But if Striker caught Patrick snooping about her house, she’d have him arrested. She wasn’t dubbed “One-Strike Striker” for no reason. He’d go to jail for sure. And Elizabeth didn’t even want to think about what would happen if Striker decided to dig into his psychic stuff. Fraud would get him ten years in jail in and of itself—more if she could find people willing to testify against him.
“Patrick, would you talk to me, please?” She moved to stand beside him. He’d been so quiet since she’d proclaimed he was her reason for being here. It had been rather bold but still.
He turned to her so they stood toe-to-toe. “You want to know where my accusations are coming from.”
“Yes. I can’t have you going in there half-cocked. I can’t have you risking your future for my past. I just can’t.”
He flexed his fisted hands at his sides, then forced a smile. “Well, seeing as you’re dead, there’s not much you can do to stop me.”
It was a joke, she knew, but this was the first time he’d used the word “dead” when talking about her, and for some reason, it felt like a slap across the face. She frowned.
“But to ease your conscience, I’ll explain my reasoning. Have you ever seen her dressed like she was today?”
“No.” Never. Striker always looked nice. She’d looked beautiful even in that photo Zak showed them on his phone. She dressed well and took care of herself, but today, she’d looked sexy, and that’s not a word Elizabeth would’ve ever used to describe her before. While being a detective wasn’t the same thing, Striker’s field was male-dominated, and women in those positions didn’t wake up and try to look sexy—not if they wanted to be taken seriously.
“No. Exactly,” Patrick said. “She looked me up online and prepared to impress me. She had one goal: to convince me to tell my bosses at the FBI to leave the case to her.”
“So? That doesn’t seem that strange to me. She’s worked hard on this case, and it’s a career maker. I wouldn’t have wanted it taken from me either.” Granted, she wouldn’t have tried to seduce someone to keep it. That would be all sorts of wrong—even if the person was Patrick. There was something so morally bleh about it.
“That’s what she wanted me to think, and she was convincing, but didn’t you notice her tone when she was talking about how ill equipped your team was and how she’d never be ill equipped for anything?”
Elizabeth had been pretty ticked by then and flustered. It’d been painful to hear this woman she’d admired speak so poorly of her unit.
“She wasn’t gloating about her prowess as an attorney. She was bragging about having fooled you all.” He leaned in a little. “She was way too pleased with herself—way too cocky. Also, I’d be willing to bet her C.I. is her. She went out of her way to call him a ‘he’ several times. ‘He’s a private person. He won’t talk to anyone but me. He doesn’t trust anyone but me.’ And how else would her C.I. have a perfect record? It’s impossible.”
That was a good point. Elizabeth had never met a C.I. that good before.
“We know there was a mole, and she fits the bill. She had all the details of the operation, and if she was at the crime scene, no one would be overly surprised by it. She could say she’s a stickler for detail and wanted to be sure the evidence was handled properly.”
Elizabeth furrowed her brow. “Why would she do that? It doesn’t make sense.”
“It makes sense if she’s been working with them the whole time. She’s known for two things.” He held up two fingers, then folded them into his palm as he named each. “Her mysterious and ridiculously loyal C.I., and her closure rate. She’s been playing both sides. You were going in, so the Tourneaus had to be dealt with because they knew her. She took care of them before they could be taken into custody. You just walked in a few minutes too early.”
Elizabeth stared at her feet. It all made sense. But coming from him, how could it not? He certainly had a way about him. She was pretty sure Patrick could convince a maharajah he was the first man on the moon, and no one would refute it, he was that good.
Patrick moved closer, placing one foot between hers and one outside of hers, bringing them an inch apart. “She’s going to pay for what she did to you.”
Elizabeth glanced up, her lashes batting unwittingly. She swallowed. “If you’re right, then this can’t just be about me. Other people have been hurt by her.”
His eyes shined brighter in the glow from the setting sun, his lips slightly parted. “I don’t care about those other people—”
She turned her gaze to the window. “Don’t say that. If I’m here, it’s because God kept me here for you. That means your life still holds meaning and value. You have such a capacity for good. To help people. And you should. You’re so hard on yourself, I’ve seen it.”
“I’m a con man—who has tricked desperate people out of their hard-earned cash.”
“That girl from your show was happy. You gave her hope.”
“No, I sold her hope.”
What he said felt like a slap to the face, even more so because it was what she’d thought of him at first, but now all she could see was a broken man trying to make up for past wrongs. “Patrick, please—”
He clenched his jaw. “My problem is I do care. Maybe too much, but I can’t right now. My focus is exactly where it should be—on you.”
She closed her eyes. She couldn’t do this, couldn’t open herself to the pain. She would help him in whatever ways she could, but not this. It wasn’t fair to either of them.
“I want to ask you a favor,” he said.
She crossed her arms and kept her gaze on the setting sun. “What?”
“I want you to stay outside when we go to her house tonight. Don’t come in.”
She scoffed. Like that would happen. If she was supposed to be his guardian angel, then there was no way she’d allow him to be left alone with that… that viper.
He took a deep breath. “Look at me.”
