mutt stayed with his father, too wrapped up in his high school friends and the learning of his father’s trade to take care of their mother.
Cole had been only three, too young to give their mother any solace.
Aunt Betty had been her support once again and Mitch knew his old aunt had done the best that she could. But in the end, there had been no solace for his mother. Two years after she’d come home here, to this place, she had left again.
But permanently. She’d taken her own life. That had been eight years ago and it still made Mitch’s chest so damn tight . . .
Mitch drew a breath, then another, until he could breathe normally once again.
Time had passed. His grief had dimmed and he’d gone on, taking care of Cole.
But Mitch had made some mistakes. Some worse than others. For those he’d paid. Dearly. And when things had become more than he could bear, he’d followed in his mother’s footsteps. He’d brought Cole back here. I came home.
There’d been changes, of course. The property had been whittled away over the years, Aunt Betty having sold it to pay her bills, but they were still surrounded by five acres. Lots of privacy.
After sharing a mega-tent in Iraq with forty guys for most of his army deployment, Mitch had developed a real appreciation for privacy. Later, after shari
ng a six-by-eight for three years with another convicted drug dealer, Mitch had come to crave it.
Betty had understood that, which was why she’d left the old house solely to Mitch in her will. Not to share with his brothers Mutt or Cole. Just to me. Mine.
Pulling the van into his garage alongside his old Jeep, he shut off the engine. He got out of the van and stretched his neck, grimacing. He wasn’t even thirty yet – too young to feel this damn old.
But revenge had a revitalizing side-effect. His back might be killing him and his neck might be stiff, but his heart was beating fast and strong, his mind still crystal clear. A painkiller chased by a quick nap would take care of the aches.
But first, he had a job to do. He pulled at the shelves on the far wall of his garage, smiling when the entire unit swung out effortlessly. Perfectly balanced, the false wall could still be moved with the strength in his pinkie, almost sixty years after it was built.
Mitch’s great-grandfather Myron Douglas had been one hell of an artisan.
This garage was a later addition to the property, built by his great-grandfather in the 1950s. Back when Aunt Betty and her friends were taught to hide under their desks in the event of a nuclear bomb. And back when a man built a bomb shelter for his family, but didn’t want the neighbors to know. Only so much room down there. So much air.
So his great-grandfather had built the shelter, then slapped a garage on top of it, hid the doorway behind the swinging bookshelf, and swore his daughters to silence.
Betty had told Mitch about the shelter and given him the entry combinations on his sixteenth birthday. It had been her gift to him, indicating he was now man of the house.
His middle brother Mutt knew nothing about the shelter and that always made Mitch feel good. Cole knew about the place, but Mitch didn’t worry about his brother coming down here. Cole’s first and last visit to the shelter had been a horrific one. Even if his little brother did remember the combination, he wasn’t coming down here anytime soon.
Mitch twisted the dial on the lock that secured the latch and climbed into the access tube, hopped off the bottom of the ladder and went in. About eight by eight, it contained a desk and chair and three vintage army cots circa 1957. Shelves covered three of the walls, laden with canned goods. Two of the shelves were hinged, replicas of the one in the garage. Both hid doors that led to tunnels.
