9 Kill for Me

by Karen Rose

His eyes flashed. “So, what if someday I don’t? What if someday it boils over and I hurt someone?” He looked away. “What if I hurt you,” he finished quietly.

  “Did you worry about that with all the other women?”

  “No. I never kept any of them around long enough. None of them meant enough to.”

  “So you really haven’t had anybody either, except the women you take to bed one night at a time so you’re not alone at three a.m.”

  He looked disgusted with himself. “That about covers it.”

  She tugged his jaw until he met her eyes. “Are you trying to scare me away, Luke?”

  “Maybe. No. Hell.” He sighed. “You’re not the only one with insecurities.”

  She was beginning to understand that. “So what do we do?” she whispered.

  He pulled her to him gently. “Now? We go to Mama’s. I think she’s making lamb.”

  Dutton, Sunday, February 4, 12:30 p.m.

  “Goddammit, that hurts,” Paul gritted.

  “Don’t be such a baby,” Charles said. “I’ve barely touched you.”

  “Dammit. I’ve been a cop for twenty years and never got so much as a hangnail.”

  “It’s just a flesh wound,” Charles said, although it was more serious than that. “I’ve seen a hell of a lot worse.” On myself. He’d had to learn to mend wounds the hard way.

  “And you have the scars to prove it. I know, I know,” Paul muttered.

  Charles lifted his brows. “Excuse me?”

  Paul dropped his eyes. “Nothing. Sorry.”

  “I thought not,” Charles said, satisfied. “I’ll stitch you up. You’ll be fine.”

  “Wouldn’t have happened if you’d curbed your dog,” Paul muttered, then flinched again when Charles jabbed him with the needle. “Sorry.”

  Charles jabbed him again.

  “Sir,” Paul added, more respectfully.

  “All right. You don’t have to be jealous, Paul. Bobby is an asset. You are more.” The doorbell rang, and he scowled. “If that’s another reporter . . . You stay out of sight.”

  It was a reporter, but a local one. “Marianne Woolf. What can I do for you, dear?”

  Marianne lifted her eyes and Charles blinked. “Get inside,” he said tersely. He shut the door, then grabbed Bobby’s chin. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Seeing if this disguise would fool anyone. It fooled you, so I should be fine waltzing in and out of the Grand Hotel this afternoon for Gretchen French’s press conference.”

  Charles stepped back and assessed her. “Where did you get that wig?”

  “Off Marianne’s head. Her hair’s not real, but nobody ever knew it except me and Angie Delacroix.”

  “But all those hair appointments,” he said. “She went every Thursday.”

  “Vanity. She’s nearly bald. But her boobs are real.” Bobby patted her own breast. “Silicone bra implants. Men will be so busy looking at these, they won’t look at my face.”

  “Where is Marianne?”

  “Knocked out in the trunk of her car. I needed her press credentials.”

  “Who did your makeup?” Charles asked.

  “I did. One of the job skills of a high-priced hooker. I haven’t eaten since last night and I’m starv—” She pushed past him and came to a full stop when she got to the kitchen, staring at Paul, then back at Charles. “What the hell? I don’t understand.”

  “What, that we knew each other?” Paul said irritably. “Or that I got shot doing your damn errands?”

  Recovering quickly, Bobby’s chin lifted. “Is Kira Laneer dead?”

  “Of course. I shot her damn head off.”

  “Then your pay will buy a lot of Band-Aids.” She turned to Charles. “Why is he here?”

  “Because he’s mine.”

  She shook her head. “No. Paul works for me.”

  “You pay him,” Charles said, “but he has always been mine. He was never yours.”

  Bobby’s eyes flashed. “I found him. I formed him.”

  “He found you, because I told him to. You never had him. You never had Rocky, you never had anyone. Except for Tanner, and you killed him.”

  Bobby took a step back, her cheeks heating in an angry red flush. “I came to say good-bye. Now I’ll just say what I’ve always wanted to. I hate you, old man. Fuck your control. Fuck your mind games. And fuck you.”