She spoke over the lump in her throat. “No.” She turned from him and walked away, but when he reached out to stop her, his hand passing through her arm as he tried, she felt it. She’d felt it almost like she’d had a body. “I’m going to wait downstairs,” she said and passed through the wall.
Chapter Eighteen
Striker’s house was a two-story cottage with a wraparound porch and at least a couple acres of land. It stood in a heavily wooded area, forty minutes from the prosecutor’s office in downtown Sacramento. Her nearest neighbor was a five-minute drive away. The perfect place for clandestine meetings with criminals. While her house was by no means a mansion, it was definitely nicer than someone at her salary level should be able to afford.
Patrick pulled his car over at the bottom of the long driveway, the house barely peeking through the trees, and parked. Elizabeth sat silently in the back seat, creating distance. He grinned at her in the rearview mirror but said nothing.
Lee pulled up behind him and went around to his trunk. After getting out, Patrick opened the back door for Elizabeth, who hesitated a moment before exiting. Side by side, they came up behind Lee and glanced in the trunk. Lee opened a large metal suitcase. Inside were listening devices. Lee picked up a tiny device and held it in front of him. It looked like a small button.
“Put this in your pocket and don’t take your jacket off.” Lee handed him the device.
Patrick shoved it in his coat pocket. “Got it.”
“What’s the distress code?” Lee asked.
“Fuzzy bunnies.” Patrick returned Lee’s sober expression with one of his own.
“That’s stupid,” Lee said.
“You said I could pick.” Patrick lifted his hands palms up. He liked Lee. He was a man in control of his emotions, and Patrick could only imagine how fun it’d be to wind him up. Maybe when this was all over, he’d volunteer to work with the 35th Precinct again.
Lee glanced around. “Is she here?”
Patrick glanced at Elizabeth and nodded. “She’s standing
to my right.”
Lee fidgeted. “Is she going in with you?”
“Yes,” she said at the same time he said, “No.”
Patrick gave an overly exacerbated sigh and turned to her. “If you’re there, I won’t be able to focus.”
“Oh, please.” Elizabeth crossed her arms.
“Striker’s a smart woman. She’ll know something’s up, and that’s not good for any of us.” He hunched to look her in the eye. “Please, stay here. You’re very distracting.”
She glanced up and to her left, then breathed deep. “Fine. I’ll stay.”
“Is she going or staying?” Lee asked.
“She’s going to stay,” Patrick said.
Lee gave one quick nod, then closed the trunk of his car.
Patrick leaned closer to him. “You shouldn’t stay parked here. She might see you.”
Lee rested his hands on his hips but nodded.
Patrick turned to the dirt road leading to Striker’s house and wondered if Zak was already in place. None of this would work unless he was.
Stephanie Striker was many things. She was devious, willful, greedy, and—to Patrick’s mind—most definitely a criminal. What she was not was standoffish, coy, or religious. She opened her front door wearing a silk robe and heels and was flipping the sash holding her robe closed.
“Patrick,” she purred. “You came.”
“You thought I wouldn’t?” He eased over the threshold.
“Some men find my forwardness intimidating.” She shut the door behind him.
While Patrick didn’t consider himself a religious person, every instinct in him demanded he flee like Joseph had from Potiphar’s wife. Instead, he plastered a smirk on his face and forced himself onward.
It occurred to him Joseph was lauded a righteous man for running, and wondered how he’d be remembered for this moment when instead of fleeing, he headed into the finely manicured clutches of a harpy-seductress in order to seek justice. There had to be some kind of heavenly, heroic check being marked for him somewhere—surely. Then he shrugged. He did have a guardian angel; that had to be a good sign.
The click of the door sealed his fate. Directly ahead, a grand staircase ascended from a central landing and to the living quarters of the house—or, as Patrick labeled it, the gates to Hades. A dining room sat to his right, and beyond that, a kitchen.
Striker led him to the left and into a cozy sitting room. He had to admit she had good taste. And here, unlike at her office, her personality was on full display. The walls were painted cherry and accented with a white baseboard and crown molding. A deep caramel-colored couch sat at an angle to a fireplace in the corner. Firelight flickered sporadically, causing his heart to do the same.
Striker’s heels clicked against the dark wood floors until she reached an area rug in creams and browns. She slid her shoes off and sat on her couch, patting the spot next to her. Two crystal goblets and a bottle of champagne sparkled from the light of the fireplace.
Patrick stopped in the entryway to the room. “Nice. Very nice. Did you do this yourself?” He glanced over the room, his gaze landing on several rows of small square photos, four across and three down, hanging over her fireplace. Very modern, not at all like the painting in the factory. He’d been so sure the painting would be here, but now, seeing her decor, he wasn’t so sure. He needed to get a better idea of where it was.
“I like to decorate.” She leaned forward and grabbed the champagne. Her robe slipped a little as she moved, exposing a silk negligee of the same color beneath. The pop when the bottle opened reverberated down his spine. She filled both glasses and extended one to him.
Coming into the room, he took the proffered drink and sat on the couch. He was careful not to sit too close, nor too far away to make her think he wasn’t interested. Not that it mattered.
The moment he sat, she scooted closer to him. She lifted her glass. “To… new beginnings.”
More like fast beginnings. They clinked glasses. He took a sip of his champagne and placed it on the coffee table.
She took her own swig, then set her glass beside his.
Her house was too large to find the painting on his own. He needed a clue. He turned to her, and next thing he knew she’d straddled his lap and had him pinned to the back of the couch in a slobbery kiss—a kiss that sent an arctic chill through his veins that not even the fire in the fireplace could warm. His arms flailed out to his sides for one brief moment before he remembered a rejection was the quickest way to get himself thrown out.
He counted to ten in his head. He’d almost calmed down, focused enough to handle this when the tingles began. They shot up and down his body, replacing the cold with a warmth he’d started to become accustomed to over the last few days.
Elizabeth was here.
He’d asked her not to come in for this very reason. Striker had made her objective clear at her office. He had no intention of letting things go any further than this, but he still didn’t want Elizabeth to witness it.
As Striker continued to kiss him, he stared around the room, trying to locate the brunette, but despite her small stature, he was certain she was nowhere close. While his ability to sense her, to feel her, had been increasing over the last few days, it now seemed to be increasing exponentially by the hour.
He leaned back, but Striker continued to kiss his jaw as she ran her fingers through his hair. This had to stop. He cleared his throat. “Is this paint new?”
That did it. Striker pulled back and blinked at him. He gave her his biggest smile.
She grinned back but tilted her head in confusion. “No, it’s been this color for a couple years now. Why?”
“It looks new. It’s always nice to show off a new painting—or paint job.” He glanced out the window. “And I’d love to see your property; did I see a pond as I came in?” That should be enough suggestion and details to get her envisioning a painting with a pond.
Her eyes narrowed for a split second before her gaze flitted upwards to the bedrooms. “Not much of a pond.” She batted her lashes. “More like a glorified puddle.”
“I’d like to see it, your whole property, sometime.” He swallowed and hoped Elizabeth would understand his purpose for what he was about to say. “But right now, I think I’d like to see your bath.”
Striker’s brown eyes lit with mischief. “Would you now?”
He lifted his brows up and down several times. “Please tell me you have a claw-foot tub?”
She rested her forehead against his. “I have a claw-foot tub.”
Grabbing her hips, he moved her off him. He stood, and he helped her to her feet. “Why don’t you go run the water while I finish my drink?”
“Great idea.” She sashayed out of the room and up the stairs.
He moved closer to the entrance of the living room, where he could see her until she disappeared out of view on the second floor, and then he turned toward the entryway. “Elizabeth, where are you?”
Striker peered over the banister. “What was that? Who’s Elizabeth?”
He stared at her, covertly removing his cell phone from his coat pocket and holding it up. “My dog. She’s a yappy little thing. If I don’t call and leave messages for her on my answering machine, she bothers the neighbors.”
Striker frowned at him. “All right. Hurry on up.”
He pointed his cell at her. “Sure thing.”
When she headed back, he called again in a yell-whisper. “Elizabeth?”
She stepped out from behind the wall, the scowl on her lovely face temporarily warring with confusion. “Yappy? What am I, a poodle?”
“No, a Schipperke. Small with shiny raven hair, a big personality, and a willful mind.” He pointed his phone at her. “I told you to wait outside.”
She scowled at him. “I’m not your dog.”
He grinned. “I know. If you were, you’d still be outside.”
She swatted at him, but he evaded. “How’d you know I was here?”
“I could feel you.” He stepped closer.
She scrunched her face on one side. “What?”
“I can feel when you’re near.”
She pulled her jaw back. “You can?”
The groaning of old pipes filling with rushing water made him glance upstairs. They didn’t have a lot of time. “The painting is up there somewhere. Can you find it while I let Zak in the back door?”
She clenched her jaw but nodded. And then she flickered—for a split second, he could’ve sworn she’d vanished. Patrick blinked, then held his eyes wide for a moment.
“What?” she snapped. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
His stomach dropped like on a free-fall ride at the circus. “Did you… do you feel all right?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “Go get Zak.”
He nodded. He must have been seeing things. He headed down the hall at the same time Elizabeth went upstairs, but before either of them had gotten too far, she called out to him, “Should I check the bathroom, or would you like to do that?”
He stopped in his tracks and let his chin drop to his chest. Jealous, infuriating woman. He smiled.
Chapter Nineteen
Making his way through the farm-style kitchen, Patrick went to the back door and peered out to the forest of cottonwoods swaying in the dark night sky. Zak rushed from the nearest thicket about ten yards away, emerging like a ghost from the shadows. Patrick opened the door for him, and he slipped inside.
“I’ve been waiting out there for an hour. What’s the holdup?” Zak flipped the collar down on his gray tweed jacket.
“Women.” Patrick eased the door shut again.
“Ah.” Zak nodded. “When you said you wanted to do something tonight, I thought you meant for your birthday—not breaking and entering.”
Dead to Rights Page 12