  Paul lurched to his feet, but Charles raised a hand. “Leave her. She’s failed in every way imaginable. She’s even lost her birthright, now that everyone knows who she is. You’ll never have the big house on the hill, the family name. It’s all Susannah’s now.” He met Bobby’s eyes. “You have nothing. Not even your pride.”

  “I have plenty of pride, old man. I hope you choke on yours.”

  The door slammed behind her, shaking the glass in the window panes.

  “That went well,” Paul said dryly.

  “Actually, it did. She’ll get herself into that press conference now.”

  “They’ll have security. If she brings a gun, they’ll catch her.”

  “Heightens the challenge, my boy. She’ll rise to the occasion.”

  “She’s unraveling. You really want her in a crowded room with a loaded gun?”

  Charles smiled. “Yes.”

  “She’ll never leave alive.”

  Charles’s smile broadened. “I know.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Atlanta, Sunday, February 4, 1:30 p.m.

  It was controlled chaos, Susannah thought. There were people everywhere.

  The women had gathered in the kitchen, the men in the living room. At first everyone had been politely curious when Luke had introduced her, even turning the sound down on the television to check her out.

  But Mama had put her arm around Susannah’s shoulders and ushered her into the kitchen with the “rest of the girls.” The television in the living room went back to its ear-numbing volume and everyone just talked louder to be heard over it.

  “Pop is losing his hearing,” Luke’s sister Demi confided as she chopped vegetables. As the oldest, she was second in command. Mama Papa, of course ran the show.

  Mama shrugged. “Papa doesn’t think so, so it’s not so.”

  Susannah had to smile. “The beauty of denial. Are you sure I can’t do anything?”

  “No,” Demi said. “We’ve got a system.” Her two youngest tore through the kitchen, Darlin’ the bulldog lumbering behind them. “Stop bothering that dog,” she scolded.

  “I think Luke’s just happy Darlin’s following somebody else,” Susannah said.

  “He pretends to be gruff,” Mitra said, turning from the stove. “Luke’s an old softie.”

  “I know,” Susannah said, and Demi looked up, eyes narrowed in speculation.

  “Do you now?” she asked, then lightly smacked the hand of another child, this one about twelve. “Don’t you touch my clean vegetables with your dirty hands, young man. Go wash. Go.” She looked at Susannah, again speculatively. “Do you like kids?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been around them much.”

  Mitra laughed. “She’s asking you if you plan to have children someday, Susannah.”

  The women were all looking at her. “I haven’t really thought about it.”

  “You’re not getting any younger,” Demi said and, startled, Susannah laughed.

  “Thank you.”

  Demi just grinned. “I live to give advice.”

  Mama looked up from her lamb. “Leave her alone, Demitra. She’s young still.”

  Susannah looked at the two sisters. “Your name is Demitra?” she asked Demi.

  “Yes. And so is hers,” Demi pointed to Mitra. “In Greek families, the oldest is named after the father’s father or mother. Pop’s mother was Demitra. The second child is named after the mother’s parent, and so on.”

  “Mama’s mother was also Demitra,” Mitra said.

  “So you can have two children in the same family with the same name?”
<
br />   Mitra shrugged. “It happens more often than you’d think. I know a family where three sons are Peter. Actually the Greek names are different, but all translate to Peter.”

  Demi nodded. “So what are your parents’ names, Susannah?”

  “Demi,” Mitra hissed, making a fierce face.

  “What?” Then Demi blushed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. Your parents were . . . You didn’t have a good relationship with your parents.”

  Demi seemed to be the master of understatement, but she also looked upset, so Susannah smiled. “It’s okay. I don’t think I’d be naming any children after my parents.”

  “So you will have children.” Satisfied, Demi went back to her chopping.

  Susannah considered protesting, then caught Mitra’s grin and closed her mouth.

  “How are the clothes I bought working out, Susannah?” Mitra asked, deftly turning the topic. “Stacie was thrilled that you gave her that outfit back, by the way.”

  “I figured she would be. Your clothes are perfect, thank you. But I’m nearly out.”

  Mitra’s eyes widened. “How? I got you five outfits.”

  Susannah grimaced. “They keep getting bloody.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Mitra shrugged again. “Well, Johnny can clean them for you.”

  “Johnny can clean anything,” Demi said. “An-y-thing.”

  Their conversation shifted to the stains cousin Johnny had removed, then on to other cousins and so many family members Susannah gave up trying to keep them straight. Instead she enjoyed the pleasure of being in a warm kitchen instead of a restaurant, part of the conversation, instead of listening in on others from a table for one.

  The meal was the same. Sitting between Luke and Leo, Susannah watched the quiet devotion his father showered on Mama. And there was laughter, so much she wanted to hold it all in.

  “What does Lukamou mean?” she whispered to Leo. Mama had called Luke by that name more than once and every time he’d softened. That’s when Susannah realized she was seeing him being superglued back together before her very eyes.

  “It’s a pet name,” Leo whispered back. “Like if someone called you SuzyQ.”

  “But no one would,” Susannah said darkly and Leo chuckled.

  “Luke’s real name is Loukaniko, by the way. Luke is just a nickname.”

  “Loukaniko,” she murmured. “I’ll remember that.”

  Too soon the meal was over. To think that they did this chaotic, wonderful thing every Sunday afternoon. No wonder Daniel loves it here so much.

  “You come back next week,” Demi said with authority. “Even if Luke must work.”

  “Thank you. I’d like that.”

  Like a noisy herd, the whole family moved toward the door. Leo was waiting with her coat and purse. He helped her with her coat, then pressed her purse into her arms. Startled, her eyes flew up to meet his. Her purse was three pounds heavier than it had been before she arrived and she immediately understood what he’d done. “Leo.”

  He caught her in a hard hug. “Feel safe,” he whispered. He pulled back, his eyes as black as Luke’s and just as intense. “Come back soon.”

  Her throat tightened. “I will. Thank you.”

  Mama caught her in another bear hug. “That matter we discussed on Friday night,” she said. “Your crossroads. Have you decided which path you’ll take?”

  Susannah thought of the press conference, now only hours away. “I knew which direction I had to take then,” she said. “I just didn’t like it.”

  “Then it must be the right one,” Mama said wryly. “As Leo says, come back soon. Luka, do not leave that dog in my house.”

  Luke sighed long-sufferingly. “Fine. Come on, Dog.”

  “Call her Darlin’,” Susannah teased. He’d not done so in front of his family.

  Leo snickered. “Yes, darlin’.”

  Luke glared at him. “It’s bad enough I have to take the damn dog,” he muttered. But when he lifted Darlin’ into the backseat of his car, his hands lingered to pet her head. “Good girl,” Susannah heard him murmur. “Good Darlin’.”

  Her heart cracked open. I want him. I want this. They’re happy. I want to be happy.

  He got into the car, eyes resting on his mother’s house. “Chase told me to go home, get recharged,” he said. “I just did. Thanks for giving up your sleep. I needed this.”

  She took his hand, entwined her fingers through his. “So did I.”

  He brought her hand to his lips. “Let’s take the dog home. Then I have a team meeting before your date with the media. Are you ready?”

  “Yeah. I’m ready.” And she found she really was. “Let’s go.”

  Dutton, Sunday, February 4, 3:15 p.m.

  Luke found Chase sitting on a bench in the outdoor break area, staring morosely at a pair of ducks that greedily pecked the ground. In one hand Chase held a bag of popcorn. Between his fingers was a lit cigarette.

  “You don’t smoke,” Luke said.

  Chase looked at his cigarette. “Used to. Quit twelve years, four months ago.”

  “What’s wrong?” Luke asked, bracing himself for the next wave of bad news.

  Chase looked up, no smile on his face. “Bobby just hit a baker’s dozen.”

  Thirteen. Luke’s heart sank. “Monica’s dad?”

  “No. No, he’s still missing, as is Judge Borenson.”

  “The Davis kids were found, so who is it?”

  “Jersey Jameson. He transported the girls from the bunker to Ridgefield House. He tried to clean, but we found one of Ashley Csorka’s hairs, along with traces of vomit.”

  “She said she’d gotten sick in the boat,” Luke murmured. “Who was the thirteenth?”

  “Kira Laneer.”

  Luke sat on the bench heavily. “Garth Davis’s mistress. She’s dead?”

  “Theoretically, yes. In reality no.”

  “Chase, you’re not making any sense.”

  He sighed. “I know. I’m tired. And now I know for sure I have a mole on my team. I mentioned Kira in the meeting this morning on purpose. She didn’t really call in a tip.”

  Luke frowned. “You suspected one of us?”

  “I suspected somebody. I had Ms. Laneer socked away in a safe house and good thing I did. Someone fired into her home a few hours ago. They hit a mannequin we’d put on the sofa. With a wig, it looked like her from behind. When my agents confronted him, he shot them.”

  Luke closed his eyes. “And?”

  “One stable. One critical. Shooter got away. One of the agents managed to get off a few shots. We think he nicked an arm, but it didn’t slow him down.”

  “God, Chase.”

  “I know. We made sure we’d watered the flower bed under that window really well. We got a good shoe impression in the dirt. Man’s shoe, size fourteen.”

  Luke shook his head. “No way that’s Bobby’s size. I can’t even wear a fourteen.”

  “No, she wears a woman’s ten. She wouldn’t have been able to run if she’d been wearing these shoes, plus the deformation was even in the impression. The shoe was fully filled with a size fourteen foot. We got pictures of the shooter, but he had a mask covering his face.”

  “So every time we mention someone in team meeting, they get whacked.”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  “I can’t see it being any of us. Even Germanio.”

  “Hank wasn’t there when we talked about Jennifer Ohman, the nurse. I’ve alerted my supervisors and we’ve brought in OPS.”

  Luke winced. The Office of Professional Standards was a necessary evil, but every cop, good or bad, instinctively hated them on sight. “What are they going to do?”

  “Investigate the hell out of everybody. The investigation goes on, but all cell phone and land line calls will be monitored.”

  “So why are you telling me this? Does this mean you don’t suspect me?” Luke tried to keep the annoyance from his voice, but goddammit, he hated OPS.

  “I don
’t suspect any of you,” Chase said harshly. He took a long drag on the cigarette and started coughing. “Dammit, I can’t even smoke right today.”

  “How long since you slept, Chase?”

  “Too long, but with this . . . I can’t sleep knowing we’ve got a traitor in our ranks.”

  “What do you want from me?” Luke asked, more kindly.

  “I need you to keep your eyes open. That’s one of the reasons I sent you home. When Bobby killed that nurse, she just as easily could have killed Susannah. I’m wondering why she didn’t.”

  “Am I the only one who knows?”

  “Yeah. And if I die mysteriously, OPS will be on your ass like white on rice.”

  “Thank you,” Luke said dryly. “I’ll do my damndest to keep you alive, too.”

  Chase dumped the popcorn. “Knock yourselves out,” he muttered to the ducks.

  “It’ll be okay,” Luke said. “We’ll figure this out.”

  “Yeah, but will I have any agents left when we do?”

  Atlanta, Sunday, February 4, 3:55 p.m.

  From her carefully chosen place on the standing-room-only sidelines, Bobby counted six of them on the stage. Five women Garth had raped plus sweet Susannah, who sat at the far left of the table, closest to the eaves. Fate had smiled.

  But the six women didn’t. They were sober, some visibly nervous. Gretchen French had her arm in a sling. That made Bobby satisfied. But Susannah looked serene and that made Bobby furious. She must have skillfully applied her makeup because she had no dark circles and Bobby knew for a fact the woman had not slept in days.

  It didn’t matter, though. Soon she’d be dead, a bullet straight through her heart. The nine-mil in Bobby’s pocket would accomplish the task nicely.

  She’d passed through the metal detector with a smile, her press credentials hanging around her neck. Even at a hard glance, the makeup, bra padding, and Marianne’s wig had enabled Bobby to pass for Marianne with the toughest of critics. Still, her stomach churned, thinking of Charles. Damned old man. Why do you care what he thinks?

  But half a lifetime of caring was a hard habit to kick. She still wanted to prove herself. She had pride. She had skill. Soon Charles would see it, along with every person watching live and on the endless CNN loop later.